Angry Doppelganger (Now That’s a Blog!)

I have spent many years practicing and perfecting my Angry Face. I kid you not, Dear Reader, I have invested many hours of my life tirelessly in front of a mirror, scrunching up my nose just so and narrowing my eyes in the most menacing way possible. It’s been a long road but I am finally proud of it!

Or, at least I was.

Late last week I I was having a bad day and sent Kevin a picture of myself seated in my office, my brilliant Angry Face displayed in all of it’s glory. My mood instantly cheered and I was delighted as I waited to find out his reaction to my sheer rage.
(In the past people have always laughed when I got angry. In my 28 years I can count on one hand the number of times my “Angry Face” has been taken seriously and usually that’s more because of the words spewing from it than the narrowed eyes and grim expression.)

Rather than the impressed and slightly terrified text response I had been expecting Kevin sent me a picture in return and it turned my whole world upside down.

My anger was instantly forgotten.

At first I was devastated to learn that I have an Angry Doppelganger out there in the world, that my face is not as original as I had always believed. I was resigned to the fact that I would need to go back to the drawing board and once again practice making facial expressions like a normal person. But after a few days of comparison and, I’ll admit, a fair amount of sadness I began to cheer up.

Now that I have had time to reflect I realize I could not ask for a better doppelganger and all is right with the world.

I am armed with my Angry Face always at the ready, able to be summoned up whenever the occasion calls for it and comfortable with knowing that while it is wholly unoriginal at least it’s a pretty great copy.

Perhaps I have finally found my long lost twin? My family did always joke that I was adopted ... Perhaps it's time to look deeper into my roots.

Perhaps I have finally found my long lost twin? My family did always joke that I was adopted … Perhaps it’s time to look deeper into my roots.

Fake Flowers? (Now That’s A Blog!)

On Sunday I invited my Dad over to check to see if the Orchid I found in the “give away” area of my apartment building was real.

The orchid had been prominently displayed in my living room for the last two weeks and I had been tending to it while unable to decide if it was a fake plant or not. On the one hand it was super pretty and looked real. On the other hand it looked a bit too pretty and felt rather … off. (Are flowers supposed to be that perfectly formed? Are leaves supposed to feel so plastic and rubbery?)

In my defense I tend to think all beautiful things are fakes.

When I confessed this to my parents they laughed and laughed until I was surprised that they were still able to breathe.

Apparently it’s easy to tell if plants are real? I’m quite skeptical about this.

Anyways, my Dad came over and within seconds was able to tell me that yes, the orchid was real. And yes, I am a massive dork.

Well at least now I know I haven’t been watering plastic …

These are obviously real! ... ... Right?

These are obviously real! … … Right?

Now That’s a Blog! The Dissatisfaction of Angry Mittens

I am a mitten girl, it’s true. Yes, I know they aren’t the most functional choice for hand warming or, to be honest, always the most fashionable, but still I love them all the same.

For many years while I lived in Edmonton all I would wear when venturing out into the great white north were my bright red mittens. Every day from October through April I would sport these hand-me-down red beauties enjoying the blissful coziness of their warm embrace and feeling just oh-so-very adorable.

Sure there were some drawbacks. I could never text or really use my phone in any way (which was a bit of a problem as you needed a phone to access the transit schedules in Edmonton) and I could never change the song on my iPod, but I didn’t mind. I was cute and that’s all that matters.


“#@%* you!”

Then one day tragedy struck.

I was crossing the street by my home at 109th and Whyte Avenue, which is not the best of intersections (drivers be crazy!), when all of a sudden it hit me. Like, literally hit me. A car. (Well, I suppose it’s more accurate to say it “bumped” me …) The blow to my thigh nudged me over and my feet skidded on the thick ice. I went down, hard, backside to asphalt. The driver slowed slightly, narrowly avoiding my outstretched leg as they checked to see if I was dead on impact, looking more annoyed than chagrined.

