Arnold's wishes

Arnold is my teddy bear.
He is an amateur filmmaker and professional hugger, and I love him very much! He wears green overalls that are much too big for him and he has gorgeous synthetic chocolate brown fur. And a red bow. :3 * little kid nostalgic face*.

But ANYWAY, Arnold wanted me to wish you all a safe and happy new year! And hopefully he'll see most of you tomorrow, and hopefully I will too. I'll be wearing a black and stripey dress and a party hat with Snow White and a select few dwarves adorning it. :DIt'll be FANTASTICO. I also have 2 crowns, for anyone interested.

Here's hoping your next couple of days are fantastico too! From Arnold and I, LOVE LOVE LOVE!!!!!! <3

Sing-a-ma-jigs

Are awesome.
I also got a snuggie, which isn't really a snuggie, it's a copy of a snuggie, but it's still awesome. It's zebra print. And cozy. Mmmmm-mmm, how I love Christmas. Money, and candy, and SNUGGIES.

Oh myyy.

Merry Christmas Everybody

And happy birthday, Jesus.

an interruption of the usual broadcast, for a short rant.

I hate you for pulling this kind of crap. seriously. I don't know how you sleep at night. Cliche, cliche, cliche I know. But cliches are cliche for a reason. You, my dear girl are a cliche. A cliche in the way you have hurt two people who I care about deeply. In the way you have shown disregard for others feelings, and how their way of thinking can be different from your own. All I'm saying is, if you were run over by a bus, I would probably shrug, and go on with my day.

Back to the Future

I want to have memories of this time when I'm older.
I want to be able to sit around photo albums with my old friends who I haven't seen for years, drinking wine, and talking about our kids and the good old days.
I want to have cool friends who make me feel like high school was only a few days ago.
I want to have friends like my parents' friends.

I feel sad when I think about the future, and graduation, and how we're all going to be going our separate ways. But I take comfort in the fact that it won't be the end, it's the beginning of a new chapter.

These are my high school friends, these are the friends who I'm going to visit over the holidays when we all come home to sleep on our parents' couches.
I'm pretty happy with that.
I like to think that when we all get together 10, 20, 30 years from now, things will feel the same, only we'll have more to say, and more of a taste for fine wine and stuffed olives and goat cheese dip.

Life is really like one big book, with lots of chapters, all a little different from the one before, but all tying together and constantly looking back at the ones before.

I love my friends, and I look forward to our adventures in life reunited.

The First Recipe Post!

I'm sure many great things were born of accidents. But I can only think of one: penicillin. And my half-brother Evan. I suppose he has the potential to be great.

Okay, two.

Today is special because you can add another little jewel to the surprisingly short list of accidental wonders (or wonders-to-be) that you happen to know and keep in your head at all times to defend your own unintentional blunders and gaffes. Or is that just me?

(I realize that I am starting many sentences with all kinds of forbidden joining words. Ack.)

Voilà: Marzipecans

Mum is making a boozy Christmas cake to celebrate the season in merry measure and it is my job to roast the pecans, so I pop a generous layer of them in the oven and go off to do something distracting. After watching the same nerdy math video for an hour, a scent of husky Christmas flavourings begins to waft and infuse the house with mouth-watering nuttiness.

This causes me rush upstairs in search of the source, whereupon I find a pile of overcooked nuts heaped on the counter like lumps of coal. Oh, bother. Sorry Mum.

I'm not sure if I should have mentioned this before, but the cake is one that requires marzipan, so the day before a bunch of us had gotten together for no other reason than finding marzipan for the sake of the season. We had looked high and low, far and near, and found quite a few items that were a tad queer. So, with arms full of lobster chips and in a full range of moods, we burst into the cake section of the local Save on Foods. There we found marzipan! And a tree to boot! In much higher spirits we returned with the loot.

As it turns out, the marzipan was way too sweet for our tastes.

Now, remember the me who is standing in front of scads of burnt pecans and overly sweet marzipan. Something clicked.

