Muffin Math

We like our muffins here chez Lannis.

Occasionally I make from scratch, but usually our staple is Quaker’s Low Fat Oatmeal muffin mix. Just add water, and whatever you’ve got (raisins, chocolate chips, dried cranberries, frozen blueberries, chunks of fresh apple and cinnamon--have at ‘er).

I go through at least one package of muffin mix per week. I bake them on mornings like today when my table is full of kids (my own and extra), or when I need something different to bulk up the boys’ lunches, or when I know I’m going to be on the road and would rather bring a snack than stop and find one, or, well, if we simply haven’t made muffins in a while...

You get the idea.

The thing is, I make them as per the instructions. A cup of water to half a package of mix. And it always turns out like this:

Despite my adding ingredients.

And we're not talking giganto muffins here, these're itty things that are the perfect size for a kidlet portion, or a snack on the go.

Look: same muffins, after a visit in convection heat...

Now the maths, they’re not always my friend.

But I’m pretty sure that 10 + 10 =/= 24

So where're my four muffins, Quaker?

Hope for Humanity?

I enjoy thrift shopping sometimes a lot. I see a lot of weird things.

Not long ago, however, saw something that made me grin—possibly guffaw—in the middle of a secondhand store.




I have read about 90% of the first book, yes. At the time, though, it wasn't published, and it was Twilight fanfiction entitled "Master of the Universe."

It was also garbage brain candy.

Garbage brain candy that—despite the lack of variety in adjectives, and lack of personality in its protagonist—was a quick read. Breeze right through. It's easily consumable, I'll give it that.

Consumable, and empty.

I stopped at the 90% mark because I discovered that late into the game that the author was publishing it chapter by chapter online and I had to—gasp!—wait to finish said garbage brain candy.

Of course, I was not going to wait to finish it. It's one thing when you're skipping along at a good clip reading cheap brain candy, it's another to have to commit to returning another day in order to finish the bag.

And then it was earmarked for publishing and subsequently yanked from the Interwebs (heh).

I have issues with fanfiction. Specifically the appropriation of another author's characters without their permission. I can respect the true nature of fanfiction—fans writing for other fans in a quiet corner of the Internet, okay. But to create an out-of-universe storyline based on a pair of characters that aren't yours, effectively appropriating an audience, hooking them, and then turning a profit when you realize it has marketing potential?

That doesn't sit comfortably with me.

I've flipped through these pages more than once, and every time I am shocked at how few changes were made before publishing. That people are beginning to purge their shelves delights me.

Maybe those housewives are learning how to Google the word porn, too?

Or perhaps that's too much to ask...?

The Highlight Reel

I am sick of the highlight reel.

Lately it’s become evident that I’m either in sudden contact with a slew of people who seem to forget that Facebook (and what people post on the Internet in general—with the exception of emo blogs, fanfic, Nyan cat, and gregarious hate speak), is the highlight reel of other people’s lives.

Guess what? Life don’t look like that. Nobody’s does.

Of course it’s natural to want to share the best events happening to us—large or small—but ofttimes the audience seems to forget that shit happens, yo. To everyone. For reals.

I’m not one to air my dirty laundry publicly (uh... except this is my blog, one where I documented my own medical journey... so... apparently I’m a freaking liar). In this instance, though, I’ll be overtly literal. At 4:55am I’ve just finished sorting four laundry loads that should have been washed last night but the hot water tank blew. Again. For the third time in 18 days.

This is my list of what life has been like in the last, oh 18 days... I’d round it off to two weeks, except that hot water heater seemed to mark the beginning of the shakedown, so I’m keen to stretch the timeline.

In the last 18 days I have:

- Gone five days without hot water, spread over three different technician visits to fix our hot water tank rental (yes, we rent in Ontario). That means my kids have discovered no hot water three times when they’ve attempted to fill the tub. And they've had three lukewarm-at-best baths.

- No hot water means I’ve also had to put off some necessary housecleaning. That master shower isn’t getting any less pink.

- I’ve had two cold showers (and I mean really cold—not residual-warm-water-in-tank cold). Thanks to this, my massage therapist wants to add another (possibly two) visits over the next two weeks. Apparently cold water + chronic neck and shoulder issues do not mix. (She claims she would have preferred me to show up dirty. Duly noted.)

- Been to the chiropractor seven times, and projected enough future visits to correct my spine that they’ve got me on a payment plan (whee, benefits).

- Discovered hilarious bike accident story from when I was 15 actually had invisible ramifications! The Bush Bunny story! You MUST know it—like, everyone on the planet's heard it. That time I went over the handlebars of my bike into the juniper bush on our lawn after hitting up the grocery store for ice cream? Yeah, hysterical. Company was over. It was delightfully mortifying. I still have a scar on my ass, and apparently easily two years’ worth of chiropractic ahead of me to correct the absurdly straight neck it gave me (the term is military neck, feel free to Google), along with inner ear issues (had to say goodbye to reading in cars, enjoying boat rides, and roller coasters). Oh, and it’s possibly the source I get to thank for my migraines, too.

- Had to repeat my history of being the medical exception. Again. And assure another professional that no, no, I’m not actually deaf in my left ear, despite the war zone appearance of that eardrum’s scarring.

- Been to the emergency room once (on a Saturday morning), to ensure that my inner ear problems thanks to the new chiropractic treatment are, in fact, actually inner ear problems and NOT a stroke (I wasn't panicking, I just wasn't being willfully ignorant since it would be two days before I next saw my chiropractor). Lucky for me, I failed every motor/neurological test administered on the spot, but passed with flying colours the test that says my inner ear is fucked. My eyes were tracking and I almost puked on Dr. O’s shoes—though he seemed pleased at that result, I don’t think it was for the implication his footwear almost became more fragrant.

- Speaking of strokes, in the last week I’ve spent $200 on my hair and hair products to see if it can retain some sort of body—and this is from a notoriously low maintenance girl who barely spends $100 including tip in a year—and while I’m enjoying the beachy waves I have going on, and look forward to finally being able to wash my hair tomorrow morning, whatever this is, I hesitate to call it permanent.

- Also in the realm of the superficial: despite getting my rampant Tim Horton’s addiction down to twice a week (someone throw me a party. Seriously. I deserve it), and being incredibly disciplined over the last month (unless you count the 1lb chocolate bar I devoured in three days), I’ve only lost one(?!) pound of the eight I would prefer to vanish so that I might not have to invest in an entirely new wardrobe. You know, now that stretchy-fabric weather summer is over. And good food season runs from October until January. I’m screwed.

- Used the fancy points earning/redemption system at my favourite grocery store, only to discover after checkout that my “tailored” rewards weren’t added to my account. This is the third call in three weeks to rectify it, and despite having Mr Lannis officially add me to the account, I’m apparently still a second class citizen unable to make executive decisions. ON FICTIONAL POINTS.

- More serious: I learned of four people whom I otherwise thought were fine are in actuality quietly suffering depression (all of whom live in the same hometown they grew up in. Coincidence? Hm). Attended the funeral for one who lost his battle.

