on the 7:45am ferry sailing

to the persons smoking pot on the upper decks:
the concessions stores are now open and have a variety of snacks and cookies available.
and please take your smoking to the stern of the deck.

I love living on the west coast.

not that I wish to pigeonhole anybody with blatant, stereotypical statements

Mr.Q does brilliantly, really, he does. He cooks, he sometimes cleans and he occasionally helps fold laundry [though he does seem to have his own special way of folding things....] and he always ends up booking Valentines Day-ish dinner.

But he is, at heart and mind, a guy. He forgets things. He doesn't realise things. He ignores things. He forgets things.

Having dressed his daughter for daycare in the morning in an orange shirt, he picked her up in the afternoon and brought her home in a pink shirt. And not just any pink shirt. A bright pink shirt that we do not own. In his defense, and as he pointed out, we do have a green shirt from the same store. But it was not the Magpie's shirt and certainly not the one she left the house with earlier that same day.

So, it was washed and returned to the daycare to be passed on to its rightful owner. Apparently there had been a grand hand-washing incident in which many children decided to try out the surgeon scrub variation of cleanliness: water and soap up to the armpits. Five outfits were changed and it only seems reasonable to have a few shirt swaps.

Oh well. It gave me the final excuse to run a load of laundry. That Mr.Q sort of helped fold.

it can take me a while, sometimes

In the midst of our morning small talk...

Mr.Q: I went to the bank machine yesterday and took out some money.

Me: Oh, good. I'm meeting [names written over to protect the innocent] for lunch today - gimme some of that.

Mr.Q, who is still on unpaid parental leave: What, am I your sugar daddy or something?

Me: That would work a whole lot better if you were actually making any money. Hey....


So, anyone know any good Sugar Daddies?

I'm pretty sure that this doesn't qualify as metrosexual

Mr. Q is not thrilled with my tattoo. It's not the tattoo itself that bothers him - he's just not thrilled with the idea of tattoos in general, but he's at peace with [or perhaps in denial over] the one that I have and the fact that I want more. I've been prepping him for the idea that I want additions to my back: bringing it up regularly, watching LA Ink and Miami Ink, discussing it with my sister on speaker phone and pointing out the place I want to go every time we drive by it.

And, on occasion, harassing him about getting one of his own. Perhaps a dragon on his arm. Or his own version of a magpie. He suggested a big O on his chest [we never got around to psychoanalyzing that one...] and then quickly backpedaled. He had changed his mind.

He wants a crop circle in his chest hair.

I think I'll phone around and see if I can find any laser hair removal places willing to do it.

mid-week photo op

My electric piano. It's electronic and has only 77 keys and is called an electric piano, I believe, because it only has a half a dozen different sounds and does no fancy schmancy stuff that a "keyboard" will do. Oh, the keys are sort of weighted, too, to give a marginally more realistic feel, but whatever. It's over 10 years old, now, and both my sister and I got one after my parents sold the piano. I am in awe that it has lasted this long, but would really like to get a better electric piano one day. I have no delusions of owning a real piano and kind of like the headphone option of an electric. I suspect my neighbours like the headphone option too.

Added bonus: the Magpie thinks it's hilarious to whack the keys and loooooves the first half of the demo track that it plays.

**********
Not related, but too good to pass up: Mr.Q used to work in the mining industry. He still gets emails for courses and industry news. Yesterday he received an email offering him a training opportunity: Cyanide short course.

No kidding...

of nether regions and noxious emmisions

I am sitting here covered in cat piss while Mr.Q is taking a bath.

While the Magpie seems to have nearly recovered from her bout with the tonsil demons, the cat has developed a raging bladder infection [we hope that's all it is] and requires antibiotics. One must hold a cat to administer antibiotics and, when holding a cat with a raging bladder infection, one is likely to come away from it a little damp. The poor thing has been confined to the laundry room along with her litter, food and water until tomorrow at least. She is not happy.

Mr.Q is sitting in the bath at the suggestion of his doctor: his specialist, the urologist. Due to a case of prostatitis that has been hovering on the fringes for the last year or so. It comes, it goes. It comes back. It goes. Recently, it came back to enough to warrant a referral to said specialist. This is the conversation that I believe took place:

*****

Doc: So, I hear you have a problem down there.