1. Slice the marzipan as you would cheese and place atop a halved burnt pecan. Consume.
2. The sickening sweetness and the bitter burnt go rather well together, don't you think?

I want to create a world for lost children. A place where we can sip on sugary lemon drinks, and dip our feet into oceans of sugar and wear velvet everyday, and cover ourselves in lace before we go to sleep. A place with fox masks and skittering mice, and accordion music and owls. A place where a raccoon is my best friend, and this raccoon and I travel the world together, until we feel tired, that's when we slip down into the ground, into a burrow and cuddle together until we feel the sun peeking through cracks in the dirt. I want to create a world where nostalgia is gone for good, because we are always children. always. always. always. Things aren't difficult, but they aren't easy. We don't feel bored, because there's enough work to go around, and we are always able to pretend the floor is lava, and jump from rock to rock, waiting for the magma to cool. I want to live in this dream world, where I am a wilder child, and the wind is my friend, and the ocean my mother, and the earth my father's brother. I want to live there, and breathe there, and die there.

I love www.letterstocrushes.com

"Dear Star Wars girl I sit with at lunch,
I like girls! Surprise! To be more specific, I like you, for being so adorable and nerdy and hilarious. Let's read Death Note together and go to midnight showings of RHPS. I'll be the Columbia to your Frank-N-Furter, or the Brad to your Janet, whichever you want or need.
Baby, I'm a music obsessed lesbian zombie, and you're the most delicious mac-and-cheese I've ever seen. Hearing you laugh makes my day. I wish we had more than a half hour a day.
Let's make it simple- I'm gay, you're perfect, I love you. What now?"

Horoscopes!

"Rebelliousness, recklessness, impatience, a sudden burst of anger or your need to break free from rules and restrictions may create a lot of disruption in your life right now. Also, you can't seem to settle down or focus on one task for any length of time.
Though you are unusually energetic, it is hard for you to get anything done. You tend to fly off the handle and to scatter your forces.
You are happiest now when you do something creative and daring, which doesn't involve trying to cooperate or conform to others' wishes and needs. "

I need to stop being so judgmental.

I need to stop being so paranoid.

I need to stop being so dishonest.

I need to stop annoying people.

I need to stop talking without thinking.

I need to stop worrying.

I need to stop over-analyzing.

I need to remember to moisturize more.

Mum's the word

I get really stressed out when I can't ask people what they're thinking at that very moment whilst on the telephone with me and they sound distressed. But it's more awkward on the telephone due to the fact 1) they're not YOUR mum 2) They're your FRIEND'S mum 3) you actually don't know her well enough to ask a question beyond " how's work, ma'am?" and 4) I'm a neurotic girl opposed to telecommunications.

Interpretation

So... Who doesn't have a Christmas story?

Oh Merry Christmas! Happy Christmas! Joyeux Noel! I wish wonderful things upon you.

Especially Goat, who seems to be pulling a lot of the weight in our blog nowadays. Just know that everything I say is completely open for interpretation. Let's practice.

"People come and go so quickly here!" Is a reference to Oz! Or perhaps I don't want people to go so quickly. Maybe I'd like to sit them down and have a lengthy conversation with them over camomile tea. Or I envy the swift of foot, and would very much like to be as speedily competent as they.

"I like your shoes." Marry me? Or you complimented something about me and it has suddenly made me hyperaware of your garb, and just how much I like it. Or I really just like you as a person, but I see your shoes as an extension of you.

"Tolerate me." I'm being a bore. Or I think I am. Or I think you think I am. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

"How are you?" This is a mere conversation starter, I don't actually want to hear you say, fine, or good, or not bad. Or I'm onto you, I know exactly how you are and I'm waiting to see if you will tell me the truth. Or I want to hear about your last dentist appointment. That's a fair assumption.

