Status: Technically completed, but not yet accepted.
This girl has something thinking to do....and some crunching of the numbers! But, in my most legal and serious and aristocratic voice, "YAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!"
Friday, 11 July 2008
Monday, 24 March 2008
58. Go to a sea lion show at the mall.
Status: Somewhere between patronized and adoring.
I've been meaning to drop in on West Edmonton Mall's delightful sea lions ever since last summer, when Matt came round and we spent copious amounts of time wandering the mall. In between (yet again, copious) visits to the dragon, we'd stop and watch these silly creatures in the midst of their natural, everyday routine: splashing around and dancing to "Walking on Sunshine". Having another Australian in town (Ash) who enjoys time away from the TV (unlike Bodie), sent us once again back to the mall for bountiful periods of time, and provided me with the perfect opportunity to drag Matt and Ash to the Sea Life Caverns to see these lions of the sea at work.
Despite the show being tailored to embryos, and the infuriating know-it-all kid behind me eagerly (and correctly, the brat) answering every question the presenter posed (I wanted to ask him if he gets beat up at school), I thoroughly enjoyed it. Just watching these slippery animals dance like Matt's brother, and roll around on the floor, was enough to ensure me that my $4 spent was not in vain.
Their fat, blubbery, strange cuteness was almost enough for me to dismiss the show's crude sound effects. Almost.
I've been meaning to drop in on West Edmonton Mall's delightful sea lions ever since last summer, when Matt came round and we spent copious amounts of time wandering the mall. In between (yet again, copious) visits to the dragon, we'd stop and watch these silly creatures in the midst of their natural, everyday routine: splashing around and dancing to "Walking on Sunshine". Having another Australian in town (Ash) who enjoys time away from the TV (unlike Bodie), sent us once again back to the mall for bountiful periods of time, and provided me with the perfect opportunity to drag Matt and Ash to the Sea Life Caverns to see these lions of the sea at work.
Despite the show being tailored to embryos, and the infuriating know-it-all kid behind me eagerly (and correctly, the brat) answering every question the presenter posed (I wanted to ask him if he gets beat up at school), I thoroughly enjoyed it. Just watching these slippery animals dance like Matt's brother, and roll around on the floor, was enough to ensure me that my $4 spent was not in vain.
Their fat, blubbery, strange cuteness was almost enough for me to dismiss the show's crude sound effects. Almost.
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
91. Try a new fruit.
Status: Tried.
I'm fairly picky with food, I admit it. I do venture out occasionally, I throw around the "try everything once" philosophy, unfortunately it more often than not is only once, and then I return to things that are "vanilla" (i.e. - plain) enough for me. (I read an article in a newspaper a few days ago where the writer describe an idea as "vanilla", and have wanted to use it ever since.) And the same can be said for my chosen experimental fruit: papaya.
Visiting Mexico last week gave me the perfect opportunity to branch out fruit-wise. I'm accustomed to winter fruits up here in the great white north, but it was tropical fruits galore in the land of tequila. Our hotel offered an endless supply of pineapple, melons, and papaya....and with a tried and tested aversion to all things melon, I stuck to pineapple. After a few days, when I'd consumed copious amounts of pineapple (but not alcohol, strangely), resulting in a citric acid tongue burn, I remembered this item on my list and opted for the papaya. Well, I just said I had to try it, not like it. And as my previous record predicts, I hated it. Papaya tastes like vomit. But mmmmmm pineapple!
I'm fairly picky with food, I admit it. I do venture out occasionally, I throw around the "try everything once" philosophy, unfortunately it more often than not is only once, and then I return to things that are "vanilla" (i.e. - plain) enough for me. (I read an article in a newspaper a few days ago where the writer describe an idea as "vanilla", and have wanted to use it ever since.) And the same can be said for my chosen experimental fruit: papaya.
Visiting Mexico last week gave me the perfect opportunity to branch out fruit-wise. I'm accustomed to winter fruits up here in the great white north, but it was tropical fruits galore in the land of tequila. Our hotel offered an endless supply of pineapple, melons, and papaya....and with a tried and tested aversion to all things melon, I stuck to pineapple. After a few days, when I'd consumed copious amounts of pineapple (but not alcohol, strangely), resulting in a citric acid tongue burn, I remembered this item on my list and opted for the papaya. Well, I just said I had to try it, not like it. And as my previous record predicts, I hated it. Papaya tastes like vomit. But mmmmmm pineapple!
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
63. Go to a Bomber game.
Status: GO BOMBERS!
I am not one to be called a sports fan. The mere mention of organized games causes me to tremble from my carefully styled hair to my perfectly manicured toes. I do not play sports, I do not watch sports. I don't like to break a sweat, and I don't like the unbearable nervous tension involved in cheering for a particular team, complete with the excruciating countdown of how long your most likely arbitrarily picked team has to obliterate the evil competition. What a waste of time!