- Yes. So. Funerals. Plural. Two, within six days. One for a dear auntie. The other for the boy who was my first kiss and prom date. Yep. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

- And depression of course, is a fearful concept to me, as it is closely linked with anxiety and I have an eight-year-old who has already been diagnosed with that. Oh, and in the last two weeks he’s come down after bedtime to complain of everything from the sun burning up, to the world running out of trees, to the misconception that noise pollution will fill up our atmosphere and choke us all to death. Fun times.

- And now, for the fourth day in a row, I’m up after only five hours sleep (so little I just spelt that 5ive. Oh joy). Is this a problem? Not particularly. It’s my ginseng in action and I’ll have a nap later.

- Oh, and not to be dismissed, but there have been copious migraine auras thanks to barometer swings (thunderstorms and cold temps, ahoy!), proximity to cloying perfumes (see funerals, and some loosely-related shopping therapy), and apparently the sucker-for-punishment stupidity that was less boring hair. So many migraines in need of blocking, that tomorrow when I go to the blood donor clinic, I half expect them to turn me away because my blood volume is half Advil Migraine Liqui-gels.

- The barometer has also made it tricky to predict how to dress, with one day last week being over 40c/104F, and today’s projected high being 14c/57F. I’m a sweaty girl. I’m not cool with these swings. It makes it all that much more difficult to adjust. And I like to know if I can bother opening the windows... though I do enjoy a good thunderstorm.

- Oh, and thanks to the chemically-induced brain befuddlement, I mistakenly keyed my deposit amount into the bank machine. So I get to wait until the bank adjusts the amount, while my money rests in limbo. Lovely.

- And last but not least, seasonal allergies. Have you tried to scratch your pallet? Pro tip: it doesn't work.

So. That’s my shit list. There’s more—there’s always more if you look for more. But that pretty much sums up our end. Lots of happy things happened on our end, too, not to be overlooked, including long overdue visits with family, and friends (hi, Nicole and Robyn!).

Contrary to what this list indicates, what have I posted to the blog? Nothing. While full of fluffy content, I realize it’s also a better reflection of what’s going on inside. So no, I haven’t felt like blogging. Facebook? Yes, there have been a few posts:

- Ranted in a humorous way about the water tank issue.

- I have posted a tidbit in a mini-serial (one I should probably begin publishing to the blog) about what Mr Lannis watches on YouTube. In this case it was the retro classic 99 Red Balloons redone with red balloons (I know, right? I’ve already watched the shit out of that video!)

- Posted a photo of the luxurious material I snagged for costuming—yay for Hallowe’en stock and costuming fun!

- Two half-assed gratitude post reshares of part of the work Brandon Stanton of Humans of New York is doing overseas.

- Photos from finally framing a print of Larry Elmore's artwork that I've had since April.

- Another half-assed reshare of the historical post on September 4th, commemorating how on that day in 1957, 15 year old Elizabeth Eckford encountered an angry mob when she was the first girl in Little Rock, Arkansas, to bridge the gap of the then-newly-deemed unconstitutional segregation. Brave girl.

- A passive aggressive status post about how Pinterest keeps emailing me telling me I’m qualified for a business account (Sorry to disappoint, Pinterest, but I’m still not a business).

- A photo of wordless Ikea instructions, since shopping therapy last week has been... er... expensive.

Is this a happy list? Is the first sad? No. There’s no emotion involved in a list. It’s all projected (even with my editorial ramblings). All emotion is projected from our minds—another thing that I’ve learned again and again over the years and have recently been reminded of (thanks to this video)—all emotion is in our heads, not our hearts. Our hearts simply pump blood.

Has it been a rough week? Invariably so. Am I upset? Currently no. I’m pretty much rocking my early morning tea in a delightfully calm got-up-early moment with the laptop.

Obviously if I dwell on the lives whose celebration ceremonies I attended last week it can been emotionally world-rocking. Naturally. But that’s grief. That’s coping.

The rest? Blargh. ::dismissive hand wave:: It’s all life. Whatever.

All of it together? Meh. I’ve walked through worse fires and emerged unscathed. Give me time, I’ll be fine. Always am. I’ve had better weeks, and I’ve had worse.

I bounce. I bounce well. I always have. It’s a skill. Read that again...

It’s. A. Skill.

Get good at it, people, because life holds no punches. You are not responsible for other people’s actions or reactions, only your own. Be accountable. Live. Learn. Move on.

Yes, I have been nominated for the gratitude posts on Facebook. Four times now. Four.

No, I don’t add them to my timeline. Personally, practicing gratitude—though it’s a very useful concept that I believe can be extremely helpful—is a private thing (much like grief). I don’t have a journal, I do, however, go out of my way to see things through other people’s eyes, and to be actively grateful for my own lot in life.

And this list? This isn’t even a blip on the radar. Life goes on. I laugh at it, because the universe has thrown me worse, and I only ever emerge stronger. I mean, what’s a few days of inner ear problems when you stood pregnant next to your mother’s casket? What’s a few days without hot water when you went a month unable to use your arms after you’d maimed yourself in the interests of cancer-free longevity?

Perhaps it's perspective. Perhaps it’s terminal realism again. Whatever it is, honing the skill was difficult in the moment but oh so valuable in the long run.

All I know is I have it fucking good, even on my darkest days.

I'm sick of listening to entitlement issues. I'm sick of watching people consume the highlight reel on Facebook and compare that to their own situation only to find it wanting. Of course it's found wanting. It's unrealistic!

Life is not all sunshine and fucking rainbows, people. It's life. It's called life, not fun-happy-time.

This rant is not brought about by interacting with any one person in particular—quite the contrary, there's a myriad of factors at work. In the last two weeks I’ve encountered enough people that I’m into the double digits in my tally of those who are wallowing, mindfully ungrateful for their blessings. I have nothing against venting. But so much of how we are affected by life is through our own perspective of events, and when you constantly find your lot disappointing, you're poisoning your own mind.

You're your own toxic enemy.

Choose to be stronger.

Choose to laugh.

Choose resilience.

So if this rant seems to pertain to you, it might, but likely indirectly. Maybe there’s something in here to learn (for the record, most of the people I’m thinking of don’t know I have a blog—let alone a name, heh—one is a celebrity, and I’m 99% sure the lady at Costco is completely unaware I even exist. Despite having to walk around me while complaining into her phone).

Never be arrogant enough to believe it’s about you. It likely isn't.

And lest this list be misconceived ranting about people who are clinically depressed needing to own their shit and stop whining—it’s most definitely not. It might be a reality check for anyone else out there who thinks everyone else's life is perfect... in actuality this is only a list. And a rant. Because some people need to hear the truth...

The highlight reel is just that: highlights.

And never forget that it’s a phonetical misnomer: it’s not real at all.

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.

Dear Judy: Thanks, but no thanks.

Today’s blog post is brought to you by solicitors (one of my favourite things—not), and my love-hate affair with Kijiji.

