Dear Daddy, I learned to crawl while you were at work today. Love, Boh

A couple nights ago, our good friend C. called us to say that he was coming to O-town for the weekend. The law finals sure to incarcerate him in his tiny Kingston apartment in just a few short weeks apparently are calling him to the bar early. Likely a couple bars, actually; bars that are likely in Hull. While just over a year ago we would have started the party right then and there with a quick trip to the store to buy both beer and clam chowder in bulk (don't ask), our response on Wednesday night was less than subdued. It was almost catatonic. "Really? That's great," we whispered, fearful that even the slightest increase in the volume of the spoken word on the ground floor of our house after 8:00 pm would re-awake the Babe upstairs, two rooms over, fanning the flames of another crying fit of fury that Adoring and Wonderful Husband just put out minutes earlier with the promise of a car at 16. A fast, red car at 16, one that will surely give Mommy ulcers in case there was any doubt she has them already. "You should really call us when you're in. Stop by for breakfast Sunday morning before you go back." And that was pretty much the end of it. These days we don't even pretend that we might make an appearance somewhere on a Saturday night, and certainly not an appearance together. As I've said before, Sunday afternoon is the new Saturday night. So C., in my mind I am speaking very loudly, and with much excitement, when I say this: "Sunday afternoon. Come see Boh and watch me make perogies. It'll be more fun than a night in Hull, I promise, mostly because you'll remember it, and I might even send you home with perogies."

The other thing we'll be doing on Sunday? BABY-PROOFING.

Sunday, October 28, 2007: save the date

Pictures to prove Sunday afternoon is the new Saturday night.

A couple notes for next year:

- yes, yes, yes to Gido's chili recipe

- need clearly defined rules in place prior to pumpkin judging, and pumpkin guess-the-weight; preferably these rules need to be vetted by a representative sample of possible pumpkin carvers two months prior to the contest, only to be changed unilaterally five minutes before judging begins. Also, should add yet another bowl in the pumpkin gut chain. The first bowl will be dumped into a second bowl that is a bit bigger than the first, and then from the second bowl the guts shall be transferred into a third and even bigger bowl before dumping the whole thing into the garbage without even using the seeds, BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE WAY TOO ECONOMICAL, and we need to keep our jobs, right?

- maybe invite more non-public-servants to teach the rest of us about efficiency, and get us to lighten up about the integrity of our judging system, because, DUDE, ARE WE EVER NERDS

- everybody in attendance at the 1st annual pumpkin carving contest are mandated to attend the 2nd annual pumpkin carving contest. Violators of this policy will be prosecuted

Boozy McFloozy

People who dance around relationships bug me. This is one of the great benefits of being married; your status as someone who's successfully navigated the proverbial sea allows you to judge your single friends and the rump roasts they choose when they're shopping at the meat market. Nay, not just judge, but offer your opinion, which they sometimes even harken. There's nothing that makes me want to shake my Single Me comradettes more than when they hem and haw about whether or not they should call A Nice Guy Who Could *Possibly* Be "The One" for some silly reason or another. (Or when they let the WRONG guy get the best of them. You know who you are.) It's a bit like Pam and Jim from The Office. Can't they just get over their fear and admit their love for one another so that they can get married and throw One. Kickass. Wedding. that all their co-workers will get to come to, and, whoa, wouldn't that be a funny episode? You know what these two need? Friday cinq à sept drinks. Preferably double G and Ts. And preferably 6 to 10 of them. There'll be wedding bells in no time.

Ingleside, Ontario (you knew it was coming someday)

Since I've started blogging, I keep a running list of subjects I could possibly write about on a Word file on my desktop so I can expand upon the one line titles I've already given to about 17 or so potential posts should the mood strike as I sit in front of the computer and waste away my maternity leave trying to think of something witty to write. Or at least comprehensible. Which I'm pretty sure that first sentence you just read there isn't.

