Adventures in YouTube: Retro Toons

Mr Lannis fires up YouTube, and this happens...

Me: Seriously?

Mr Lannis: I loved this song as a kid.

Me [shudder]: Seriously?

Mr Lannis: Yes. Seriously.

Me [closing laptop]: That's it. We're done. Clearly we're incompatible. 14 years together down the drain...

Mr Lannis [snort]: Hardly.

Married Romance: WoT?!

I've stated before that Mr Lannis gets a pass in the romance department. Basically he runs by the rule that bringing home chocolate is never a bad thing.

He's smart.

Well, it's taken a while, but it's occurred to me that he's managed a great, giant, enormous feat of married romance... like, over the course of our marriage—past, present, future—I don't know if he could repeat the feat.

Okay, he could technically repeat the act itself precisely, but perhaps not repeat the scope of said feat.

He read The Wheel of Time.

The entire series.

Took him eight years, but he plowed his way through all fourteen books.

11,582 pages (if you're counting by mass market paperback).

(No, he didn't read New Spring, but after it took him eight years to slog through what was arguably not his cup of tea, you can't exactly blame me for not ponying up the prequel, now can you?)

Why did he do it? Why read all those bricks books? 

Because I love them so.

Not sure how he got that impression... maybe because the hardcovers line our shelves? Maybe since 2014 is going on four years attendance at JordanCon? Or maybe because the first birthday present I ever got him—waaaaay back when we were dating and had only known each other two weeks—was a paperback copy of The Eye of the World...?

Or, you know, it could be because I'm just a self-proclaimed WoT-freak.

He may have noticed that—maybe a smidge.

Whatever the reason, I didn't realize the scope of his romantic gesture until he'd finished A Memory of Light, the very last book in the series.

When he closed that book, replaced it on the shelf, turned me to and said, "Meh. It was good, but I wouldn't reread it. I still don't know what you see in it," then I knew.

This is married romance.

::swoon::

Happy Valentine's Day, Mr Lannis. Happy Valentine's Day.

Egg-citing

I can't take credit for my latest foray into randomosity—a friend of mine (hi, Meg!) posted a pic on FB of her colourful egg-raffiti, and I immediately thought of Mr Lannis rolling his eyes the possibilities.

What better way to remind Mr Lannis I love him than to deface his prized eggs?

::snort::

Okay, yeah, there're probably loads of more socially acceptable better ways, but I'm not a joiner, so whatevs.

And yes, I say his eggs because he's pretty much the only one in the household who eats them on a regular basis. Yes (now that Christmas baking season is over), that 2.5 dozen is all for him.

Surprise!

Now to see how long it takes him to discover the horror... shh...


UPDATE: This morning (January 22nd) there was a note saying he liked the scared eggs--so that's what... five days? Six, I think, from when I actually planted the Sharpied wonders, since it took a day or so for this post to go live. And if it weren't for the six or eight eggs in another carton that he had to use up first, I'd say we could extrapolate how long it takes Mr Lannis to go through eggs... as it stands we can only estimate, and it looks like six days equals approximately 2 dozen eggs. Oy... no wonder they're scared... ha!

Pointless Popcorn Spiel

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on April 14, 2012. This popper remains in use.]


I’ll be the first to admit we’re a little behind the times in the Lannis household. Santa finally brought us our first gaming system this past Christmas, and we don’t have cable or satellite TV.

I also don’t have a data plan on my smart phone, but that’s a whole other post for another day.

Last week, though, we opted to upgrade. A little. Like, how most of you probably did in the 1980s (or perhaps earlier)...

We went from popping popcorn on the stovetop (yes, the old shake-the-pot method), (dun dun DUN!) to an air popper.

It all started when Mr Lannis read somewhere that it was healthier to air pop popcorn (duh). Of course I knew this, but aside from a short stint of microwaving popcorn when I was in university, I’ve stovetop-popped popcorn all my life.

“It’s easier,” Mr Lannis said. “It’ll be better for the boys when they’re older--they’ll be able to pop popcorn themselves with less supervision.”

The latter, I highly doubt. Probably because I micromanage the kitchen in general (except for Mr Lannis’ eccentric eating habits--another whole post for another day).

And so the hunt began. I went online. I researched. I frugally found our $10 reward card for Sears, and scrolled through what they had to offer.

Warning: ranting semi-digression ahead.

Handy time-saving tip: Sears is overpriced. Holy moly, are they ever.

