…And is perfectly OK with it.

Those of you that know me, know that I’m not a fan of Christmas, (or Hallowe’en, or Valentine’s Day. I am a fan of my birthday {not a national holiday YET} and International Talk Like A Pirate Day, and that’s about it). I don’t mind the eating good food and the family, but I hate the shopping, and the parking, and the malls with a fiery passion. Above all, I HATE THE MUSIC. I don’t care who was kissing Santa Claus last night, or got run over by a reindeer. I JUST DON’T. I particularly hate the fact that retailers put out the decorations and start the music the day after Hallowe’en; maybe it encourages other people to enter a shopping frenzy and stimulate the economy, but it just makes me pa rum pum pum pum my way into an awful mood. I also died a little inside when it became clear that EVERYONE has a Christmas album. Is it really necessary to have so many versions of the same song? Between the coke-fiend issue and their Christmas album, I’m a little sad for the Barenaked Ladies.

I feel it’s appropriate here, and I’m comfortable saying it: bah, flipping humbug.

So, I know that I haven’t updated recently. When all you write about is minutiae, and the minutiae is no longer foreign and exotic, it’s harder to be inspired to write and post. I’m also working on another writing project, and just generally WORKING too much.

However, I have been asked what I’m doing with my spare time. The answer is not much (and not much in the true not much sense, not the Seinfeld sense). I’ve been dealing a little bit with The Insomnia (yes, deserving of capital letters), which has allowed me to indulge in one of my very secret guilty pleasures; The Shopping Network. I don’t ever buy anything, but I love the ridiculousness (ridiculousity?) of the things that they sell. Crazy ovens that cook an entire turkey in 30 minutes! Blankets with sleeves for people that have problems being attacked by normal sleeveless blankets! These things: http://www.bighappiehair.com/! After 30 or 45 minutes, I drift off to sleep, lulled by the absurdity of the human race.

I also find myself idly shopping, and have developed a Wal-Mart PROBLEM. I know that Wal-Mart is the root of all corporate evil etc, etc, but man, are they effective at marketing to the impulse buyer. I have purchased sparkly mascara (oops), purple toothpaste (oops + yuck), and a product that resulted in me sanding my arms (oops + ouch). I should probably stay away, but when my shopping list includes hangers, orange juice, a calculator and socks, it’s soooo much easier to just make one stop.

As I’ve mentioned before, I enjoy living alone, even if it means being a bit of a hermit, and not having anyone to help when I do stupid stuff. However, this week, there is a new development. There is a MOUSE in my HOUSE. And probably not just one (it doesn’t usually work that way). And my cat is doing absolutely NOTHING about it, other than Staring Intently. I bought some traps, but the pitter patter of tiny, tiny, dirty, mousy feet is keeping me awake (and fuelling my Shopping Network addiction). I generally consider myself One Tough Chick, but I can’t cope with mice. There was an incident when I was younger that involved a mouse running up my arm, jumping off into space and sending me into hysterics in front of the hot farrier. Since then, mouse are not on my list of things I can cope with, so my dad (who loves me) is coming up to visit, and bringing my Bad Cat to come and deal with my mouse issue. I’ll keep you posted, and let you know when it is safe to come and visit ;).

And this time Sherry is famous too!

I have a story (with a cover blurb!) in this month's Horse Sport. Check it out! (for the person who has to help Grandma find it--there is a brownish horse on the front, ridden by a lady with a pink shirt and helmet cover).

So, I'm back in Ottawa and ruminating on living by myself. Most of the time, I think it's a good thing because:

1) pants optional is always an acceptable policy.
2) no one looks at you funny when you eat pudding for dinner (at least I assume they wouldn't...).
3) I don't have to share the remote. EVER. And no one can judge what's sitting on my PVR.


Sometimes I wonder if maybe living alone is NOT the best choice, especially when:

1) I have to admit that I'm talking to myself, since the cat is still on vacay.
2) I have to drink alone (**NOTE** this isn't a habitual, problem type thing. It was one lousy day, rescued when a blast from the past showed up, bottle in hand, to drink WITH me and then drag me out of my apartment).
3) I do dumb crap (like paint alone, lock myself out of the house or kill my battery, necessitating a jump) and there is no one to rescue me from my own idiocy.