Practice:

"I felt like the camel who couldn't pass through the eye of the needle, but that really doesn't matter because I like your shoes, and how are you by the way?"

a little bit of summertime amongst all this joyous snow that falls

I love December. Good things happen in December. There are pretty lights, the smell of pine and smoke from my living room fire which makes me remember summer, and camping. I don't really know what I can say. I feel rather cut off from all of you. I've been writing lots, and painting lots (perhaps more than is healthy), not reading nearly enough, and stressing as I'm sure you all are as well. Stress. Such a simple concept BUT SO DIFFICULT TO COPE WITH WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE YOUR SKETCHBOOK. Don't you hate, that as soon as you start to feel stable and knowing of yourself, you blink and you're suddenly a different person living a different life? Perhaps it's not a bad thing. Just scary. Terrifying, actually. I re-read one of my old notebooks from the summertime, and I couldn't help but chuckle at my over-dramatic self. However, that sleepover at Sycorax's in August, it really was just such a wonderful time. "WIDE AWAKE AND LYING IN A STREETCAR FULL OF CATS". Sometimes I think about why it was a wonderful time. And I don't know. It just was. Good company, good music, and just the right amount of laughter, I think. There are many other things I remember from the summer, all documented on film that I have yet to develop. Out of fear? I don't think so, because I miss my cottage terribly and I miss the constant birdsong and I miss waking up and eating fruit salad with my grandpa and I miss the lake so much it's like I have misplaced an organ. The waves were so beautiful on windy days, walking down on the rocks and finding fox skulls and delicate pink stones and rather crude rocks the size of elephants (literally). I remember how distressful it was to ride my bike along the road, and there being so many dragonflies that in the wheels of the bike were dozens of fragile, broken bodies. I will not ever forget the feeling of driving back up to my house and not feeling relieved at all, rather, horrified at the sight of it because it no longer felt like a home. Strange. I think the only real home we have is inside of us. Corny. BUT IT'S DA TRUTH U GUISE~

Letting People Down

So today, I realized that I would have to let someone down. So today, I realized just how much I hate letting people down.

In my specific situation, I must let down a teacher whom I offered my time to for a project. Granted this project holds no benefits for myself, I still feel terrible having to let go of it. It bothers me that I can't offer my time to this person anymore, and yet I have no intention of changing my mind. Normally in such situations I am known to make sacrifices in my own schedule to make room for other things such as this. But I cannot make sacrifices any longer. And for this I am sorry. Even though the person I apologize to now will never see this, it still feels right to let the idea out into the universe.

So to all of you whom I seem to not have time for at the moment, I am sorry. But I'm making time for me. =P

Choir

The songs that were supposed to make me cry didn't, they made me upset in an angry way.

And when I had to read the damn poem I messed up. And then grandpa started clapping. And I blushed even more. My face must have looked like a boil on the face of the Earth's crust filled with molten hot magma. Yum. But the second time I did it, it was better. But I didn't have much emotion. It was about a fracking Winter Eden. And I read it like it was about.... Popsicle sticks.

Oh well. The choir[s] in question really do have a crazy impact on my life. And I probably wouldn't change it for the world, even if I do have to read poems in front of mass amounts of people and say "uhhmmm" and blush like a boil. And sing really high and overpower the poor other girls that I feel uber bad for singing louder than.

The Delicate Art of Being Witty

I hate it when you're having a conversation with somebody, and there are lots of people who you would kill to impress around, and there's the perfect moment to say something witty, and nothing comes out.

The most you can hope for is some punching of the air, word gagging, and expressing of how much you wish you had something witty to say.

Then at least maybe there's the off chance that you'll get laughter and respect, if only for pure awkwardness.

I am such a fail around people.

Unless they have known me long enough to get past that, and I feel comfortable enough with them to act like a complete idiot without really caring.

I have no shame when it comes to public performance, at least then you see the audience as one big mass of faces, without being able to clearly focus on the fact that each person in the audience could very well be judging you and everything you do. You just don't notice it, all you see is the faces.

But when you know exactly who you're talking to, and you can pick out each and every person who is listening in, all you get is word vomit.