Once upon a time I wrote a rant about soliciting. I also have multiple rants about Kijiji—which, at turns can be both excellent and vexing... all depends on the day, really.

Today it’s the latter... with a dose of soliciting. And because I make it a habit not to interact with trolls, I’ve decided to expel my frustration here—because what good is having your own blog if you can’t vent, am I right? I mean, it is my corner of the Internet, I’ll do as I please, thankyouverymuch.

Granted, this lady isn’t exactly a troll, but she’s pretty damn close to the line in my estimation. Imagine my displeasure as I sat down to read my email and eat my lunch, to discover someone had replied to my ad for after school care with an Avon proposition...

Truth.

I'm still unsure how an after school care ad screams, "I want to work for Avon!"
Also? It's two words. After. School.

The flood of rage, guys. Flood. Of. Rage.

And for multiple reasons...

First, Avon as a company irks me due to its solicitous nature—if I wanted your product, I’d be coming to you, not being bombarded by magazines on my doorstep. I’m a big fan of personal space, and when I’m at home, that personal space is my entire property.

Yes, I’m an antisocial bitch. I’ll own it.

If a catalogue were to show up in my mailbox, well, that’s one thing. Don’t drop one on my doorstep—I consider that littering.

Second, that Judy here might feel the need to solicit me via Kijiji is insulting—clearly I am advertising my own business, why do I need to become an accessory to hers?

That she’s judging that since I work from home I must have free time to hawk Avon wares is offensive, and doubly so since she’s a fellow woman—is she not aware of the multitude of tasks undertaken daily by a stay-at-home-mom? Why the hell does she think I’d have time for that, especially since I clearly take in extra kids?

My “free” hours are the ones where the kids are in school. This means my mornings and evenings are chock full of kids.

WHO WANTS TO HOLD AN AVON PARTY AT NOON ON A WEDNESDAY?!

Not to mention the fact that those “free” hours are bombarded with everything that running a household entails—an exhausting list I won’t bother itemizing here.

I mean, I suppose I should be flattered that she considers me supermom and able to handle the extra workload without a sweat, but... well... let’s just say I’m not feeling flattered so much as violated.

Yes, violated.

Because if I was interested in becoming a sales partner (or whatever Avon’s particular terminology might be) then I’d probably reply to whatever Kijiji ad Judy has undoubtedly posted soliciting potential Avon candidates.

Guess what... I didn’t.

Because I'm not interested.

And now, as I sit here dropping salad down my sweater (I’m not a pretty eater, sorry), I’m subjected to indigestion thanks to Judy’s ambushing proposition, because SOLICITORS MAKE MY BLOOD BOIL.

GAH!

Truth be told, I pity Judy. She’s mentioned that I have potential customers coming to me, when clearly she’s had to resort to emailing random child care ads on Kijiji because she herself is struggling to find people interested in her product, or possibly she doesn’t understand her own business strategy enough to make decent sales...

You see, Judy doesn’t seem to understand that my clients come to me for child care (read: not Avon products). I’ve maintained an ad for more child care clients because legally I have space available for that service—I’m not desperate to fill those spots, but someone in our area might be desperate to find a child care solution, so my offer is out there. Perhaps I can help them, as this is the service I offer.

Judy, though, has made the mistaken assumption that these clients would also want Avon products, when up until this point there’s nothing to indicate that that may or may not be the case.

Personally, I operate under the assumption that if you’re coming to me for child care services (as advertised), you’re probably only interested in child care services—and not, you know, being guilted into taking the Avon magazine being shoved into your hand.

Either way, if my clients wanted Avon products, they’re welcome to find it somewhere else.

I also find it insulting on behalf of my clients and, well, basically anyone potentially interested in purchasing Avon products, that Judy here is operating under the assumption that (A), my clients are all women, and that (B) only women might be interested in Avon products.

Judy, girl! I’m beginning to see why you’ve had to resort to almost-blind soliciting of Kijiji posters!

Hell, if I really wanted to pick apart Judy’s assumptions I could point out that she’s assumed (rightly, yes, but still assumed) that I’m female. How does she know that I’m not a stay-at-home dad who’s providing child care services? There’s nothing in my ad to indicate either way...

Hm. I can see Judy and I wouldn’t get along very well. It’s probably a good thing I don’t take her up on her offer...

I’m not big on blanket generalizations—I mean, I can step wrong as quickly as the next person, but by and large I prefer to err on the side of not pigeonholing my clientele, or, well, anyone else for that matter...

Thanks, but no thanks, Judy. I’m most definitely not interested.

And all that’s without ranting about Avon’s perfumey mess of signature products, or pointing out that perhaps Judy become acquainted with a period, you know, since she's resorting to cold contacting people via written correspondence... oy.

::facepalm::

Dear Lady tailgating me on Hwy 400...

I'm concerned for you.

And myself, and everyone around us on the highway—and not simply because you're tailgating me and I've got a lead foot which means we're both going 120km/hr [75mph].

No, in reality I'm going the speed of traffic, which means we're both going the speed of traffic, regardless of the fact that you're so close I can't read your license plate or see your headlights, and in my mirrors can see you squinting and craning your neck forward to get even a couple of inches closer...

Yes, I'm concerned. For the fact that you can't seem to get closer and clearly want to, and it's a danger to both of us—as well as all our fellow drivers on this busy, busy stretch of road.

At first I thought you were using my mom-mobile of an Odyssey to gain some draft for your petite silver BMW, but then I had insight, when I saw you struggling to punch stuff into your phone.

Yes, while driving. Yes, again, I misjudged—my first thought was that you were texting and driving, but no.

No, it occurred to me, as you peered desperately at the back of my minivan, that you were reading. Reading and transcribing into your phone.

Yes, ma'am, I have a bumper sticker.

It's a Wheel of Time bumper sticker.

And apparently it's cause for concern. Because despite it being illegal for people to use their handheld devices while driving, apparently you saw fit to punch "I killed Asmodean" into Google while humming along at 120 clicks, a hairsbreadth away from my rear bumper...

But my real concern—despite the tailgating, the phone use while driving, hell, even your shortsightedness—is for your common sense.

Because while all of that listed above would call your ability to brain into question, I can't help but wonder...

Who the fuck tailgates a driver whose bumper sticker reads that they killed someone?!

No, really, I'd love to know.

Hope you made it to your destination, since based on observations above I seriously question your ability to arrive safely.

And here's hoping I never share the highway with you again,

Lannis

I'm done.

I've returned from my self-imposed weeks of seclusion in our garage.

Erm, wait, that's not true... I still have to tidy up and...

Okay, I won't lie, I want to refinish a lovely and sturdy blanket box some friends made us years ago—it's a fabulous piece, but a touch too orange for our floors, and I'm about to plunk a fish tank on top of it, and once that fish tank is 200+ lbs filled with water she ain't going anywhere, so I'm going to get that blanket box looking the way I want it to look well before it's time for that fish tank to be filled...

This blanket box should be a quick sand and stain job, though, not the behemoth of a journey that is the dining set.