I am, however, known to sporadically take pleasure in nostalgic events coupled with a sense of hometown pride. Us small town kids didn't have much to do - no movie theatre, no amusement parks - the Bomber game was the place to be on a Friday night! Granted even then I was more interested in telling "dirty" jokes with my friends (the 11 year old equivalent of a dirty joke, which most often just had a reference to underwear) and buying chocolate bars at intermission than actually taking notice of the game. But since Matt was keen on seeing all the mundane aspects of my modest upbringing, and on going to a hockey game, we patronized the Flin Flin Whitney Forum on our last night in town. It wasn't quite as exciting as I remember it to be (though nothing really is once you grow up), but worth doing for the memories alone.
And in keeping with my childhood experiences, the Bombers lost by approximately 2.5 billion to nil.
I am not one to be called a sports fan. The mere mention of organized games causes me to tremble from my carefully styled hair to my perfectly manicured toes. I do not play sports, I do not watch sports. I don't like to break a sweat, and I don't like the unbearable nervous tension involved in cheering for a particular team, complete with the excruciating countdown of how long your most likely arbitrarily picked team has to obliterate the evil competition. What a waste of time!
I am, however, known to sporadically take pleasure in nostalgic events coupled with a sense of hometown pride. Us small town kids didn't have much to do - no movie theatre, no amusement parks - the Bomber game was the place to be on a Friday night! Granted even then I was more interested in telling "dirty" jokes with my friends (the 11 year old equivalent of a dirty joke, which most often just had a reference to underwear) and buying chocolate bars at intermission than actually taking notice of the game. But since Matt was keen on seeing all the mundane aspects of my modest upbringing, and on going to a hockey game, we patronized the Flin Flin Whitney Forum on our last night in town. It wasn't quite as exciting as I remember it to be (though nothing really is once you grow up), but worth doing for the memories alone.
And in keeping with my childhood experiences, the Bombers lost by approximately 2.5 billion to nil.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
38. Buy black heels.
Status: twisted ankle - beauty is pain!
Now, I've already made these out to be more immensely high-heeled than they are. They are literally half a kitten heel. And I am literally useless at walking in heels of any stature. I'm a flats sort of girl, despite the fact that I could desperately use to gain a few inches. However, I have come to terms with the unbearable truth that I will never be on Canada's Next Top Model, and am comfortable to stick to varieties of shoes that leave me close to the ground. Oh, I can handle shoes of height that distribute the height uniformly across the bottom surface of the shoe, but that's just not what the kids are wearing these days, is it? And at 22, I'm far too young to fall behind the times, put on some tapered acid-wash jeans, slip into some crocs and call it an early night.
So I struggle on in fashion. I must admit my new black "heels" (term used loosely) are quite classy, until I put them on and am a wobbly mess stumbling down the streets in a demonstrably un-classy way. They happen to be just a smidge too big, which does not aid the "walking normally" problem. But they were massively on sale from a reputable store and....just.....wouldn't you get them?? On the odd occasion (def: "odd" - every single time I wear them) they'll fly off my feet whilst I'm running across a busy intersection, but thus is the price of looking good!
I'd have posted a picture of the lovely shoes, but they're a bit messy at the moment from flying off into a snow bank....leaving me standing barefoot on ice.
Now, I've already made these out to be more immensely high-heeled than they are. They are literally half a kitten heel. And I am literally useless at walking in heels of any stature. I'm a flats sort of girl, despite the fact that I could desperately use to gain a few inches. However, I have come to terms with the unbearable truth that I will never be on Canada's Next Top Model, and am comfortable to stick to varieties of shoes that leave me close to the ground. Oh, I can handle shoes of height that distribute the height uniformly across the bottom surface of the shoe, but that's just not what the kids are wearing these days, is it? And at 22, I'm far too young to fall behind the times, put on some tapered acid-wash jeans, slip into some crocs and call it an early night.
So I struggle on in fashion. I must admit my new black "heels" (term used loosely) are quite classy, until I put them on and am a wobbly mess stumbling down the streets in a demonstrably un-classy way. They happen to be just a smidge too big, which does not aid the "walking normally" problem. But they were massively on sale from a reputable store and....just.....wouldn't you get them?? On the odd occasion (def: "odd" - every single time I wear them) they'll fly off my feet whilst I'm running across a busy intersection, but thus is the price of looking good!
I'd have posted a picture of the lovely shoes, but they're a bit messy at the moment from flying off into a snow bank....leaving me standing barefoot on ice.
Monday, 28 January 2008
43. Make perogies for Matt.
Status: Complete (for eternity)
Before adding this item to my list (because of my insistence on Matt that he needed to try homemade perogies - the real thing - the kind that only Ukrainian baba's (grandma's) can truly master), I forgot how difficult, time-consuming, tedious, and irrepressibly drab and awful making perogies from scratch is.