I've been thinking about this for the last couple of days, because I was wondering if living alone wasn't turning me into a bit of a sociopath (or at least a recluse. I'm not locking people in the basement or mailing anthrax or anything). This weekend was the 'Great Glebe Garage Sale' which meant that my neighbourhood was crawling with people who were dumping all their crap on their lawns for people to rootle through and hopefully buy. I don't like garage sales. I don't like rootling through other people's crap. I don't like bargaining. Being a rolling stone, I don't need any more crap, and I don't even have that much of my own extraneous crap to get rid of.

With all of this in mind, I hid in my apartment watching season 2 of Grey's Anatomy (sidebar--this was when it was awesome, non-creepy, and NOT FULL OF GHOST SEX), and avoiding the teeming mass of humanity outside. What finally drove me from my Fortress of Solitude was the fact that one of the neighbours was playing classical music, one assumes in order to encourage sales of his crap. Now, when I say classical music, I mean alternating the extended versions of Pachelbel's Canon and the Blue Danube Waltz. For. Three. Hours. This finally got me away from my tv, and I headed out to discover that my neighbours were actually selling TRASH (like broken light fixtures and stuff that the landlord had bagged up for the garbage. They cut the bags open and started selling it). At this point, I fled as fast as my car could take me--which was about 10 kph, since all the crap-rootlers were all over the streets.

I spent the afternoon sitting in a corner reading magazines at Chapters, and didn't go home until the crowds were gone.

Not saying I'm the Unabomber or anything, but I sorta see how a cabin in the woods might have its charms...

So, a few weeks ago, there was an episode of How I Met Your Mother (sidenote: if you're not watching this show, you should. It's AWESOME.) in which the characters discussed a phenomenon they called the 'Murtagh List'. It was named after the old, wise character played by Danny Glover in the Lethal Weapon movies, who was constantly moaning to Mel Gibson that he was 'too old for this...stuff...'. The main character on the tv show made his own 'Murtagh List' of things he was too old to do, leading one of the other characters to set out to do everything on said list in an attempt to avoid admitting he was getting older.

While I don't agree with everything on the show's Murtagh List (i.e. both 'Going to your parents' house to do laundry' and 'crashing on someone's futon to avoid paying for a hotel' were both on their list. I would change the first one by replacing 'your parents' with 'anyone I know with a working washer/dryer', and see no reason not to sleep on a futon, though I draw the line at leaky air mattresses...), it has got me wondering about a Murtagh List of my own.

Sherry and I have been doing some semi-backpacker travelling here in the UK, and it's got me thinking. I was peer-pressured into leaving my beloved (filthy, beat-up) backpack at home and taking real, grown-up luggage with me (sorry Lauren). We've also been staying at a mixture of hostels and B&Bs, and while staying at our first hostel, I seriously thought that I might be too old for hostels. Between the people wandering in super late (or early, depending on when you got to bed), touching/crinkling/repacking all of their belongings during the wee hours of the morning and making weird noises (even weirder than ME!) while they sleep, I thought that I might be past budget travel, and it kind of freaked me out.

I mean, what would I do when Trish and I, having outlived our spouses and cats, go on our 50th Anniversary of the Trip That Ate the World trip in 2058? Would I have to admit that dragging bags is not, in fact, for suckers? Spend money on accommodations that could be better spent on Fanta, Cadbury chocolate and baklava?

In the end, the crisis was averted when I realized that I am not too old for adventuring. I am however, too old for top bunks.

So, I was looking at some of my pictures from The Trip That Ate The World, and was reminded that some of the decisions that Trish and I made seemed like a good idea at the time, but probably weren't. Like getting in this cab:




I'm still alive and kicking, so you know it didn't go toooooo badly, but really, hindsight being 20/20 it maybe wasn't a great plan.

OK, so the weekend before last I accepted a co-workers invitation to go out and see her horses. She and her boyfriend keep drafts and do combined driving with them; apparently I would be able to “go for a drive”. In my head, my experience looked something like this:

(I would be the one on the left. My co-worker would be the unseen driver).
Worst case scenario, I would be this guy:


(I would be one of the guys at the back. My co-worker would still be the unseen driver).

Obviously, that’s not how things worked out. I mean, I probably should have guessed that things wouldn’t be going according to my fantasy plans when my co-worker asked if I had:
a) a helmet
b) sturdy boots
c) personal liability insurance (!!!).