Mr.Q: Why, yes, I do. We have a one year old at home and my wife has just returned to work. Needless to say, I don't get laid enough. Is there anything we can do about that?

Doc: Hm. Does your wife have any medical background? Access to the internet and a tendency to look things up online?

Mr.Q: Sadly, yes to both.

Doc: Well, then. We'll have to pull out the big guns. You've heard about the Prostate? Well, it's kind of in that general area and we think it might even be linked up to the good ol' One Eyed Monster (we don't really know or care, but it sounds good). Anyway, we could say you have an inflamed prostate - prostatitis - and, because it's theoretically connected to Big Willy, we could say that regular sexual activity helps alleviate your discomfort! We even have some authentic looking people on board, here, so should your snoopy missus look around on Google, it'll back this up. snicker.

Mr.Q: Wow, that sounds too good to be true! But, aren't there any other symptoms I should have? Shouldn't my wife be able to tell, somehow, that I have this "prostatitis"?

Doc: madly cackling No!! That's the beauty of it! Only a doctor can tell, by performing a digital exam - nudge, nudge, wink, wink! It's my word against nobody's! Plus, tales of a digital exam will get you plenty of sympathy, eh?!

Mr.Q: starting to see the merit Well, is there anything else I can do to make this seem all the more feasible? Should I be taking any vitamins or medications? My wife will be really skeptical...

Doc: Oh, my dear boy, we have you covered. Let's see...something herbal ... you can always find someone willing to say it'll do you good ... how about Saw Palmetto and zinc? That sound okay? And, hey, how about nice, long baths? No heavy lifting? An extra glass of wine each day? Or are you more of a whiskey man? If it would help, we could make vague threats of antibiotics down the road if your "prostatitis" doesn't go away.

Mr.Q: heheh... let's do the herbals and the baths. I think that'll more than cover it. Thanks doc! I may have to come back and see you if my "prostatitis" doesn't go away very readily - you know - just to keep things on the up and up.

Doc: Well, that's what they pay me the big bucks for!

*****

Now Mr.Q swears that the doc did use that opening line, but went on to snap the latex gloves and truly did suggest Saw Palmetto, zinc and "regular sexual activity". The bath info was listed somewhere online and, apparently, his [female] naturopath does back up the claims for the herb and metal.

But, tonight? I've been pissed on by a pissy cat. Mr.Q can forget about seeing any action, skip the hot bath and just head straight for a cold shower.

another episode of things I've surmised

Yes, I'm surmising a lot these days....

Mr.Q, while a truly wonderful father and very involved participant in housely chores, really has no idea what he is in for when he begins his paternity leave/leave of absence next week.

We had to do a mini overhaul of the kitchen this evening and Mr.Q washed a fair number of dishes while I was having my shower. Upon coming downstairs, I received no reply to my attempt to assist and so gathered that he was nearing completion and sat down to edit today's photos and begin posting.

That didn't go over well.

It would seem that since it was my idea to clean [it might have been...], it was suggested that perhaps I help clean something. And therefore not post for you, my wonderful readers. Jeez.

So I did. I tidied up the living room and, by the time I came to transfer a few dishes to the kitchen, Mr.Q was in the process of vanishing outside with the garbage and recycling. He was done the dishes. Which meant that there were a crapload of dried dishes on the counter, on the island and on the stove. Every single dish that he had washed had been dried and placed on some kitchen surface. He says that it's to help them dry, but I'm onto him.

It makes it look like he washed more dishes: look! see all the dishes I have washed and dried [even though they could have rested in the drain rack]!! why, there were soooo very many that they cover the entire kitchen! truly, an amazing feat! are I not a wonderful, dishwashing husband who has done your bidding, yet again?!

But I hyperbolise. A little.

He did wash a fair number of dishes. And take the garbage out. And helped out a lot with the Magpie today while I played guinea pig to a massage therapist that we're thinking of switching to. I did put the dishes away and, when he saw that, he reiterated his drying theory. I told him I was going to blog it.

