I’m now almost a week into my winter break. Last Thursday was my last shift before the break. In the two weeks I made boxes I finished 50 (!), and it looks really nice to have two full shelves of clean, nice boxes.

Before I left I typed up a list for my boss of things I still need, because I have to cut the 30×40 boards somehow, and the guillotine won’t do them. I picked out a pen knife and a big, heavy ruler….I’m hoping that’ll work, because the box cutter we have is a piece of junk. I figure I’ll have to cut either on the flat part of the paper cutter, or on some cardboard on the floor….

Now I’m in the weird limbo where my supervisor has to put in a request for more hours for me and they have to make a decision…..so in the very least I have the next couple of weeks off.

To do over winter break:

• Write conference paper I’ll be giving in April
• Finish up and send out conference proposal for national conference in November
• Maybe get around to putting together something resembling a journal article to try to submit
• Finish that damn book on rock musicals that I started over the summer and renewed and retook out TWICE already…..
• Watch whatever DVDs I get for Christmas
• Frolic
• (Possibly put together the powerpoint for the supertitles for the spring opera production, if the director sends me his translation script)

So, Happy Festivus, Christmahannakwanzukah, Solstice, New Year, and whatever else is festive!

Two of my favourite aspects of the blogosphere: cyber-activism and Nadine Moawad, who is leading the helm in the titular campaign to commemorate the Gaza conflict:

Here’s the plan:

1. Open a twitter account if you haven’t yet. Get your friends to give you a crash course on how to use it – it’s very simple.
2. On December 27, get online and tweet about #Gaza by citing news sources or re-tweeting links from others.
3. Join the Palestine Action Network group to get updates via Facebook.
4. Join the event: ACT – don’t mourn on Facebook.
5. Take online action among the Gaza Freedom March.
6. Recruit your friends and groups to do the same.
7. If you’re an experienced tweep, please join the core team to brainstorm more ideas on how to succeed with our online campaign. It’s not going to be easy because we’re in the middle of a holiday season, so we need all the help we can get. Hit me up via twitter on @nmoawad.

And it really is that simple.

So, if there is but one cyber-activity to engage in this winter vacation, let it be this!

Last week, I was at a party and we were talking about “The Lord of the Rings” movies and CGI and plasticine make up… a lively conversation, made merry with the consumption of a fair amount of Christmas cookies and Swedish Glögge (hot spiced wine). In amongst the conversation of elves and ogres and fairy beings and why they all seemed to have rather strange ears, someone told me a fact about growing old, that I really didn’t need to know. She said that other than hair and nails, our ears and noses continue to grow and grow throughout our whole lives.

I didn’t think this could be true, for it would mean that old people must wander around with monster ears. Yet, sadly, the bus rides to work this week produced a whole slew of examples of elderly with exactly this problem. Was I the only person oblivious of this fact? I’m trying to think what I can do with my saucer ears if I grow old, the gods willing, other than use them to prop up my Princess Leia hair piece. Do you have any suggestions?

My Likes:

Fun socks, sushi, pedicures, paper tape, vitamins, willow trees, garlic, my big hair, a routine, blackberry wine, teaching English, snow, Shiba Inus, Narnia, and hot springs.

My Dislikes:

Malls, dishonesty, American chocolate, feeling cold, fruit flies, high heel shoes, lying, chick flicks, disorganization, intense people, sticky hair products, and cilantro.

I got asked out for coffee by a man nine years my senior.

When I asked my best friend her thoughts, she said, “You’re in the upper end of your 20s. Maybe you need a little old in your life.”

I was about to get offended, and then realized she was right, “Yeah, you’re probably right, ’cause I’m sitting here playing Mario Party in footie pajamas.”

Self,

Spicy chili for breakfast, lunch, and supper may be a good idea at the time, but not 3-5 hours later.

Best wishes,

-Self

So we had an anniversary this weekend. Actually, like, three of them.

11 years ago Rob got brave and asked me out on a date.
Good thing, too. Turned out to be the best last first date, ever.

3 years ago Rob got down on one knee and made an honest woman out of me.
He gave me diamonds. Really, really shiny ones.

Then 2 years ago, we dragged 40 of our nearest and dearest to sunny Mexico for a wedding in the sand (truth? they all just wanted a vacation and totally used us, sheesh)
I walked down the aisle to a song Rob wrote for me on the guitar I bought for him as an engagement gift. (I kinda felt like I owed him for the diamonds.)

So, what threads these lovely events together? December 12.
(Or as Rob and I affectionately refer to it, simply, 12.12)

And that’s why we were at the spa yesterday (finally, the point to this post.)