And I knew this, but I was that girl who grew up leafing through the phonebook-thick Sears catalogue--and not just the Christmas Wishbook, but the other seasonal catalogues, too, just as thick.

I was trained from childhood that Sears is the go-to. And I’ve shopped there plenty, taking advantage of their catalogue store pickups to keep from having to travel all the way into the nearest department store location for the item of choice.

Overall, it’s always been a decent experience. Basically the free-shipping-little-travel sold it for me. So I figured my $10 reward card would compensate for the air popper’s overpricing, and I would be able to pick it up in my town at the catalogue pickup location.

The air popper I chose was $19.99...

Yes, you could argue I could wait until garage sale season and find sixteen being sold within walking distance of my house for $2.

But Mr Lannis wanted it NOW!

Okay, so, maybe he just mentioned it twice and I took the opportunity to shop because, let’s be frank, I’ll take any excuse to do so--I’m far worse when it comes to books, trust.

My point here is that by the time I had that $20 air popper in my online shopping cart, it was $28 after taxes and shipping.

Shipping?!

Whoa, whoa, WHOA.

Excuse me, Sears. This is new to me. It was always free to have items sent to the pickup locations... now you’re charging $3.95?! And applying tax to that?!

And it seems to me I’m still using my gas to drive to your location to get it?!

OH, HELL NO!

Off to WalMart (no, it wasn’t a special trip--I had a whole list). For $14.88 plus taxes I got a simple Rival air popper. A similar popper from Sears would have been $18 after I’d applied that $10 reward card!

Yes, basically the same price, but I still have my reward card.

Oy.

Digression over.

So I brought home the popper, to decidedly less fanfare than I had anticipated, but whatever.

Mr Lannis, God bless him, read the instruction manual cover to cover. All eight pages, including warranty information.

Uh... it’s an air popper.

Recklessly, I poured in the kernels and plugged in that bad boy.

Actually, it wasn’t my first time manning an air popper. Once upon a time I worked for a local museum, and part of our education programming was teaching school classes about Native Canadians and their relationship to farming. They grew corn, and they were brilliant folks.

They used to toss it with maple syrup.

I KNOW!

Point being, I’d manned an air popper a time or two at the museum...

But Mr Lannis hadn’t. So I get it. But as I’m setting in to watch Game of Thrones on DVD, he’s got kernels flying willy-nilly, into and out of the bowl set to catch them, as he leafs through the manual.

And then he speaks, “Uh, hon. It says here that kids and pets are supposed to be kept forty inches away.”

“Hm. That’ll be tricky,” I reply. He catches my eye. “Are they recommending we tie them, or staple them to the floor?”

He may or may not have thrown the manual at me.

I may or may not have deserved it.

It could always be worse...

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on June 9, 2012.]

Apparently a memo went out this weekend, one dictating that since Sandi had so lovingly posted about BARF, it was A-okay to start the intestinal pyrotechnics in the Lannis household, too.

Okay, so maybe the five-year-old was the only one who read that particular memo (which is kind of odd, seeing how he’s the only bipedal member of the family who can’t really read yet), but he followed through just the same.

Yep. Went to Nana’s for dinner, and—like always—had the boys put on their PJs before leaving for the hour-long drive that would end at Home Sweet Home slightly past their bedtime.

Drove to Papa’s (it’s on the way home) for a quick hello, and then proceeded to our house, arrival time adjusted now to slightly more past their bedtime...

And there were some uncharacteristic complaints from our five-year-old. Too hot. Thirsty. Are we home yet?

(By the way, that last phrase is outlawed in our van, due to its repetitive rudeness—completely NOT allowed. Best. Idea. Ever... trust.)

Arrived home. Kidlets unloaded. Entered through the garage. Boy one. Boy two. Lannis. Mr Lannis. Then...

L: I don’t feel good. [sits on laundry room step] BARF!
R [6.5 year old]: OH! EW! He puked on me!

No, he didn’t really puke on his brother. Just on his own clothes, his shoes, and the accumulated mangle of footwear that migrates into a disordered pile in the laundry room—seeing how that’s where the garage entryway is, it makes sense to me.

Mr Lannis, bless him, took our oldest boy upstairs, helped with toothbrushing and returned moments later after said boy was in bed.

The pukey one, however, was still sitting on the step. With a new accessory: a puke bucket. Which was good, because the BARF was still happening. Until it wasn’t anymore.

I was rinsing shoes and tossing them into the garage while sickly boy emptied his belly. It didn’t take long. The rinsing or the belly-emptying. Thank goodness.