She looks pretty from a distance, yes?

Oh, you noticed that that was in present tense and not past tense? Well aren't you observant! Have a cookie!

Yes, this is an ongoing journey. Because apparently I am an amateur who does hack jobs.

No, really. I'll own it.

And as lovely as this set is NOW, and as far as it's come between the before and after, it's definitely, definitely, oh by the power of everything holy and light is nowhere near done.

There. I said it.

Want to know why? Well, I've already told you: I'm an amateur.

This set has been a struggle every step of the way.

Before: The state in which I purchased this 10 piece set. Deplorable, yes?

You name it, something came up in every goddamn step that made me want to take our hammer and bang myself in the head. It was covered in scratches, water damage, and the hack sanding job of the previous owners; had multiple extra (and invisible!) screws holding chair cushions, required an insane amount of hand sanding (see latticework chair backs), discovered I'd let the pre-stain conditioner dry too long (so I opted against sanding and staining again—like anyone who's not a sucker for punishment), and ultimately had polyurethane dripping everywhere, only to discover that the particle board used for upholstering chair seats didn't want to take screws and reattach.

Oy.

I fought construction, wet and cold weather, and now have a peeling tabletop.

This polyurethane hasn't set properly, and parts of the table top are peeling already. Part of this is due to the insane amount of construction going on; it was quite literally impossible to clear all dust and debris from the surface of the table before putting poly on it, so we are left with miniscule bumps.

So what's the verdict? Looks lovely, doesn't it?

That's a six-year-old for scale. It's a big, large, stupendously huge set.

And really, I have two, seven kids using this table on a daily basis. I'm no dummy. They're going to be picking at that peeling poly in no time, and with the mind numbing honour of thieves no one will know who did it.

I already know it won't be Minette, as her "feed me" complaints remind me every morning how much I wish cats had opposable thumbs.

Whatev.

So. What am I to do?

Well, the first step is to not care.

Yep.

I'm not going to care. We're going to use this table, and enjoy this table, and when Mother Nature once again settles on half decent weather for Canada (I'm ball-parking April, May at the latest), then I'll be enlisting Mr Lannis to help me drag this behemoth back to the garage, where I will sand down the tabletop and try again.

Because I'm nothing if not crazy, stubborn, persistent.

Of course, this is probably totally some kind of cosmic euphemism I'm missing entirely... something something the universe is kicking me right in my perfectionism blah blah blah...

Again: whatever. I'll try again. Later.

The tricky thing between now and then will be somehow gaining the ability to ignore the will-be-crumbling state of this tabletop.

I'm done. Done caring, and done tackling this table.

For now.

...

Place mats. I'm gonna need lots of place mats...

Lost...

The cat has gone missing. Again.

Like clockwork, really, Moggie’s repeating last year’s behaviour—this means she ran away immediately after her vet appointment last year (when she was spayed), and this year she’s run away again, but this time after having gone to the vet to update her shots.

And the thing is, I’m less miffed about the missing cat part and more miffed about the updated shots part.

I mean... seriously, Moghedien? You wait until we’ve shelled out $150 to the vet and then you decide to hit the road? ::headdesk::

She’s been microchipped. She’s been fixed. She’s been vaccinated. She’s ridiculously friendly and has probably whored herself to someone down the street who thinks that because she’s so tiny she’s a stray, when no, no, she’s really NOT...

Do I put up posters? Because honestly, no one’s going to give her back to us if I post what I’m really thinking:

Lost: Small Black Cat

Called Moggie/Moghedien (Moe-GIDDY-en).

Whores herself to everyone, then betrays.
Lacks sense of self-preservation.
Not afraid to get dirty. Good killer.

Basically follows her namesake to a T.

Family misses her We’re all pissed she took advantage of us and bailed.

If seen, please call XXX-XXX-XXXX. We’d love to throttle her ourselves.

Sarcasm Lines

Not to be confused with sarcastic lines (for example: witty dialogue). Oh no...

Sarcasm lines. Trust.

As I am now ::coughcough:: over thirty years old, I’m aging, becoming more refined.

I wish I was talking about my sense of humour (nope—that inner-fourteen year old boy is still kicking around, waiting to giggle about some sexual innuendo unintentionally dropped in his path).

No, I’m talking about wrinkles. (Gasp!)

Except I really don’t like to call them wrinkles... because, well... wrinkles are on old people (and they look delightful on everyone... just not me).

And they’re most certainly not related to wrinkles’ lovely, more graceful cousin—the smile lines.

Oh no, these bad boys are the direct result of years, a lifetime’s worth of sarcastic expressions.

Yes, folks... they’re sarcasm lines.

No, that line-covered thing at the subway station is not an art installation. It is a map. GPS hasn't always existed at our fingertips. We learned how to read our maps (skillz, yo), and believe it or not, they didn't sass back at us. (GASP!)

This is my expression when I’m faced with unabashed idiocy, when my barely-there broken filter is struggling to keep back a nasty comment, or I’m frozen with disbelief that someone has survived long enough to learn how to feed themselves...

Shut up, you make this face, too. Admit it.

It's sarcasm at work.

Unfortunately, it’s left furrows in my brow, because, well, stupidity hurts, people. Clearly I am a victim.

How can I avoid making this face? Honestly now, in this world where young people are shocked everyday that the Titanic isn't just a movie, I'm virtually screwed...

Titanic. Not just a movie. Schindler's List? Shockingly also true. And possibly more historically relevant.

Dear lady who left the dog in a pickup in Zehrs' parking lot...

Pardon me, but I’m confused.

What makes you think the searing heat of a summer day is an ideal time to take your golden retriever for a trip to the grocery store? You left him there, yesterday, during the scorching afternoon heat in the open sun. (You didn't even try to park in the shade!)

Does he like car rides? Probably. Unfortunately for him, you’ve mistaken a car ride with an oven. Because that’s really what you subjected him to—an oven—while you were inside Zehrs' air conditioning selecting items from shelves, and (most definitely) standing in line waiting to pay for said items (I was in that lineup, so trust me when I say I know it wasn't a quick one).

Because if he likes shopping, you’d think he’d be in there with you, instead of in the blistering heat of a parking lot.

Oh—he’s not a service animal and animals aren’t allowed in stores? Maybe that’s your first clue that taking him to the grocery store is an asinine idea!

Do you realize it was 31c (87F) yesterday?

Do you realize it was 35c (95F) with the Humidex?

Do you realize it takes mere minutes to reach easy-bake-animal temps in your truck?

Do you realize that leaving all the windows open so your golden retriever can hang his head out the window doesn’t make a difference?

Do you realize you’re an asshole?

I mean, I try not to judge, but this one is pretty blatant. You, ma’am, are an asshole. And unfortunately your poor dog is going to love you despite the abuse you hand it.

Also? Yes. Yes, it was me who told customer service that you’d left a dog in the truck. Yes, that’s why you were paged to customer service via a description of your truck and its plates (not that you went). Because while you apparently don’t care if you cook your pet, I’d feel horrible if I knew an animal suffered because everyone around me is too comfortable in their blinders or too chickenshit to open their mouths, so yes, I opened mine.

