Cats Vs Dogs

I never understood why parents hit their children until my current cat, Marvin, came into my life.

Aww, look at that face, the anime-large eyes, the little pink gumdrop nose... the only thing that's not pictured are his concentration-shattering howls of need. I am paying attention to him: this is awful. I am not paying attention to him: this is WORSE.

Now here's my dog, Smitty, calm and content in the knowledge that his is the best life. EVER. Food, companionship, more food for providing companionship: it's all great. His biggest concern was when the phone would ring, and he would vociferously defend his flock from the cordless menace. But now my parents have cellphones. The threat is over. It is time to rest, and sleep, and occasionally sigh.

My cat would prefer to continue meow-howling - meowling - forever. I bought a spray bottle and now his favourite game is to meow, wait for me to grab the bottle, then see if he can sprint faster than the spray. Guess what: he can.

So it would seem that I have a clear favourite in the eternal battle between cat and dog. Sweet, selfless dog, vs. selfish, possible mentally unstable cat. Dog is god.

Just as I was writing this post though, Marvin hopped up on the end of my bed and quietly watched me type. Every morning I wake up to find him spooning me, content to be dragged into my arms like a bag of cat parts and squeezed like a stuffed bear. His cuddly nature is the one thing that has stopped me from punting him out of the window on oh so many sleepless nights. I'm not a dog person, or a cat person, I'm an animal person. And I'm in desperate need of a really good lint brush.

A Thursday of Packing and High Anxiety

Although this is a personal blog, a medium mostly conceived for the airing of woes, I generally try to keep my fine whine in the cellar and off my site. Today, I'm making an exception. So stop here and appreciate the cute dog if whinging gives you hives. Don't worry, crafts and beer will return next week.

This Thursday is pretty domestic, but not in a crafty way. Instead, events in my life are forcing me to contemplate what it is, exactly, that would make yet another furnished apartment feel like home. Specifically, how many books it would take. I have a desert island mentality when it comes to packing. Even if I'm just taking the VIA into Montréal, I'm convinced that I'll end up stranded in the middle of the ocean. And then I'll really regret taking that fourth book out of my suitcase, when I'm barely 50 pages into my first. And let's not forget a second knitting project. And some wine gums. I'll need sustenance on my island.

At least fixating on how many books I'm packing, and whether they'll be enough, keeps me from thinking about my real anxiety. I'm worried that I'm making another mistake. In the past two and a half years, I've made two serious decisions about where to move and where to live. And they've both turned out to be duds on the balance. I know that doesn't sound self-help book approved, and la-dee-dah-another-door-opens-when-one-closes etc etc etc, but sometimes it's just an error in judgment, straight up. Sorry that doesn't look as uplifting in raised type on a cheap paperback. That shitty track record is why I'm not feeling very confident right now. Am I making the right decision? I hope so. I hope six books will be enough for the next few weeks. Because the box is full, and I need to go.

My Dog is a Supermodel

Pose, Smitty, pose!

Harry Potter and the Rebellious Wand

Smitty demonstrates the "Beseeching Sheltie Pose"

I liked the new Harry Potter, right up until the epilogue. I won't give the ending away, but while I found the content satisfying, I found the writing clunky and lousy with exposition in the last few pages. Since there's a lot more death and violence, and even curse(!) words that aren't cut off in time by other characters, I'll be interested to see what rating the movie gets when it's made.

Oh, screw it. Spoiler time.

Harry is lives and, marries Ginny. Ron marries Hermione. Draco marries some lady who doesn't even get a name. They all have babies with meaningful first- and last- names who all look like their parents. Does this mean that all the Potterites reproduce by binary fission or budding instead of sexual reproduction? Damn it, that would deprive me of the amusing idea of a Snape-lead sex ed class where he breaks down over Lily and makes Harry stare at him until third period. End Spoiler Time.
I haven't been up to much, lately, except advanced sloth. I went to my first Yoga class on Monday. It's work! I was expecting two hours of breathing to sitar music, but instead I ended up sweating. A little. it did make my back feel better, although I am unsure if I am the ideal student. During relaxation time, when we were supposed to concentrate on our breathing, I instead pondered that great, pressing question: Is it the borrowed yoga mat that smells of feet, or do my feet.... smell of feet? I'm also curious how one of the few guys in our class managed to achieve his magnificent pompadour. It was rockabilly fabulous, and no amount of cat pose or downward dog would deflate its splendour. He also had a pair of tight little shorts, and I found myself immediately fascinated. My thoughts went something like this: "Did he dress like that at home? Did he sleep in a hair net like those beehive girls did in the sixties? Had I just checked out his ass from sheer desperation?" Torn between giggling and collapsing into tears I instead looked mildly constipated, and lost my balance.