After reading K.'s blog tonight, I was inspired to revisit this list and pluck from it some sort of gem that would make you think I spent the afternoon cleverly composing it, as opposed to napping for two and half hours with the Babe, which is how my script really read. First on the list: Brad organizing ski trip and price is right trip. Though I could probably pull three weeks worth of posts out of those nine words alone, that I've lazed the day away has made me impatient to produce something, even if it means I'm poaching from next month's blogging menu.

I came up with this topic after catching a couple minutes of The Price Is Right one day. This is how I've grown: Whereas I spent my year of grad school planning courses around a game show (the prospect of watching it was the only thing that got me out of bed before 11:00 a.m. some days), I now flip to Newsworld as I scarf down my instant oatmeal and make sure I have enough Pampers packed for my morning adventures with the Babe. I used to be able to guess the price of a toaster or Mr. Clean Magic Eraser within pennies (American pennies, no less), and now I don't even know which is the latest of Barker's beauties to sue him for sexual harassment. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Anyway, the couple minutes of the show I caught as I switched the Babe from one boob to the other (which must have been what I was doing at the time, because, really, what else do I do?) drove me down memory lane to the sunny place in my heart that once held dear the prospect of taking an MPA class trip down to LA over the Easter break to stand in line outside The Price Is Right studios where I would meet my date with destiny. I had it all planned out. All that was needed to proclaim success was a t-shirt bearing a poorly ironed on decal provocatively professing "I'm spayed!" (or "I'm neutered!", as the case may be), 10 or so of my closest friends, and an answered prayer that it was me who should come on down! Because me? I WAS THE NEXT CONTESTANT ON THE PRICE IS RIGHT!!

Alas, it never happened. B-Rad, the evil mastermind who organized the MPA ski trip at Mont Blanc that led to the debauchery otherwise known as Ingleside, tried valiantly to pull off a Price Is Right tour on a student's budget, but never could quite swing it. Which is just as well, I suppose. The best memories are the ones you don't orchestrate; one snowstorm and four bald tires just help you to drift into them.

the t-shirts I would buy my friends if, you know, I really, REALLY wanted to, and not just wanted to do this to kill some time whilst the Babe napped

For KP, I would buy this shirt.

For D.-man, I would buy this shirt.

For Rob, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one.

For Bridgee, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For the Babe, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Lesley, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Dame-o, I would buy this shirt.

For Samy, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Cammy and K.'s friend who lives in Saskatoon and who sometimes reads my blog, and all my other home-girls who know what cow tipping is, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Dirty Kurty, I would buy this shirt.

For Regina, I would buy this shirt.

For Kaiggy, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one.

For that Dave dude who works with Adoring and Wonderful Husband, I would buy this shirt (in a really small size).

For K., I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Max, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. (You know, if he was human).

For Kevin, I would buy this shirt.

For Matt, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one.

For Veener, I would buy this shirt.

For Grandpa, I would buy this shirt.

For Alex, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For Julie, I would buy this shirt.

For Gido, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

For B-Rad, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. (Or, I would just have one made special.)

For Jodie, I would buy this shirt. Or this one. Or this one.

For the Bro, I would buy this shirt.

For Heather and You-Know-Who-You-Are, I would buy this shirt. (And one for me too.)

For Adoring and Wonderful Husband, I would buy this shirt. Or this one.

And I would buy this shirt for me. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one.

Wow. That was one long nap.

Elsewhere, Pennsylvania

I like to link it, link it. I like to link it, link it. I like to...LINK IT!

hable más despacio, por favor

The birthday boy gives a big thumbs up.
Kimu and the Cutest Baby Ever.
Adoring and Wonderful Husband, Chris and Samy.
Chris.
Lesley.
D-Man.

Samy and B-Rad.

a party in pictures

Get stuffed!













Cinnamon Toast Cupcakes. Fat content = 139%.













"Whose toque is this?"













Kym and the avocados, a brief love affair.


















Bridgee.


















Daddy and Boh.


















Chris and Justin eye the damage.













Bridge, Kym and Lesley.













Drink, drank, drunk.














"Man, does this party ROCK!"