Oh, and in there somewhere I’d wiped his face with a cool cloth and helped him blow the ugly from his nose.

By this time, Mr Lannis had found clean PJs for sickly one, and a glass of water, and was attempting not to gag as he helped his son undress.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love that man?

And I don’t know if it’s an innate mom-skill, or if it’s an acquired one, but I mindlessly rinsed those shoes, rinsed and scrubbed puke from PJs, a sweater, and the laundry room floor, put on a load of wash (Lord knows we had a good one by then), then scrubbed the laundry sink with bleach before I realized it...

It was 9:30pm, and I was on my hands and knees scrubbing my laundry tiles, and was thankful.

Yes, thankful, because sickly boy had his colour back and for all the world it looked like he’d eaten too much delicious food at Nana’s, then added a smattering of exhaustion, heat, and car sickness...

And he’d picked, of all places, one of the easiest areas in the house to clean.

Not the carpet, not his bed, and GOD BLESS HIM NOT THE VAN!

Sure, it was puke. But it could have been a hell of a lot worse!

Rationalization. It’s the underrated super-power.

Model Behaviour

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on May 12th, 2012. I have since created this board on Pinterest, and—thanks to the help of a friend (hi, Scott!)—discovered Caleb's real name is Aaron O'Connell. But I still call him Caleb...]

Confession: I have a problem.

And no, I’m not talking about this board for those Pinterest followers keeping score at home.

[Note: I have no other explanation for that phenomenon other that what’s on the board description, so... don’t hold your breath waiting for one... unless you’re into that. Heh.]

But no, not that. I’m actually talking about this, uh, I mean him —

You might be wondering who this is. If you know me on Facebook, perhaps not. Mr Lannis certainly knows.

Allow me to introduce you to Caleb.

No, that’s not his real name. I made it up. I tend to do that, occasionally, name things — kidlets, characters, fabricated identities of random Marks Work Wearhouse flyer models... all of the above, really. Heh.

And Caleb, well, he caught my eye one day in the aforementioned flyer, because he looked exactly like someone I know. In my head.

Yeah, if that didn’t sound strange, stick around, because I’m sure we’ll hit that mark shortly. I’m about to expound upon one of the many idiosyncrasies of my marriage. [Insert shameless snort here.]

Ready... set... weird!

In our house I we have a little tradition. Every Thursday the local paper arrives with the sales flyers for the week. Mr Lannis is the one who goes through said flyers.

And hides one in particular. The one from Marks Work Wearhouse.

For this reason:

(Click to embiggen.)

Note: this particular status update had an interesting and incriminating conversation beneath it, but in the interests of privacy we’re going to nix that part of the screenshot. Let’s just say a friend of mine declared that Caleb must be an excellent kisser due to his scrumptious almost-dimples, interested parties went running for their recycling bins, and for the benefit of those outside of the geographical range of this particular advertisement, I ended up uploading a pic of the flyer page in question...

That’d be this one:

You see, I lick like this particular model. A lot. And he’s caused a bit of a stir on my Facebook profile recently, so I’m sharing more... because I’m filterless gross friendly like that.

He was in the most recent flyer, too:

WHO WANTS TO GO ON A SHOPPING SPREE WITH ME?!

I mean, LOOK at him...

The first person to imply he’s wearing a less-than-politically-correct undershirt wins a screwdriver stabbed in their ear canal! Aaaaaand go!

Ah, I see you’re all distracted by the charming tilt of his jaw and the alpha-male confidence radiating off those biceps.

Me too. And those lips:

::sigh:: Please excuse me as I wipe away the drool...

I read somewhere [::cough cough:: Pinterest ::cough::] that infatuation only lasts a few months, so clearly I am in love with Caleb, because we’ve now been involved for over a year.

And last fall this happened:

This is the note I left Mr Lannis one evening when he was working late... it reads, “He wants me to run away with him. I said yes.”

The next morning I was greeted with Mr Lannis’ reply on the facing page. He charmingly called me a couple of dirty inapproriate CREATIVE pet names, and claimed that he told Caleb about my body pillow.

Yes, my body pillow.

The one I have snuggled and twined myself with every night since pregnancy made my hips ache? For years Mr Lannis has called it my boyfriend, and in the last year or so my body pillow boyfriend has had a new name — you guessed it — also Caleb.

Caleb’s fictional apparent response was to be sickened. This I doubt. Clearly he’s into me. Just look at the way he stares dreamily out of the page. At me.