Sure, it’s not my animal—and I’m sure some people might say it’s none of my business, either—but society’s in a pretty sorry state if people are too afraid to speak up about abuse (animal, child, spousal, whatever) simply because they think it’s none of their business.

Because that’s chaos, people. It's the antithesis of civilization. Every day, with our every action, we build the world we live in—let’s create one without animals dropping dead in parked cars, m’kay?

And I don’t know about you, but I was raised that pets are family members. Also that vehicles become ovens pretty fucking quick on a sweltering summer day like today. Suffice it to say I was raised to not cook my family members.

Clearly you were not.

Sadly, you pulled out of your parking spot before I could reach your truck, or I would’ve told you all this in person. Yeah, I was the one struggling to grab my bag from my cart, running in your direction as you pulled out of your parking space. Yes, I was the random chick staggering to a halt as you drove past, purse and grocery bag dangling from my elbows, flipping you the double bird.

You’re an asshole, lady. And you don’t deserve to own a lovely animal like that dog. And I’m not a fan of dogs. (Or hamsters.) But I am a fan of responsible pet ownership—and you, ma’am need a punch in the throat.

Regards,
Lannis

Kijiji Etiquette

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on January 28th, 2012. And in the three years since we've moved, we've made $937 from selling gently used items on Kijiji. We've also bought everything from clothes to gym equipment to furniture, too. Uh, and after five years of owning it, we sold the playhouse for $50 more than our purchase price... heh.]

I love Kijiji.

Seriously. It’s great. In the year and a half since we’ve moved, we’ve made $323 from selling items the kids have outgrown.

Yes, I keep track.

And I’ve purchased things from Kijiji, too. Seems to me we discovered the online classifieds site about four years ago, and since then it’s been my go-to for specific items.

Our play house is our biggest score. Literally and figuratively. It’s large and awesome. I’ve had three adults in there with a child, and sure, we were squished, but there was still enough elbow room for us all to be served tea.

New, it was listed on the manufacturer’s website for... a lot. With shipping and taxes. On Kijiji we found the same model for... about $500 less. With a custom wooden deck built for the floor, too.

And four years later? Our boys are still playing in it.

And Mr Lannis got a fancy-schmancy punching bag for kickboxing, gently-used, for $35. That’s about $150 less than what it was selling for at Walmart.

So I have plenty of good things to say about Kijiji.

Of course, the pitfall with Kijiji is aimlessly scrolling ads for things you don’t really need and talking yourself into needing them... but that’s why I try to keep my Kijiji interaction to specific items I would otherwise be purchasing new, or posting ads to get rid of useless junk extraneous stuff.

But as with life in general, you must sift through the mud to find the gold.

And dear Lord, I have encountered some random behaviour via Kijiji. Like, “where did these people come from and who gave them Internet access?!” kind of inanity.

Tuesday I received a response from one of my ads, where the potential buyer stated her husband would come by to look at the item for $20, either Wednesday or Thursday.

Erm. Well, that’s tricky, since you haven’t asked if I’m available those days (and at this point of the transaction, she didn’t have my address), but moreover because the item was listed for $35.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for haggling on a price, but telling me you’re buying it for $20 is not how you open good bargaining... something more polite would have been nice... a “would you consider taking $20?” would have received a “sure thing!” from me.

But the way this person worded the email made my hackles rise. Yep. I’m not (entirely) a bitch, but I am stubborn. You push, I push back. My response? “Sorry, it’s $35 firm.”

Well, she might as well figure out if she wants it $35 worth before roping her poor husband into coming to my house...

So yeah. I have a few etiquette beefs with Kijiji.

Please read the ad.

Is this a lot to ask? I’m pretty descriptive in my ads, and I always post pictures. I hate when I show up at someone’s house to discover what they posted as mint condition has scrapes or stains. (Ugh.) If it’s not perfect, take a photo of the imperfection and damn well say what’s what. Nobody’s going to diss you for honesty — actually, you’re probably more likely to make a sale.

In the same vein, please don’t ask me if there are smokers in my house because my ads always read, “smoke free, pet-friendly home.” And it says “pick up only.” So guess what? That means pick up only!

I’ve had one incident of meeting a buyer somewhere, and surprise, surprise — they were a no show! I blame my own Kijiji naïveté at the time, but now? Yeah, if you want what I have, you can come to my house and get it, thanks.

That said, if we’re arranged a pick up time? Please be on time. No, if something’s fallen through, just let me know, I’m cool with that. But I’m not cool with sitting around my house because someone said they were coming at noon and they don’t show up until 3pm.

Not cool, Kijiji-peeps. Not cool.

Another thing that gets me? People who respond to ads with their phone numbers. It kind of looks like this: “I’m interested in [whatever-this-is], please call me at XXX-XXX-XXXX.”

Um. Kijiji is set up as a go-between via email. Lord knows I’m a phone-talker under the right circumstances, but I’m not picking up the phone to call a complete stranger to sell something to them.

I don’t like telemarketers, remember? I’m not becoming one because you’re adverse to email. You managed to make it onto the ‘Net to find the ad, you can complete the transaction that way, too.

And guess what? Kijiji is not Twitter.

There’s nothing I hate more than the slapdash reply to an ad, “is this available.....???????”

Hey cowboy, is the ad posted? Then likely it is!

When I see this in my inbox, I want to reply, “yes” and nothing else. But I also realize that if I do, I’m likely to lose a sale, too.

I understand that not everyone studiously deletes ads when they’re no longer current, but you’re likely to look less like an idiot if you tweak your ice-breaking approach with, well, grammar, for one. Full sentences would be a bonus. Is it really that difficult to say, “If this is still available, I was wondering if I could arrange a time to see it?”

And newsflash: Kijiji is not Twitter! Why people scrabble and hold every character hostage is beyond me... using an extra few to say, “hi,” or “thanks,” won’t bloody well kill you!

If responding to an ad, you’re likely to garner a more positive response if you deign to use courtesy. Trust.

Also? Kijiji is not Facebook!

I know, shocker, right? If I post an ad, and you reply, and we get into a discourse about meeting times or price, that’s fine. But I don’t need to know that your husband’s having intestinal problems and has been in the hospital for two days and could I please hold the item for another day until your mother-in-law is back in the country and can come and pick it up...

Seriously. No offense, but I am not your friend. I don’t need to know the petty details of your day to day life. I understand shit happens. A polite, concise email requesting me to hold an item for another couple of days, or saying things fell through and you need to reschedule is fine.

I had a woman once beg me via email to deliver an item to her, because their van broke down, and she had four kids, and could I please-please-please deliver the item to them, she’d pay extra for gas money. It was also implied that I had no heart if I denied her...

This was all over a $5 item.

Not to mention my kid puked the day before and I wasn’t leaving the house to go anywhere any time soon, especially since I’d kept two boys home from school due to said pukage.

