19 February, 2013

ain't it lovely?

we're in new orleans. today we sat around at dinner, mister monkey, p and i, chatting about what p & t's 1890 shotgun house still required in terms of work. p mentioned wanting to add tin ceilings in the kitchen and dining room.

moi: i think some nice detailing would be lovely, like...you know...what do you call'ems? like baseboards, but near the ceiling! (turning to mister monkey) dude, what are they called? ceiling baseboards*?

mr. monkey (obviously not listening to me, again): what? who's lovely? i'm lovely!!!




*crown mouldings. duh! stupid 40-year-old vacation brain!




13 February, 2013

hair! i cut it! it's short!

so i got my haircut. thus begins the saddest story ever told (if you don't count the famine, war, violence and general meanness that characterises much of human history).

i've been going for a couple of years now to a nice czech lady who cuts hair out of a rose-coloured strip-mall salon of the kind catering to old ladies with tight perms. her two advantages, however, outweighed the general unsexiness of her place of business: 1. she's cheap, and 2. she's damn good. however, this time i was in the mood for something other than an expertly executed bob. i was starting to feel the need for some coiffure-mediated sex-appeal. this, thought i, is no job for mirka; no, this required someone with flair and flamboyance and fantasticity. i started trolling edmonton salons and rediscovered my man. the man whom i followed through 7 or so salons many years ago. the man whose haircuts were always inspired and made me happy and glowy and shit. in other words: THE MAN. he was back! woooo!

i booked with him and proceeded to gather photos of what it was that i wanted to happen on my head. (picture tousled, sexy, rock'n'rollishness and then a bit more sexy on the side)

then i got a call. apparently my man was going out of town and needed to reschedule. rescheduling is not something i am capable of doing at the moment so i chose to move the appointment to someone the receptionist warmly recommended.

y'all know where that is going, dontcha?

i showed up at the salon, all eager and trembling with barely suppressed excitement. to make sure things went my way, i had dressed as rock'n roll as possible to let him know i meant business. as i sat down, out of the corner of my eye i saw a viking sweeping up hair. never one to turn away free eye candy i looked and liked. two metres tall, long blond hair, swathes of pectoral and many other kinds of muscles peeking through the plunging neckline of his t-shirt.

turns out this norse god was my stylist. turns out he looks a scary lot like my cousin's behated ex. turns out he's uncertain. turns out he's of, shall we say, slightly-less-than-average intelligence?

this was the moment i realised that what i want in my stylist is swagger. i want him to be cocky! i desire from him a firm grasp of the realities of my hair vis-a-vis my face! i require that he tell me he will make me into a man-melting sex goddess and that he make it so! i demand certainty and a strong hand!

what i don't want is subservient deference. i ain't no hair professional! i don't know what'll work! all i know is that i most certainly do NOT want the hair equivalent of a minivan with stick-figure demographics on the back window, and yet that is precisely what i got.

oh sure, my classmates rose to the occasion and told me all sorts of glorious lies in a valiant attempt to make me hate myself a little less, and sure, it's hair, and it grows, but hotdamnitalltohell! i wanted to be a sex-goddess, not a soccer mom, and to add insult to injury, i feel a trifle guilty for not letting mirka have a go at my head. i suspect she'd have done a bang up job.

sorry norse god. and thanks A LOT for souring me on eric northman a little tiny bit!


07 February, 2013

back to the yurt we go

i'm going home this weekend, and was planning on inviting our lovely friends over for brunch on sunday. alas, mister monkey's table saga continues.

having just realised you have no idea what i'm talking about, seeing as i've never mentioned the table before, i must take a moment to inform you of the fact that my husband is building me a coffee table. so far, this has meant measuring, cutting, sanding, polishing, buffing, followed by a dozen applications of marine craft quality epoxy, each layer of which required 12h of drying time and more sanding. i thought i would have the table for christmas... it is now february. there still remain seventeen coats of UV protecting varnish to administer, each requiring light sanding in between.

we do not have a garage. or a shop. we have a balcony, but because the table is of a weight roughly equivalent to a herd of overweight water buffalo, mister monkey has had to do the sanding in the dining room.

because he is a thoughtful sort, he has built a tent out of poly and tarps, with an air-flow hook-up to the balcony door.

when i mentioned that s & l would be coming over and to please pick up the following food items, he agreed. the second time i reminded him to pick up the items needed he said, yes, yes, he was on it.
the third time, ditto.

a couple of days ago he casually asked me where we were going for brunch with s & l. i gently reminded him of the seven conversations we had had on this very topic in the preceding week, wherein he had agreed to purchase the comestibles required for the brunch. the brunch i was planning on cooking for our friends. the brunch we would eat at our place.

mister monkey started fuming immediately about how could i possibly have invited anyone over for brunch! we have work going on! the house is not fit for company!

i gently reminded him again of the conversations we had had, suspecting at this point that he might, possibly, not have been listening. at all.

this went on, back and forth until i exploded, accused him of not listening to me, hung up and texted him that i was married to a mental patient and i was tired of the woodworking shop in my place of residence.

as punishment* i asked him to tell s & l of the change of plans. he emailed them that night:

"I hope that you received my phone message. We are going to have to brunch out in the town on Sunday because our home is unfit to receive guests ... i have built a yurt in our living-room. Please get back to us to discuss venue options."

today i was telling my fabulous roommate about this situation.

fabulous roommate: what is the yurt made of?

moi: just poly and tarps.

fr: i thought that perhaps it was made of your traditional yurt materials.

moi: yak skins? no, mister monkey did not send away for a "build your own yurt" kit from mongolia, though if he had,  that might explain the rate at which this whole thing is proceeding.



ya know? i could have just gone out and bought myself a very heavy, very expensive coffee table and be done with it!




(who knew that in the course of several months yurts would pop up so prodigiously in this here blog.)


* as punishment because he is an anti-social type, allows me to do all of our social arrangements and likes it just fine this way

06 February, 2013

somebody throw a cocktail party, stat!

the fabulous roommate and i were taking our mental break, watching strip the city, a ridiculously entertaining discovery program (i choose not to feel guilty because it deals with a city's infrastructure, so it's almost like doing homework). today it was rome, a city built upon ruins which were built upon ruins and so on...

moi: wow! this whole city is a palimpsest!

roommate: a pali-what?

moi: [explanation given] and now you can whip that out at a cocktail party and impress people!

roommate: i need to start going to cocktail parties.


... time passed...


roommate: ah! i know that! that's quarter wave damping!

moi: a quarta-wha?

roommate: [explanation given*] and now you can whip that out at a cocktail party!

moi: apparently i also need to start going to cocktail parties.


* i did my darndest to find you a wiki link but alas, could not. i spent whole seconds perusing the interwebs, but let's just dumb it down - it's a shock wave reduction by a quarter. if someone out there can explain it better, have at'er!

01 February, 2013

when in rome...

we were sitting around before our housing equity class, talking about berlusconi, as one does, when c, our resident political whiz, mentioned that the man in question was planning to run for p.m. again.

moi: no! really? then again, knowing the italians, he'll likely get voted right back in.

c: sure! if everyone he's ever slept with votes for him, he'll win for sure!

moi: um...i'm not sure teenage prostitutes can vote. or convicts. or...nuns! hey! can nuns vote?

s: of course they can! just because you love jesus doesn't mean you're not a real person!