***

Rob had called the spa on Wednesday in a last-ditch (but well efforted) attempt to get us a weekend’s stay at Le Scandanave, a swanky spa near the skiing village of Blue Mountain. Needless to say, they were fully booked and our anniversary plans [that we should have made ages ago] fizzled. Gawd, like, doesn’t everyone make anniversary plans mere hours in advance? Apparently not.

The next day at work I called the spa.
*(actual conversation)

sandyb: “Hi, I’m calling to confirm our reservation?”

la scandinave girl: “OK, what’s your last name…”

*blah blah blah*

sandyb: “What do you mean you don’t have my reservation?! I booked, like three months ago…”

LSG: “We don’t see a reservation here ma’am, I’m sorry.”

(sidenote: You can learn how I feel about being “ma’am’d” here)

sandyb: “Well, I don’t know what to say then. Is there something we can do? I’m very upset about this” [hold breath, 2, 3, 4..]

LSG: “Let me call you right back ma’am.”

*several minutes pass. I actually get around to doing some real work for the day job, grab another cup of coffee and wait for the phone to ring.. because it will.*

sandyb: “Hello? Yes, this is she.”

LSG: “We have a room for you this weekend, so sorry for the confusion.”

sandyb: “Wonderful. You had me panicked.”

perfect.
***

At the spa, after a frantic mad dash to the boonies for a, he-hem, relaxing massage that I totally lied my way into, I realize two things:

1. I left my bikini at home. (We were supposed to bring swimsuits for the outdoor spas, baths, saunas, etc.) I must now pay upwards of $50 for an ugly rendition of a bathing suit last seen on Baywatch. Dammit.

2. I forgot to ask for “female massage therapists, please”- a cardinal rule of mine (and Rob’s) for like, ever. Oddly, both of us feel more comfortable being oiled and rubbed down by chicks. And, no, it’s not a sex thing.

As two dudes round the corner, barefoot and wearing JOGGING PANTS ready to rub us down, I realize the following almost instantly: Although I may be a great liar I am also a big believer in karma, which means a narrowly missed spa appointment, being out fifty bucks for a lopsided bathing suit that I don’t want, like or will ever wear again, and being rubbed down by someone who resembles the Close Talker from Seinfeld is the Universe’s way of giving me the finger.

Point taken, Universe. You win.

This time.

Never forget your inner child. Never forget to dream, to love, to embrace life and to just be happy. Life is simpler that way.

This evening after dinner, David, Emmet and I were all hanging out in the living room playing with some new Hanukkah toys. I commented on what a great weekend it was, so many fun activities and a very happy boy, it just couldn’t be beat. Emmet grabbed for my arm and I noticed how sharp his nails were so I pulled out the baby nail clippers. And that’s when it happened. I nicked his tiny little thumb. I’m not blaming it on him, but the kid was so squirmy, he moved his finger right when I was clipping. I could see his demeanor transform in slow motion as he came to the realization of what I had done. “The momma lady almost cut my finger off! I thought I could trust her…she said she would never hurt me…but I’m bleeding, and I hurt…a lot!”

The blood starts gushing, the crocodile tears start falling and David begins flipping out. I yell at him to give me a tissue and all chaos ensues. We rush Emmet upstairs and pull out the bin with all of the medical supplies, throwing items out-of-the-way while in search for first aid cream and baby bandaids. But alas, there are no baby bandaids! (How was that not on the list of supplies that we bought when I was 5 months pregnant?!) We try to put a grown-up bandaid on the wound and it automatically falls off so we abandon that idea and head for the bath. The bath was actually pleasant, Emmet exchanged crying and hating me with splashing and toy playing for 10 blissful minutes. It was great until David lifted him out of the bath and the blood recommenced the gushing and the boy took up the crying again. Putting on PJs was difficult, to say the least, and even a wet kiss from Wrigley did not turn the boy’s frown upside down. He finally settled when it was time for milk, David had his chance to place a bandaid on the finger, only to see Emmet automatically put the bandaged finger straight into his mouth…uh oh, choking hazard. So I fed Emmet until he was deep into a milk coma and ever so carefully removed the bandaid. The bleeding had finally stopped and I put Emmet down for the night.

I went downstairs to find David cleaning up the kitchen. He gave me a big hug and told me, “this is just the first of many cuts and scrapes this kid is going to have.” Ugh, I hope I’m ready for it!

Note to self, clip nails while child is sleeping.

Slightly longer than 2 hour’s ride from Chiangmai, Ban-Arunothai consists mainly of Kuomintang refugees and refugees from Myanmar. Thus, most of the population are in fact Chinese.

The place is very dry, with them having to buy their water for daily needs.

There is a Christian school there, as well as an orphanage-turned hostel.

Remember what the missionaries there have to go through, and pray for them and their work.