But back to my bizarre marriage... Mr Lannis is a wonderful man, and he tends to be rather... quiet.

People frequently call him normal.

(Pfft... like that word really has any true definition?)

More than once I’ve heard (I’m outing you, Mrs... haha!) that Mr Lannis is not who people “expect” me to be with — possibly because he’s, well, sane.

The point is, he balances my... uh... deranged personality wackiness. He likes to humour me.

The truth is... he gets me.

And that morning when I woke up and found his angular scrawl all over a flyer’s boxer brief advertisement (yes, he scribbled the word “SL*T” on a random photo of some stranger’s junk — IT. WAS. AWESOME!), I felt more warm, lovable fuzzies toward my hubby because he was playing along with my threat of running away with a fictional heartthrob than I would have if he’d simply written “I love you.”

It may seem dysfunctional, but it’s not. It’s our marriage. I don’t claim to understand it, I just love it — and him — to pieces.

Uh, Mr Lannis, that is. Not Caleb...

Okay, Caleb too.

Hm. Polyamory doesn’t sound too shabby right about now... something-something-don’t-knock-it... am I right? Heh.


PS: If you’ve been able to follow this post, like, AT ALL, please feel free to use your Google-fu for the good of all and find out what Caleb’s real name is. I’m sure he’d love to hear from me. I vote we start a fan club.

Pssst: I wager he tastes way better in person... ::snort::

Happy Anniversary, Mr Lannis.

It's been nine—NINE!—years. Thirteen since we met, but nine(!) since we married. He's my grounder, my number one, and the best straight man a (not so) funny girl could ask for.

(Seriously, he doesn't think I'm funny. I'm "quirky," and "cute," and it's "adorable" when I make a joke because I'm his and so he's obligated to find me adorable, but he's clearly mortified on my behalf when I run away to Atlanta each year to play dress up with other would-be-but-not-really grownups, as well as every time I say "amazeballs," "awesomesauce," and "zombie tits!" in mixed company... Isn't he sweet?)

Over the years he's put up with more than anyone's fair share of my bullshit, regardless of whether they're married to me. He's supported me when others would say I'm bugnuts and move on, and picked fights over ridiculous things to make me realize how stupid it is to fight (or worry) about something so trivial.

I love him. And there's no one I'd rather be silly with.

Happy anniversary, Mr Lannis. (Even though you won't see this, because you're too cool to read my blog. True story. ::snort::)

The Lucky Ones

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on September 3rd, 2011. In honour of our NINTH ANNIVERSARY TOMORROW (yeah, I don't know where the time's gone, either) I'm republishing this silliness. Because I love Mr Lannis to bits... even though he doesn't read my blog. Or think I'm all that funny—no, really, he doesn't. Heh.]

Mr Lannis and I have a deal: we don’t celebrate.

Our birthdays are three days apart, and our youngest was born three days after that. It’s a freaking week-long birthday bonanza around here, and we focus on the kidlets, of course.

Also? We’re cheap.

I’ll bake a cake, make his favourite meal. Maybe we’ll buy a DVD we’re both interested in adding to our collection.

The Mrs doesn’t have the corner on the cheapo market, no sir-ee.

Besides, we know how to have fun without spending money. As I restrain myself from inappropriate comments, please see visual evidence — my all-time favourite photo of us (circa 2001):

The only dollars spent that day were in developing a roll of antiquated film to display this adorable sideshow.

So when it comes to our wedding anniversary, we have a deal: we plan to go somewhere (Paris, or a dreamy island of sandy beaches) for our tenth. Somehow, over this past weekend, we managed to hit number seven.

Seven? Already?!

God bless that man, because I am not always an easy person to live with.

And Lord knows, if ever there was a year in which I was a trial, it was this one. Without going into details, suffice it to say we were both duly reminded that we need to be more appreciative of each other. We are partners first, parents second.

And I definitely appreciate Mr Lannis. I adore him to pieces.

And not just because he makes it possible for me to write “spoiled princess” in the occupation field on paperwork (SAHMs: do this. It’s much more satisfying than “homemaker”. Trust.)

So when I came downstairs to discover him proffering my favourite Tim Horton’s berry smoothie with a “happy anniversary!” kiss?

I bawled.

Over a three dollar smoothie. Yep.

Again, without details, I’d had a rough week. And Mr Lannis knew this. He also knows our deal (no celebrations). And I’ve said before: he gets a pretty good pass in the romance department*.

(Also? I think he is secretly tickled when he gets to be the rock in our relationship.)