First of all.....who has the time to pound dough into submission? 18th century Ukrainians, that's who. When there were no mindless sitcoms to be watched or cars to be driven or Facebook to be frequented, Ukrainians in the vast Canadian prairies loved a good knead.
And the tiresome number of steps required! I had to boil the potatoes to mash them, and then, after completed the unforgiving act of filling each circle of dough and sealing each little perogy so incredibly meticulously that they could not be penetrated by neither air nor any force meeker than a nuclear holocaust, I had to boil the damn things again! Can't we save a step here? Cut out the middle man? It's 2008, for Christ's sake!
But in the end, I think Matt enjoyed them. (After I fried them up for him, yet another cooking step in these demanding, ungrateful bites of Ukrainian deliciousness.) I should advise him not to get too attached though, I won't be making these when I'm a trophy wife. I can't afford to ruin my pretty hands pulverizing dough.
Before adding this item to my list (because of my insistence on Matt that he needed to try homemade perogies - the real thing - the kind that only Ukrainian baba's (grandma's) can truly master), I forgot how difficult, time-consuming, tedious, and irrepressibly drab and awful making perogies from scratch is.
First of all.....who has the time to pound dough into submission? 18th century Ukrainians, that's who. When there were no mindless sitcoms to be watched or cars to be driven or Facebook to be frequented, Ukrainians in the vast Canadian prairies loved a good knead.
And the tiresome number of steps required! I had to boil the potatoes to mash them, and then, after completed the unforgiving act of filling each circle of dough and sealing each little perogy so incredibly meticulously that they could not be penetrated by neither air nor any force meeker than a nuclear holocaust, I had to boil the damn things again! Can't we save a step here? Cut out the middle man? It's 2008, for Christ's sake!
But in the end, I think Matt enjoyed them. (After I fried them up for him, yet another cooking step in these demanding, ungrateful bites of Ukrainian deliciousness.) I should advise him not to get too attached though, I won't be making these when I'm a trophy wife. I can't afford to ruin my pretty hands pulverizing dough.
Saturday, 19 January 2008
46. Take Matt to Flin Flon.
Status: Taken.
After seemingly continuous dramas over whether he would be able to grace my hometown with his presence or not (and undoubtedly raise the class level considerably), Matt finally touched down at the world-renowned Flin Flon International (haha) airport on Saturday, Dec.28. And despite the wintery landscape and temperature, he didn't run screaming back onto the plane! (I attribute this to me not hiding behind a pillar this time.) He stayed for a whole week! Which is more than I can say for the majority of tourists to my dreary, cold, barren, and teenage pregnancy'd hometown. (Though I do love it, because it is mine.)
We were fairly lazy the entire time (read: I was very lazy), but the few outings we did partake in included going out for dinner with my family New Years Eve, taking a walk on the lake and walking Miss Jasper around the trail, going for a tour around town to delight in my sketchy driving and exclusive commentary (ex - "I don't know what this is, I don't know what that's for, where are we?"), going to a Bomber game, and skating on my outdoor rink at night, under the stars.
Matt also may or may not have gone snowmobiling and ice-fishing, but such alleged activities will not be mentioned here due to licensing laws.
Matt survived the experience of my town, and of "meeting the parents" very well (apart from the one slip-up where he mentioned to my mother that pizza is great "hangover food"). I really hope that he enjoyed it, and wasn't too scared off!
I will be adding "Take Matt to Flin Flon IN SUMMER" to my next list. The difference? More mosquitoes.
After seemingly continuous dramas over whether he would be able to grace my hometown with his presence or not (and undoubtedly raise the class level considerably), Matt finally touched down at the world-renowned Flin Flon International (haha) airport on Saturday, Dec.28. And despite the wintery landscape and temperature, he didn't run screaming back onto the plane! (I attribute this to me not hiding behind a pillar this time.) He stayed for a whole week! Which is more than I can say for the majority of tourists to my dreary, cold, barren, and teenage pregnancy'd hometown. (Though I do love it, because it is mine.)
We were fairly lazy the entire time (read: I was very lazy), but the few outings we did partake in included going out for dinner with my family New Years Eve, taking a walk on the lake and walking Miss Jasper around the trail, going for a tour around town to delight in my sketchy driving and exclusive commentary (ex - "I don't know what this is, I don't know what that's for, where are we?"), going to a Bomber game, and skating on my outdoor rink at night, under the stars.
Matt also may or may not have gone snowmobiling and ice-fishing, but such alleged activities will not be mentioned here due to licensing laws.
Matt survived the experience of my town, and of "meeting the parents" very well (apart from the one slip-up where he mentioned to my mother that pizza is great "hangover food"). I really hope that he enjoyed it, and wasn't too scared off!
I will be adding "Take Matt to Flin Flon IN SUMMER" to my next list. The difference? More mosquitoes.
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