And now he's playing his new Wii.

my new favourite word

Forget catastrofuck. [Okay, no, don't - because I still love it too]

Mr.Q has found a new word. In his search for a Toastmaster's word of the day, he found a new description for those afflicted like himself and are intolerant to lactose: lactard. It is, apparently, used to refer to those who are lactose intolerant and I'm incredibly ready and willing to fire it off at him on a moment's notice - particularly while eating yogurt or having a bowl of cereal.

However, I would like to suggest an alternate meaning from that of one who has lost the ability to digest milk: one who has lost the ability to produce milk.

Because, whether it is the cold/allergies that I have been fighting for the last four weeks or the slightly smaller nursing bra that I've been wearing while putting off laundry or the slightly lower fat diet that I've opted for in recent weeks, I've been running a little low.

Now, granted, the Magpie is eating a lot more solid food, but I'm [yes, I'm] not really ready to move on from breastfeeding and I've decided that neither is she. At not even 10 months old, that just seems too soon and, what with our food allergy freak outs, I'm terrified of introducing formula. Did I mention that she won't take a bottle? So last night saw pancakes for supper [don't ask me why, but it works] and the purchase of ginormous cheese scones in addition to an increased water intake that I might somehow turn into a camel with diabetes and a cholesterol problem.

It helped a little.

So now I wear the old, looser bra and hope for the best. Because, no matter how you define it, I'm not into becoming a lactard in the foreseeable future.

I still need sleep

There was just a commercial on for Kraft Singles. The announces was speaking rather quickly to my sleep addled ear and I swear I heard him say "testicles" instead of Kraft Singles....

I'll be going to bed soon...

if you got it

Mr.Q's work is holding a contest: submit a video that describes your interpretation of one of The Employers key concepts / slogans. Entries are coming in from all over the world [some oh-so much scarier than others - you'd think that a technology company would have employees capable of putting together a better 60 second video than some of the entries, but apparently not], though I really would have expected to see many more entries.

Mr.Q's entry stars the Magpie and uses some still shots and clips of videos that he has taken and he's written a nice little voice over script to go with it. So, why is he doing all this?

For the chance to win a PlayStation 3.

Yes, my husband is pimping my daughter's early childhood memories [on his work place's internal network, at least] for the chance to win a PlayStation 3. He hasn't even gotten his hands on the much lusted after Nintendo Wii yet, and has now expanded his focus to acquiring yet another gaming console.

For, you know, all his spare time. In which he makes video compilations.

the altitude must've gotten to him

Mr.Q returned from a short business trip to New York last night [doesn't seem quite right to mention to my untold masses that he's away, while he's away...not that you're all creepy, or anything]. He came home bearing gifts: a new bib and jumper for the Magpie and lots o' chocolate for me! Toblerone and an assortment of dark chocolate bars from the dear old duty free. Yes, there was quite a bit but, hey, it's good for you.

But, because there was quite a bit, he felt compelled to ask if I would want it all, or should he take some into work?

That's right: he wanted to know if I didn't want chocolate. While I may not be PMSing at this exact moment, and am [thankfully] months beyond the baby blues, how stupid do you think I am - no, how crazy is he - to think that I'm going to voluntarily say 'Yeah, I don't need all this good quality, premium dark chocolate or nougaty Swiss triangles. Sure! Feed your co-workers instead of your wife who carried your gigantobaby for 9 months and looked after her and the dog and the cat all by herself for the last four days. That's one hell of an idea!'.

...

Oh. Maybe I am PMSing. No, wait, it's a full moon. Oh, that's okay then.

Needless to say, I kept all the chocolate. I even have some of it left.

neck braces are SO sexy

Sadly, I've not been given one, though I half suspected that my chiropractor would foist one off on me today.

Remember that whole karma query? How would I get mine for enjoying my night on the town on Monday? Well, here you have it.

At 3:30 this morning, after a blissful half night of sleep - no interruptions from the Magpie or the dog - I thought it might be nice to stretch a little and roll onto my side. Had I made it, it indeed might have been nice. Instead, I was blindsided with a convulsing jolt up the left side of my neck that left me immobilized on one side and attempting to poke Mr.Q in the head repeatedly with my other hand to wake him up and help me.

It took over 2 minutes for the sleeping bastard beauty to awaken. Mr.Q requires painfully detailed instructions at 3:30 in the morning in order to be of any help. Painfully. Detailed. Eventually, my shoulder and ear became slightly separated and I was able to sit and massage my own neck a little. I've had no sleep since.