Of course I did what any self-respecting defensive mother would do. I replied with a polite email stating child-sickness and sympathy for their vehicle problems, but no, no I wouldn’t be delivering the item. The ad clearly states “pick up only.” It is not an unreasonable expectation!

So... your turn — share, please! Do you have any pet peeves for Kijiji behaviour? Any horror stories to tell? I want NEED to know!

Solicitors

[Note: This post was originally published on The Mrs on July 30, 2011. The sign works, folks.]


Remember when I said I can be a world-class jerk? Don’t knock on my door. Unless you know me, that is.

Solicitors, I’m talking to you.

It’s highly invasive when someone interrupts my day to promote their Thing — even when I’m not looking after four kids, or scrubbing a toilet, or chasing black wasps around the house because a certain five-year-old mistook it for a mosquito eater and wanted competition for the four-year-old’s pet spider living in the bathroom (true story).

Basically, if I’m answering my door to a stranger over the age of fifteen who is not obviously promoting a local educational or sports endeavour, I’m defensive. Instantly so. Truly, I am a territorial beast. Hackles rise, tension builds, my chest tightens as my snark settles at ready...

(My apologies, but the stun setting is broken... I can’t promise it won’t be lethal.)

And we get a lot of solicitors. Plenty. Like, since our move we’ve had our lifetime’s fair share and that of two others, kind of plenty. When the nice weather hit, barely a day went without someone knocking, be it for a child-sponsoring program, some spa promotion, fencing services, knife-sharpeners, lawn care, a utility company...

(FYI: It’s highly satisfying to tell a man with a clipboard that you live in a two-year-old home and therefore are absolutely positive your hot water tank does not need replacing. They don’t like that very much.)

So imagine my face when for the third time in one day I answered my door with a stranger on the other side. Not one, but two — this 40-something gentleman had a young man shadowing him, learning how to barge onto people’s property and bully them into accepting whatever not-so-necessary service they’re offering.

I, however, have not fallen victim to the horrific disease investing our lovely nation (I’m looking at you, fellow Canadians). You know the one. The one where we err on the side of self-deprecating courtesy and (GASP!) have forgotten how to say no!

Me? I used to be a shy, malleable soul, but life forced me to eat some crap sandwiches and I decided not to care. Yep. This translated to learning (albeit late in life) the ability to say no.

And this is my philosophy it comes to solicitors: if I wanted your product, I’d be seeking you out, not vice versa.

Don’t worry, it’s not an excuse to be rude. In fact, Mr Lannis and I usually have a little bit of fun with the poor souls who choose to knock on our door (my gym rat has been known to stand shirtless and talk the ear off uncomfortable puritan peddlers — he’s my hero!).

So yes, I answered the door — the knock that interrupted my usually-unwilling five-year-old successfully stretching out words for a thank you card he was writing — to find, for the third time in one day, a solicitor. A pair, in fact.

And as it turned out, they were from the same paving company that had already visited earlier!

Whee. (Can you hear my enthusiasm? I can’t, either.)

Me [with a chipper voice]: Hey, guys. Stupid day for a walk.

Solicitor [smiling, probably assuming I’m referring to the blinding heat, as we Canadians are wont to talk about weather]: Yes. Hi. We’re here from [I-don’t-remember-because-you-were-jerkfaces] paving company, and we’re doing a whack of driveways over there [he points], and the more we have, the cheaper we can offer it, so we were wondering if you’d like your driveway sealed?

Me [shocked to realize it’s a repeat, yet relieved for the easy out]: Ah, someone was here this morning. Don’t think so. But thanks anyway.

Him: Oh, well, I’m just making the rounds, so I thought I could talk to you about it.

Me [flat tone]: Clearly.

Him [probably noticing the tone, therefore jumping onto concrete facts]: Well, Miss, I see you’ve got a lot of chalk on your driveway. It dries it out a lot. It should really be done.

Me [I had to give it to him for the recon — the subdivision he’d indicated was in the opposite direction, and he’d had to walk around the side of our house to see the chalk-slashed driveway.]: Nope, that’s okay.

Him: It really is dry.

Me: Well, if it needs to be done, I’m sure we can do it cheaper ourselves. [Mr Lannis has used bucket sealant and elbow grease in the past.]

Him: Oh, see, our technique is far better. We use hot... [blah blah — I stopped listening to him here. It seemed fair, since he’d obviously stopped listening to me.]

Me: Nope, that’s okay.

Him [smiling in what I’m sure he thinks is a disarming manner]: Perhaps I should come back when your husband is home?


Yes, folks, he actually said that. So picture me, eyes widening, brain wheeling in mad panic as I attempt to remember being transported to the 1940s, and figure out how to claw my way back to 2011 before Mr Lannis barbeques dinner!

My broken verbal filter shuddered to life before I could snap something truly inappropriate about people who don’t listen to the word ‘no.’ Epically inappropriate. A friend of mine told me I should have said, “it’s okay, I am the husband,” and see what happened next.

Instead, I grinned: Nope, it’s cool. I have clearance for executive decisions.

He didn’t see the humour in the comment, but his younger cohort snorted a laugh.

So, jerk-muscle flexing, I added: Look, buddy [because unless you’re under twelve years of age, ‘buddy’ is my passive-aggressive term for idiots]. The only way your company will be sealing our driveway is if you offer to do it for free.

Him [shocked]: All right then, thanks for your time.

Me: Yep.

I closed the door, and my brain exploded! Seriously. It chanted: the invasion is coming. The invasion is coming...

Our new town is fairly small, and — with creative geography — could possibly be considered the suburbs. As I said, we get a lot of solicitors. But three in one day?! Two from the same company?! And the last not knowing the meaning of the word “no?!”

I. Can’t. Handle. This. Time for signage!

I assumed Mr Lannis would give me a 24 hour pass until my mental stability regained its footing, then remove my sign — which was a cheery after-work surprise for him. The kind that prompts raised brows and that head shake that means he doesn’t want to know what provoked it.

Usually, Mr Lannis errs on the side of invisible social conformity. He likes to blend. Some days I’m baffled why he’s with me, because I gave up blending years ago. Usually, a saucy sign would be removed promptly, lest our house be egged by local teens.

(To which I would remind him that I get along well with teenagers. Something something mindset something...)

And yes, this is really on our front door. If solicitors knock, they either have a healthy sense of humour, or are duly warned and better be braced for what’s coming...

And so far, it’s working. Three weeks and not one solicitor yet. Ha!

(For the record, it’s open season on telemarketers, too.)

In defense of Angelina...

By now you’ve probably heard about Angelina Jolie’s Op-ed piece in The New York Times.

Long story short: she’s had genetic testing done, discovered she has a BRCA1 mutation, and decided proactive treatment was the way to go. As in: she had a prophylactic double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, the regimen of which was finished at the end of April.

In layman’s terms: she had the girls removed and replaced.

Yes.

Yes, Angelina Jolie.

Yes, Angelina Jolie, the A-list star who is known for her amazing rack.

I know, right?