Ah well, I'll just cling to the whole "so awkward it's funny" thing I seem to have going on, it's served me okay thus far.

I just saw an old man pull a fake lobster out of a trash can downtown.

I love December

A lot, actually. I get to annihilate small snow fort cities with my snowbnall ammunition and not get a special news report on my terrorism.

I also get to drink hot chocolate (because it tastes nicer when there's snow outside), and I get to wear warm clothes that make me feel like a woolen snow goddess, and I get to have cute rosy cheeks. And magical smoke breath.

Oh, how I love December :)

Campaign for Marc Jacob's BANG Fragrance

Is this not the gayest thing you have ever seen? Note the Spongebob tattoo.

Mum

That is how it is supposed to be spelled. M-u-m. She was very firm on this matter. She would mock me if I said m-o-m, pronounced mawm. Mum. It is also a word which means zipping your lips. Quiet, keep mum and ne touchez pas. I like this sort of upbringing and I still take it very seriously. I quarreled most ardently with a girl named Christina in grade four because she would not accept M-u-m.

Dad tried to get me to call her Mama when I was three. He knew that would really make her mad.

Sexism is something that I feel that I have not experienced. Mum worries about this. I watch that MadMen show with their elegant flair and debonair mien. A bottle of whiskey in every drawer and a cigarette hanging from every mouth. The way people used to be, when the woman played her part perfectly. The men are all idiots. The secretaries humor them and giggle girlishly, oh, it is sickening. I want to go back to that time.

'Uh, no you don't,' Mum upbraids me. 'Women were treated like crap.'

'I'd like something to fight for.'

'Ha. There still is something to fight for.' Mum has wide eyes and a high, drawn out tone due to irritation. She expects me to know this already. 'Dolt.'

I want to sound like the Moldy Peaches.

Despite the fact that my skills as a singer stretch only as far my ability to stay on pitch, it is still my secret dream to share my musical vision with the world.

I like writing, I like writing songs. It's like novels, but shorter. It's like poetry, but with a tune.

So I spend a good chunk of my time writing these songs, and they would all be perfect for the perfect sort of voice, but that perfect sort of voice isn't mine.

My voice isn't brassy and belty, or melodious and smooth. I sing my songs and they don't sound right.

Also I can't play an instrument. And I'm not yet skilled enough to gracefully compose the intricacies of acappella.

So this is my pickle.

But I started writing a song last night. And I sang it. And it sounded pretty good.

So I have been spending my time perfecting the art of acoustic, alternative, cutesy, speak-singing, for that is the perfect voice for the perfect little version of my song that's currently swirling around in my head.

But the only problem is I need a man (as we all do some times).

I want to sound like the Moldy Peaches.

So this is my little dream, one that I decided to write a little self-involved blog post about.

That is all.

Renaissance!

I am BACK! Blog banishment set me on edge. Every time I attempted to type I was blocked by blogger who apparently is prejudiced against emails based in a certain singing group. I had so many ideas that now elude me. None of them will ever be committed to the virtual parchment of the internet. Be thankful for that.

I must, of course, thank Falco who redeemed me like a pawnshop pen.

Sorry. I am trying out some bad similes. It's how I get psyched before entering the Bulwer-Lytton Writing competition! Before you google it, why not feast your eyes on this gem:

Archibald Aqueous was a man who never had enough time, whose life was consumed ravenously by a desperate desire to to good by his job, and by his aging daughter who was not satisfied with the breast implants his money could buy; and yet, when, mid-phone call, a latex-laden alien beamed him up into the leviathan spacecraft, he just managed to tell his secretary to cancel his 3 o'clock.

Enter it if you want, but I don't think it is bad enough.

Signing off, I love you like a toothless, three-legged, blind terrier loves to express rage by deafening the rest of us, but we don't really mind because the realms of 'ruff-ruff' are the only vents the poor thing has left.

Chistmas

24 days.

To make this day special, here is a poem by Robert Frost which I like very much.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.