I was furious. With all of the rage and hurt in my heart and buttocks I lifted my hand waving it high in the air as I stood back up, giving the driver the most aggressive middle finger of my life.

To which they waved right back, a small relieved smile on their face as they continued on their merry way.

Suddenly, as if I was an independent observer, I noticed how I looked standing there on the ice waving like a mad lunatic at the driver, my angry finger encased in the bright red mitten, looking for all the world like I was waving the driver on as opposed to enjoying the angry ritual of the middle finger.

It was then I discovered a valuable life lesson: there is nothing more dissatisfying than giving someone the finger while wearing mittens.

The Many Loves of S.M.R.P (Now That’s A Blog!)

Last week I was discussing the Love Letter segment of my blog with my Dad (it is a mutual favourite) when my Dad expressed concern that I would soon run out of people to write Love Letter’s to.

As if!

It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.

I have a list of at least sixty people that I am desperately in Pretend Love with, all waiting for my particular brand of wooing. In fact, I am quite the Love Letter Slut. (Sorry, Kevin.)

Some of these loves are fictional and some are real people that I have fantasized about to the point of them becoming fictional, the persona I have created in my mind so charming and likely completely different from who they really are.

All of these loves are deep, emotional, life changing attachments I have formed … Or at the very least I think the subject is a cutie patootie.

So stay tuned, dear reader, and never fear! There will be many more creepy somewhat uncomfortable Love Letters posted here for your enjoyment.


Lies my Father Told Me (Now That’s a Blog!)

Anyone who has read a single entry in this blog knows that I have a close relationship with my father. He’s both my biggest fan and harshest critic (probably because he’s my only fan and my only critic). But still, this relationship does not stop me from recognizing his flaws.

Flaws like this one: My dad is a liar.

It’s true.

Since becoming an adult I have become increasingly aware of the lies my father told me while I was growing up. Lies like bats don’t bite (they do) and bugs won’t crawl in your ear (there was a man at the hospital this week with a cockroach in his ear that says otherwise). Or that if I kissed a boy before I turned 37 I would turn into a pumpkin (I never really believed that one, though when I had an incident with spray tanner a week after my first real kiss I did worry a bit).

When confronted about it he said “What was I supposed to do? Tell you the truth? Then you’d have cried.”

I suppose he has a fair point there. If I had known bugs could crawl in your ear I probably would have taped mine off. And if I had realized bats could bite I never would have gone outside again. I definitely would of cried in both scenarios.

But even if his actions were justified, that still won’t stop me from calling him on it.



Awkward! (Now That’s A Blog!)

You may have noticed, dear reader, that this category has been woefully empty pretty much since its inception. And I have a bit of a confession on that score. It’s not that there haven’t been several awkward moments over the last year where my father desperately cried “Write about this one!” it’s more an issue of semantics. You see my dad has used every other phrase possible instead of saying “Now That’s A Blog” and since he hasn’t used the exact phrasing we agreed upon I have been able to get away with not writing. (Sort of. He still bugs me about writing weekly.)

But he’s finally caught on. So, without further ado, I bring you the latest installment of “Now That’s A Blog!”

Yesterday, while taking the bus to my parent’s house I was digging through my purse trying to find my earphones. Now, you’d think I would have learned the valuable lesson of utilizing zippered pockets since this last incident but alas, I still just throw everything into the bottom of my purse and hope for the best. Well this time, rather than erotic dice, I ended up throwing a feminine hygiene product (somehow this sounds much more scandalous than “pad”) on the floor of the bus. Proving that chivalry is not dead a very handsome young man bent down to pick up my dropped object. His carefree and somewhat flirty smile turned instantly to dread with a hint of disgust when he saw what the object was, his hand only just out of reach. Quicker than a kid touching a hot stove he wrenched his hand back and snapped back up to standing, leaving my pad on the floor of the bus with me scrambling to grab it before anyone else noticed.

My expression was a mixture of bashfulness and annoyance as I stuffed the item back in my purse. It’s not as if the damn thing was used.