I did get a few more attempts at massages from Mr.Q [including a knee to the head while I was flat out on the floor and he was sitting down beside me]. But, thank god, he already had today off and is doing an amazing job looking after the Magpie. Because I can't lift her, lie on the floor with her or carry her around and dance. Basically, I can sit still while Mr.Q puts her on the pillow in my lap when she's hungry and that's about it. Yay, me.

Not only did I get bit in the ass by karma in terms of discomfort, but I had to cancel my hair appointment. My gloriously anticipated semi-annual hair appointment. My guy even phoned me back: how are you doing? did you want to maybe just come in for the cut - much less time than a cut and colour? Hell, I just opened up a 3 hour window in his schedule and a $200 hole in his wallet. I think I have to give him a extra tip and and present when I go in the new year.

I think I'll have to take something in for my chiropractor, too. Because, while I'm not well enough to drive to the clinic on my own to drop off a thank you, I am now well enough to sit at the computer for a few minutes and post about it.

who, me?

I've just been accused of being pissy.

Not that the accuser was mad at me, or anything [because he still wants his half of the bed tonight], but was just letting me know.

He even has theories: Christmas, my parents' visit this weekend, his parents' visit over Christmas itself, my interrupted nap yesterday afternoon. They're all valid but, as far as I was concerned, I wasn't pissy until it was suggested. Apparently, though, my suspected mental state may date back to Saturday's brief sojourn in the mall.

I suspect that any [perceived] attitude issues may be due to carrying tension in my back and could be alleviated [if they truly do exist] by a comprehensive, no-strings back rub. Because, you know, perhaps I am pissy. And that would certainly help.

you scratch my back...

[drafted, as occurred, on Monday...]

While the discussion may have begun with an acknowledgment of the fact that I ignored Mr.Q's not so subtle tactics last night [hey, I still am fighting off a cold here and am damn tired], it lead into the acknowledging Mr.Q's not so subtle tactics regarding tonight's possible events, how I'm still sick and tired and how I have to vacuum ... unless, perhaps, maybe he wanted to vacuum, because that would make me oh-so happy ... [nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more!].

To which Mr.Q responded: nah, it's not worth it.

I kid you not. That, of course, was met with frosty silence.

To which Mr.Q responded: oh, no, I mean you're worth it, but it's just that vacuuming's really hard work and all...

That, too, of course, was met with frosty silence. And a raised eyebrow. And a contemplated feint of the knee toward the vicinity of the crotch. And much rolling of eyeballs and discussion about how it's amazing that we ever even had a baby and the merits of turning down the temperature in one's shower.

I vacuumed.

Mr.Q, however, made dinner, baked cookies and washed the dishes. All of his own free will. Now, though, he's watching football.

But, at least there are chocolate cookies.

changing of diapers, habits

Mr.Q is a very involved and hands on kind of dad and, as such, does his fair share of cuddling, playing, bjorning and, of course, diaper duty - most often of his own free will. Or so he would like me to believe.

While he doesn't complain, and even changes diapers without prompting, there are two little things that bring into question his oh-so sincere willingness to deal with his daughter's Pampers:

1. his frequent forgetfulness when it comes to closing the lid on the wipes container
   
2. his knack for putting the full diaper on top of the Diaper Genie, yet forgetting, afterward, to place it inside.

Should these things occur on the odd occasion, who could complain?? These are, however, nearly daily events. And, when faced with an exploding diaper, a wriggly baby, a dried out wipe and a precariously folded diaper from the morning perched atop the container that I now need access to...well, it does make me start to wonder if my generally no-bullshit husband has taken to dabbling in the passive-aggressive.

He denies it, and evokes the Rule of Men Not Multi-tasking [But, I paraphrase. I believe a more direct quote would be: "there's just too much going on!"]. So, what's a girl to do? Apparently, threaten to blog about it. Since initiating this post several days ago, things have changed. Extra loud clicks are heard as the wipes container is closed. The diaper genie is given a prominent extra twist. Indeed, the change station is meticulous.

Now, though, I'm torn. I could continue running around exclaiming "I'm SO blogging this!" and aim for the cleanest house ever. But then, wherein lies my blog fodder?