The next day, I wasted my new spiritual transcendence on my first manicure/pedicure, in a very un-Namaste shade of deep burgundy with bronze glitter.

" I may be a liar, but at least I wasn't the only bitch in the room."

My guy Smitty, too damn cool to be a show dog.

Alright, so it's a day after my baby blanket pics were supposed to go up, and there is still no completed baby blanket up in this blog. Pour quoi? Because it's still an embarrassing mess of ends and slightly wonky borders, one I'm too ashamed to photograph and put up. I did finish the knitting, but I was convinced it was too small. I'm not very experienced in the ways of the baby, so I really had no idea what size a completed baby blanket should be. I felt it was a little small, and I would have added at least another round of log cabin blocks, but I was out of yarn. And one of the colours is discontinued. And frankly, sometimes trying to find another ball of a particular ball of current Koigu is such a pain in the ass that trying to find a discontinued skein would probably lead to a trip to the loony bin or maybe a trip to Michael's for some Red Heart and a stop at the bar. But after consulting the dimensions of the Big Bad Baby Blanket in Stitch 'n Bitch and the ever-helpful Frankie at the Stitch and Niche, I decided it would just be large enough, with some aggressive blocking. So, pictures tomorrow after all the fiddly ends are taken care of (note to self: Russian Join from here on in) and the whole thing is dunked in a bath.

And time for another confession: I went to a dog show today. No, I don't have any photographic evidence of this event, nor documentation of the elusive species known as the "Crazy Dog Show Fanatic", because I didn't bring my camera. For two reasons: my family came to help Smitty's breeder and lend moral support, which would have been difficult with a camera banging around, and secondly because dog show people are positively bonkers. Taking an unauthorized picture would have probably led to some snappish lady with an "I Love My Pembroke Welsh Corgi" t-shirt stabbing me in the neck with grooming shears. I did regret not taking my camera when I spotted an old man sleeping with his feet up next to a grooming table, where his Chow Chow was sleeping with one fuzzy paw stuck out. People who show dogs are usually seen as one rank below child pageant mothers on the weirdo scale, which isn't necessarily fair. Some, like Smitty's breeder, are nice and refreshingly sane. And then others, like some lady whose dog only won fourth, sit ringside telling their dog how they're "always the ugliest dog in the ring" and "so ugly". Which, two things, crazy lady: your dog can't understand English, and your dog is much better than that. Some one's the bitch in this scenario, and this time it's not the dog. Honestly, anyone want to try a canine rescue with me?

Happy Easter

My Grandma has a lot of weird stuff.

I hope everyone had a safe and happy Easter, Passover, or whatever you celebrate during spring. I visited Ingleside. It's hard to describe Ingleside, a small town not all that far from Cornwall in Ontario. It's where my Dad spent most of his childhood for a start. It's also the place where, a few days before Christmas, my brother and I were wasting some time at the lone dollar store, and heard the sounds of musical cards singing "Happy Birthday" and "Feliz Navidad" and the like an aisle over. Next, we heard a female voice say: "Hi, Jan! Sometimes I just come here and listen to the tunes!" I'm sure it has some great qualities, or at least better than the ones it has in my mind. Part of the problem is that we were conditioned by my Dad, who made sure to blow that Popsicle stand as soon as he could, that Ingleside is about as much fun as a case of herpes.
There's a sign just outside the town that says "You are now half-way to the North Pole."
You're also half-way to nowhere.
But, the grandparents still live there, and we love them. And her delicious, delicious pies. Plus, its closer to Montreal, and Ottawa where my brother lives, so we usually do Easter there. It was nice to see the family again, especially since my parents brought Smitty up. Remember the little gaffer with the white spot from all the puppy pictures? He looks like this now. And has the personality of a politician with ADD- charming, but exhausting. I tried to smuggle the cuteness back to Montreal, but no dice.

And expect more, and better, pictures. I went into Henry's in Ottawa, a great camera store on Bank, thinking I would just wander idly while my brother priced tripods, and walked out with a Canon Rebel XT. The body was used, but in perfect shape (they hadn't even put the strap on), so I got it for a measly four hundred bucks. And my brother gave me one of his cheaper lens until I could afford better ones. I've now become one of those annoying people who run around believing everything is for photographing, and for photographing at least five times. Yes. Also, I hit up Yarn Forward, and bought some cable needles and a Chibi. The Rowan RYC Classic Alpaca book managed to overcome my reserve, but I'll write about that later.