But really? I didn’t just bawl. I crumbled. I melted.

And he panicked.

Not because I was crying, but because he’d arranged for the neighbour kids to come over in the next few minutes and now I was a puffy mess.

I’m not a pretty crier. Pale and blotchy, that’s me. One tear = highlighted streak down the cheek and instant bloodshot eyes. I’ll save you from the description of the full-out Ugly Cry. Because truly, it’s called The Ugly Cry for a reason.

Why were the neighbourhood kids coming over? Because it was our anniversary, of course!

And cheaper delivery doesn’t exist —

♥

Married Romance

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on June 25th 2011.]

Yes. Married romance.

And no, this isn’t an oxymoron. And it’s not what you might think.

Mr Lannis has gotten a pretty good pass. Like, for the last seven years, he hasn’t had to really haul his weight in the romance department. Believe it or not, I’m pretty easy going. Which is to say that I don’t need a lot of creativity, I just need to know that he’s thinking of me.

Flowers and chocolate would do.

It would, except I’m allergic to perfume, so most flowers are out (he claims it’s conspiracy that roses, oddly, don’t bother me). Also, knowing I’m a recovering chocoholic, he’s not too keen on the idea of bringing something into this house that will incite me to snort its shavings...

So what is ‘married romance’ in my humble opinion? It’s those teeny tiny things that we do for each other; the ones that say we’re thinking of each other, that we care about what our partner cares about, even though we may not.

Case in point? My bumper sticker.

Yep, you read that correctly.

This past weekend, Mr Lannis decided to take our boys on a field trip in the mom-mobile. To a midway fair. Without me.

I have no issues with this. If he wants to cart them around and brave the crowded, expensive, whiney, cotton-candy-sticky fairgrounds and ferris wheel, it’s all right with me. He’d just better be prepared for puke (true story — ha!).

Anyhow. When taking my oldest to school the next day, I walked around the back of the van to see... nothing.

Background: enter the geek-tastic bumper sticker. A rather rare bumper sticker — like, can’t find it on eBay rare.

And yes, I’m a geek. A rather big stupendously huge one, when it comes to a certain fantasy series.

Like, flew to another country to celebrate said book series for a long weekend, hardcore fan (see visual proof here).

My hubby knows this. He’s read this series, but he’s not into it like I am. At this point, I’ve been reading these books for twenty years and they’ve been grandfathered into our relationship. Technically, I’ve been involved with the books longer than I’ve been involved with him — it doesn’t really matter what his opinion is, I’d still have flown down for JordanCon. Ha!

So. When I walked around the back of the van and saw nothing...? Well, “panicked” would be an understatement.

My bumper sticker — my ridiculously geeky-yet-cool, extremely-rare-and-coveted-official-WoT bumper sticker, GONE?!

I had stuck it to a sheet of magnet before adhering it to the mom-mobile, in accordance to Mr Lannis’ issues with marring the vehicle-we-plan-to-own-for-the-next-ten-years’ resale value (seriously. I rolled my eyes, too).

Someone stole my freaking sticker?!

I raged.

I grumbled and fumed and grunted and growled until my four year old wanted to know why I kept saying, “your father!” that way under my breath. When I replied, “Mommy’s ‘Bela’ sticker is missing,” he blinked, and offered up the holy grail...

“I think Daddy took it off.”

Pardon cowboy?

I dashed to the back of the van, popping the hatch. There, in with the reusable grocery bags and folding lawn chairs, was my sticker!

He’d removed it! When parking in a busy area, where the presence of possible shit-disturbing teens other crazed Wheel of Time fans was likely, he’d had the forethought to rescue my sticker!

This is what I’m talking about. He wouldn’t shed a tear if someone stole Avi-van-dha’s* bumper sticker. He wouldn’t care.

Sure, arguably I would have made his life hell for a while, and he’d probably care about that. But really? If that slap of plastic and magnet had disappeared forever, he wouldn’t’ve blinked twice.

But he knew it meant something to me, so he made sure it couldn’t happen.

This is married romance. He cares about what I care about, not because it’s also important to him, but simply because it’s important to me.

Sure, it’s not a grand gesture, and it may not truly be brag-worthy, but that’s what makes it meaningful.

And I’m still a-braggin’. I love this man.


* Yes, our van has a name — after a character from WoT, naturally. And like all self-respecting geeky fans, I am gloriously proud of it. The Mrs and taxes? Yeah, that’s me and WoT. Yep.