And here’s the thing. I’ve already run into some complete assholery on the Internet over this issue. Like, make me want to whip out my favourite machete doubly for zombie apocalypse practice and weeding the human gene pool kind of assholery...

Let’s look at the facts here...

Is she an attention whore? No. She’s a celebrity. It’s her job to be in the spotlight.

Is she doing this because she’s attempting to inspire others?

Um, I’m pretty sure she’s doing this to stay alive (you know, since her genes STATE she’ll probably kick it early if she doesn’t do something proactive) and that anything else gained by the public service announcement is just that—using her platform to perform a public service announcement to bring attention to the options available.

(Yes, options which, if you're in the US cost money, so they're questionable as options if you don't have money. Not the issue being discussed here today.)

Why’s she telling everyone? Well, let’s look at her history... has she used her celebrity to support causes before?

Oh dear lord, I believe she has! I’m pretty sure there’s something about her going to other countries and adopting children who needed parents, and doing five lifetime's worth of charity work! Gah! She’s actually created a public profile apart from her acting career as a (gasp!) humanitarian! The gall of the woman!

My point is: her announcing she’s chosen a radical proactive treatment for a genetic condition in order to bring necessary awareness to the procedure isn’t all that out of character for her as a person in the media. So calm down, folks.

Why’s she telling us now? As in: instead of earlier?

Well, if you lived with the paparazzi at your doorstep, I’d think you’d be pretty private about a lot of personal choices, especially if one of them included choosing to maim yourself in order to be around for your kids in twenty plus years. Considering the paparazzi’s perpetual presence at the Jolie-Pitt household, I’m fairly certain she deserves a lot of credit for not having had this leaked earlier... but maybe I’m wrong.

Also, I’m thinking opting to lop off your boobs is one of those crossroads you get to, a paradigm shift of psychology, where you’re not entirely sure how much of the process you’re willing to share with the entire world until you’ve actually been through a bit of it, and know how you’re reacting to it on a personal level.

I mean, for any woman the choice is staggering. For Angelina Jolie, well, the truth is that despite talent, her very career is based on her looks. I find it encouraging to hear that she chose to follow through with the double mastectomy especially considering much of her career/public persona is based on her looks—which include her rack. That she's voiced her decision is heartening because, well, the world is clearly full of assholes who believe they are entitled to bitch about her boobs, boobs said assholes will never see in person, let alone actually fondle...

She went through with a double mastectomy despite being such a public figure who is idolized for her body, and I would hope that would empower other women to be proactive; to help them disregard body issues and highlight the importance of proactive health choices. That emphasis on life and not appearance (because no matter how you slice it, she's got falsies now, and will be under fire from the "they're not natural!" set), and the fact that Angelina's (once again) using her public platform to educate, gives me much respect for her.

So yeah, I think people need to lay off Angelina and support her decisions—not because she’s brave or admirable or attempting to inspire others—but because they are just that: her own decisions.

She’s not affecting anyone else directly by her choices; only herself and her family.

If you choose to follow the news and keep up with the hoopla and the aftermath of her proactive medical choices, kudos to you.

But really, this is the Internet—we don’t need any more negativity, and trust me, mortality aside, Angelina probably thought long and hard over whether she’d lop off the most visibly female part of herself... and I can almost assure you that the Internet’s reaction did not make it onto her radar of potential cons because ultimately it doesn’t matter.

All that said, I’m proud of her.

And since I'm already standing on my soap box: Angelina Jolie revealing she's had a prophylactic double mastectomy WILL ALWAYS garner more awareness of breast cancer than changing your Facebook status in some super-secret girl code to say where you hang your purse, or what colour bra you're wearing, or any weird sentence garnered from some bandwagon private message that makes your status sound like sexual innuendo. Truth.

Sorry, but it needed to be said.

And this makes it the perfect time to toss out a teaser for what’s to come here at Chez Lannis. Yes, there’s been something in the works for a while now, a post series I’m in the midst of writing to share with the Big Wide Interwebs...

Ready?

Forevermore I can say I did it before Angelina Jolie made it “cool.”

Yes, I'm biased.

Stick around, because in the next couple weeks we’re going to start talking truth about cancer bombs...

Rant and Review: Sharpie and Zazzle

As I've stated on my bio page, the name Lannis originated in part from a Tor.com handle—specifically for the Wheel of Time Reread, led by Leigh Butler. The community she's helped create over the last four years is quite remarkable—the quick and dirty description I use is that we're a glorified online book club... it's the easiest way to get the point across, but our group is so much more than that.

Since Leigh's the Toast Master (Toast Mistress?) of JordanCon this year, and since it's kind of a big deal for us Rereaders attending, some of our talented members pooled their ideas and designed a shirt for us to wear. This shirt was posted on Zazzle for customization and purchase by anyone interested.

Of course I picked one up. (Go Light!)

Immediately after I'd purchased my shirt—like, within the hour of my hitting the "confirm order" button (or whatever it says—I don't remember. It's online shopping—it gets hazy until the product shows up at the door) someone mentions customizing the shirts to have our Reread handles on the back.

Oops.

I was too quick on the draw. (That's what I get for being gung-ho I guess...)

So what do I do?

Well, first I waited, because Zazzle decided to jerk me around—yes, Canada's considered international shipping and obviously will take longer (I can be patient when I want to be), but COME ON! Zazzle didn't ship my shirt out until TEN DAYS after I placed the order!

WTF?!

I ordered my shirt on the same day as many folks, and my American friends had received their shirt before mine was even shipped, according to Zazzle's tracking notification. GAH!

And I sent Zazzle an inquiry email—because some folks had had a snafu or two with their order, so I wanted to make sure mine wasn't in the same category—and instead of replying, I received an email requesting I review a product I had yet to receive.

Not cool, Zazzle. Not. Cool.

Yes, I get that it's an automatically generated review request. But perhaps if a particular order number shows up in your inbox, you could—oh, I don't know—put a flag on the order?

Or, hell, maybe reply to the inquiry email previously sent?

Oy.

Other than that, the product itself is great. The design I already knew was fun, and I'm pleased with the quality of the screening. It fits well and is comfortable.

I referred to the sizing chart and ordered an XL based on my measurements, which makes me scratch my head, because I'm usually a medium, so all I can conclude is that Zazzle hates big people.

Way to go, Zazzle.

But enough of them, because I doubt I'll be using their services in the future (it ended up taking five weeks from the order date to receive my product, and I have yet to receive a reply from my inquiry email and it's been a week... five whole business days).

How to get my name on my shirt?!

 
To solve the problem of lack-of-handle, I bought a package of Sharpie Fabric Stain Markers (I love me some Sharpies). It's a package of four and I only used the black (obviously). I drew out what I wanted on a separate paper and traced the design onto my shirt.

These fabric markers? So pleased!

They've got a firm brush-shaped tip that allows for thick and thin lines—great, except you have to watch out for accidentally touching the fabric on an angle and creating a smudge. It took some getting used to, and in order to be precise it took a while to fill in the design carefully.