I DID have all three of those things, and I did go anyway. And, I ended up being neither of the people featured above. Instead I was this guy:


The one hanging off the back of the cart. The one hanging off the back of the cart wearing all the protective equipment. The ballast hanging off the back of the cart wearing all the protective equipment.

I spent 3.5 hours hanging off the back of a cart whilst galloping through wooded trails while my co-worker laughed uproariously. The only thing that inspired me to maintain my death grip on the back of that cart was the fact that her boyfriend with his enormous draft mare was galloping BEHIND us.

When we finished, I had bruises everywhere (thank GOD for the suspension on the cart or I probably would have shaken all my teeth out)—apparently my form whilst clinging on by my fingertips was poor. I also have a renewed respect for how crazy horse people are.

So, I had thought that my neighborhood was full of yuppies. Turns out that YES, there are yuppies (and they are the only ones who can afford to BUY an ENTIRE house in this area), but there are also tons of students. A number of the houses in the Glebe have been converted into three or four apartments, which are quite reasonably priced (which is why I'm living there. Duh.). Many of these reasonably-priced apartments are inhabited by students (as opposed to being inhabited by dreamy late-20-somethings who are motivated, career-oriented and single. Sorry. Sidetracked.), as I found out last week when the neighborhood was filled with u-Hauls.

The students have been partying like crazy for the last week or so, and I had seriously considered buying some beer and crashing some parties--I figured the "don't we have Psych together? No? Here, have a beer" line would probably work and I might meet some people. However, something happened at the grocery store on Saturday that made me think this might not be the best plan.

I was in line ahead of a group of guys who were describing the WICKED party they were having that night, and discussing the supplies they needed. I very subtly snuck a peek at the guys and their party swag and discovered two things:

1) they were about 19
2) their "party supplies" consisted of 5 packages of hot dogs and a can of air freshener.

Party ON.







(no, I totally didn't go. I watched Season One of Gossip Girl and ate cookies instead)

So most of you know that I've moved up to Ottawa and into my own apartment. I was worried that I would be scared or lonely living alone, but it pretty much rocks. Once I install blinds in my living room and can return to a pants optional policy, it'll be pretty close to perfect.

I did have a momentary scare though, shortly after moving in. I had purchased this crazy piece of Ikea furniture that is a chair by day, a spare bed by night and required assembly. It had many pieces, and the Ikea pictograms that served as directions (sidebar--swear to GOD, these things are nuts. They have no words so that they don't have to translate them for different markets, but they look like some sort of crazy cave drawings or those Dick and Jane books. See Man. See Hammer. See Man use Hammer. Man needs help; see Other Man. Neither Man can build furniture; call Magic Phone That Connects Directly to Ikea.). I had the stupid thing nearly put together when it accordioned from bed to chair WITH ME INSIDE IT! As I was trying to extract myself, I had a momentary vision of a newspaper heading reading something like "Brilliant Singleton Crushed by Crazy Furniture and Eaten by Alsatians".

I quickly realized this wouldn't happen because
a) I am not, in fact, Bridget Jones and
b) I have a cat, not an Alsatian.

But it was a scary couple of minutes.

The previous tenant left some weird stuff in the apartment that I've been working to get rid of. She had quite the collection of sports bottles, a crazy huge picture of herself (that was seemingly stuck to the wall using MAGIC a la Harry Potter) and a huge, heavy, broken German washing machine from the '70s. The picture was ripped from the wall and thrown away, the landlord removed the ancient washing machine (allowing me to move MY washing machine, which had been sitting in my living room like some sort of weird art installation, into the bathroom where it now sits), and changed the plug back to a standard North American 120V plug, BECAUSE THE PREVIOUS TENANT HAD CHANGED IT TO THE SHAPE AND VOLTAGE FOR THIS ANCIENT MACHINE. Who does that? Who does that, and doesn't fix it when they move out? Seriously. I'm also going to repaint the hallway and bathroom as pumpkin orange isn't really my thang.

It's all worked out though, and once I finish unpacking, it'll be a pretty cool place. So, come and visit y'all!

So I totally forgot to post about this. But, an article I wrote called "What Not to Do at Your First Event" was published! It was in the July issue of Horse Sport magazine (available at fine bookshops everywhere ;) ); it's called the "Eventing" issue.

Read it!