While I haven't tried out the other colours, I've already decided to use these again, probably to let my kids attack some plain shirts this summer.

When I went to the store I was looking for iron on letters (which weren't in stock), and had no clue that Sharpie even made this product, so yes, I'm more than pleased with this alternative. It was $7.46 CAD for a package of four (black, red, green, and blue).

It's fun, and far more personalized than stock letters, and I don't have to worry about them peeling off with wear.

Some tips:

Use a template and trace your design if you're looking for an even result—sometimes freehand can get away from the best of us.

Go in the direction of the weave of the fabric to fill in spaces—the ink absorbs more evenly.

Use a clean piece of paper to cover any ink your hand will touch as you finish your design to prevent possible smudging of wet ink.

Place cardboard or some other barrier between the layers of your shirt to prevent possible bleeding of ink (I didn't see this happen on my own project, but you want to be careful for a good result).

For fine lines, keep the pen perpendicular to your project.

Occasionally check the marker tip for accumulated lint that might drag ink where you don't want it (I only had two fine cat hairs over the course of my project, but that's an expected hazard in this house).

Check the Sharpie website for design inspiration.

Not sure yet how this will stand the test of time after a few washes, but I guess that means I get to revisit this review, yes?

This opens up a whole world of doodled-on shirts. My neighbours will have more reason to roll their eyes.

Awesome.

Corn Plant: update

Remember this post? Yeah. Update.

So my jackass of a corn plant flowered. Like so:

And you know what I completely forgot?

I'm allergic to goddamn perfume. 

Yes. Pretty much all perfumey scents—manufactured or natural—have conspired to construct my doom.

My list of "sensitivities" includes most perfume, cologne, hand soap, body wash, deodorant, hair spray, shampoo, conditioner, dish soap, laundry soap, fabric softeners, chemical cleaners, candles and air fresheners (they're the WORST! if your house is clean, why spray—or light—migraine inducers?! what stinks if it's clean?!), and yes, even naturally occurring scents like flowers and pollen.

There are some exceptions. Not many.

Welcome to why I'm a borderline recluse. There are days when a quick trip to the grocery store can be a trial (aside: WHY must they put the floral bouquets right at the entryway?! WHY?!).

For some reason lost in the depths of my psyche, I assumed the corn plant blossoms wouldn't stink.

Boy, was I wrong.

I coughed. I spluttered. I sneezed. It was a virtual assault on my nasal cavity, and my brain was immediately stuffed.

I blame cacti and violets for this one, because they're usually the only flowering plant in my house and they are scentless.

So I had to do this:

Pretty, right?

Until my mother-in-law came over and I could show someone else who is a plant enthusiast.

Mr Lannis enjoyed a bit of schadenfreude on this one, after I'd bugged him to "check out the blooms! Check out the blooms! Check out the BLOOMS!" only to have me in a coughing, gagging fit when four (of HUNDREDS) finally deigned to open.

I took this photo with a mask on. True story.

So yeah. After my mother-in-law and I jointly marveled at the teeny tiny white flowers (and gagged on the scent—DAMN that was powerful!) I chopped off the stems and threw the suckers into green bin.

So much for that Gong Show.

Go back to just casting a shadow, corn plant—you were better at it. And I could live with you.

::headdesk::

Taxes Schmaxes

I have learned there are many things in this world that give me a headache...

One is waste.

Another is other people's waste that ends up costing me.

So when I see the display of TurboTax kits at the grocery store, or Walmart, or Costco, I want to bash my head against the shopping cart. I don't... but I do grumble, heartily disgruntled.

You see, you can get the exact same tax software without the waste of physical product (taking up physical space) online.

Yep.

And it's freaking easy peasy lemon squeezy, too.

Stupidly easy, and you don't have to pay until after you're done your taxes and are ready to file (which you can do online... again: easy peasy lemon squeezey.)

But is this advertised at the stores? No. Of course not—they're gaining a cut if they sell the physical product—why would they tell people to go Google TurboTax and follow the linky dink trails...?

(I suppose you could argue the physical product would be for people who have no internet access at home. Do these people even exist?!*)

So why does this make me crazy? Because I use the online software (have for the last couple of years, thanks to Sandi over at Spring Personal Finance—she's a genius, by the way. Also? Hilarious. And she makes cute babies, too).

So when I see the in-store-displays all I can think of is how the manufacturing, shipping, and displaying of said physical product IS JACKING UP MY GODDAMN ONLINE TAX PREP FEES!

Not to mention the landfill waste of software good for tax purposes for that year only...

::headdesk::

Seriously.

Also? My taxes are done... and aside from wincing every time I see someone toss one of those blue and silver boxes into their cart, I'm also done thinking about them.

Until that refund arrives, that is... then I dance.

(Possibly naked. If you're my neighbour, this is your official warning. If you end up blind, that's your problem. Good luck.)






*Clearly I know they do. I have elderly relatives. And infant relatives. And pets.

(Shut up. Pets are totally people—just ones without opposable thumbs... Oh my god, just think of how much of an asshole Hamster would have been with opposable thumbs. A goddamn unstoppable fuzzy jerk. ::shudder::)

Kijiji Courtesy

You know what breaks my brain? Kijiji.

Okay, not always. There are times when I manage to post ads, communicate, and actually buy and sell items on the free classifieds site.

Like it was designed for it or something... go figure.

But every once in a while, I encounter someone who makes my head hurt. And it might be the jaded part of me speaking, but my brain bleeds. I’ve ranted on and on about Kijiji before, on The Mrs blog.

Today’s aneurism-inducing example is this:

I have an ad posted. The response I receive is: “where r u located”

No question mark. No uppercase letters. No salutation, no “hi there, how's your mom? I’m interested in your item...”

Forget sentences—it's lacking COMPLETE WORDS! ::headdesk::

For reals, guys. For REALS.

And I’m not saying you need to take me out for dinner and a movie, but addressing me with civility might garner a more positive response.

How did I respond? With the name of my town, and that’s it. I was hoping this person would realize that being short with someone with whom they’re attempting to foster a transaction is not a stellar idea.

I realized my subtextual message was lost when this person immediately replied with “where in X”.

Um... thanks.

Thanks for reminding me of the primary rule when dealing with idiots: they have no self-awareness, hence it’s nigh impossible to rehabilitate them.

Also? I am not the idiot whisperer.

It begs the question though, do I even want to bother...?

At this point? Truthfully? No. And this particular ad has had enough interest that I’m not worried about the ability to sell the item.

Yes, I’m a bitch.

Actually, it’s more that I have no patience for rudeness, and you only get one chance to make a first impression, yes?

Thankfully, I live in Canada—where I can choose not to do business with this person... I seriously do not want to exercise the option that requires setting eyes on them. I'd rather wend my way through idiot-free paths. Or at the very least, lower my chances of encounters with their kind by not pursuing this further...

But I’m stuck... I can’t stop wondering... DO PARENTS NO LONGER TEACH MANNERS?!

Honestly. My brain... she bleeds.