KFC, WTF!?!

KFC  makes me hurl and shart... at the same time. I was even more mortified when I saw an ad for their latest creation, the breadless, bunless chicken sandwiches that uses, you guessed it, pieces of chicken to hold the cheese and whatever other heart attack-inducing item together. The KFC Double Down... more like double cardiac bypass...

I like junk food or fast food as much as the next guy, but come on!  The fact that the Canadian marketplace has yet to put its stamp of approval on this new take on a chicken sandwich speaks volumes. The Man noted this evening that KFC Canada is waiting to see the outcome of the situation in  the States. What's the situation? The fact that dieticians and people with common sense are reeling and screaming for the item's departure from the KFC lineup.

First, there's the fat. That's a given, since KFC will be doubling it's fried meat quota in one sandwich. But apparently the thing that warrants the most concern is the sodium of level in just one sandwich (and I use that term loosely). It's over the daily sodium quota, according to health guidelines. In.one.sandwich,  never mind about the always popular sides: fries, coleslaw and macaroni salad.

I thought they had scraped the bottom of the barrel of possible food items when they brought out the chicken bowl, which combined their ever-famous fried chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, cheese and a whole salt lick (just kidding about the salt lick... or am I...). I realize now that it's just the start.

It will be interesting to see the backlash from Health Canada, dieticians and doctors here in the Great White North, but I suspect that there will be more than a few people willing to take a chance.

Meet Hank

The hairs on my arms are now standing up. I’ve just read a comment from fellow blogger Sharon, The Blogger Queen and she uttered words worse than ‘earwig infestation.' So what did she say? Termites. And then I threw up in my mouth.


My stomach is in knots, my mind is racing and my hands are sweaty. And, did I tell you I think I just had a stroke? Okay, maybe not but I’m seriously whacked, man. I mean mention the possibility of something and I’ve got it. Have a little bite that won’t go away? It’s a tick and now I’ve got Lyme Disease.

It’s not Sharon’s fault. It’s all me and my damned imagination. I suppose she’s right: it’s better to check out and make sure of what it is not than to be surprised and heaving into a large paper bag because I was caught unawares.

I think I need a drink. Or five. You people better get the smelling salts out.

Home obsessions

I've been watching a lot of home renovation shows lately. I have HGTV on permanent rotation on my channel changer, my thumb poised on the button to switch to another reno show whenever those pesky commercials pop up like a bad pimple on my 39-year-old face. (The older I get the more I transition between an adolescent and an oldie - how the hell could I have a massive pimplic eruption and a chin pube at the same time!?!?)

Hardwood floors are my obsession as my laminate is just not holding my attention the way handmade, hardwood planks are peppering my every dream - awake and in slumber. And, especially after seven years of living with a pukey Peptol Bismol pink carpet that cushions my walk upstairs to and throughout the bedrooms. I am not a pink girl, having  only a passing obsession with the hue when I was three and my mother dressed me in polyester dresses.

The issue, as always, is money, and the fact that I constantly bring out the age-old rule that it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind - and I do constantly - whether it's furniture placement or the more expensive  alteration of revamping my builder's issue kitchen cabinets now 30 years old.

I bought the house almost eight years ago, my entrance into adulthood. I bought it a year after my divorce, almost two years after buying and losing my first house bought with my first husband. A new build, by the time the house was ready, we were not. My house now needed a lot of work - new bathroom, new paint in every room and a massive clean-out thanks to the old owners - but it had the bones and it was all mine, an indication of my independence, of my foray into responsibility.

Now the bones are starting to crumble. Lately, I've become obsessed (who me!?!) about a dip that has creeped into the laminate at the entrance to the living room. I guess it has always been there, but after years of traffic and almost two years of the clickity-clack of Kao's nails on the floor (not to mention the boxing sessions, which really should have been taken outside), the uneven floor is even more noticeable, sinking deeper and deeper into my psyche.

The house is a constant work in progress, somewhat like me - new floorboards, new doors a metaphor for the self-discovery, the new self realization. And, like the present laminate, it's not always pretty.

Perhaps that explains my addiction to shows like House Hunters or Property Virgins - it's the outcome after the work, the bones, the flesh, the work already done and move-in ready. It's constant baby steps: hardwood, kitchen cabinets, the dream of tearing up that god awful pink carpet to unveil new skin, harder armour and a much prettier, sleeker and self-aware home.

The Land of Nod

I used to love to hate my brother. He was my captor, my bully, the person's whose life I lived to mess up, whether it was his bedroom or his psyche, I was all over it.

He used to hide under my bed and grab my legs as I would walk by. I used to steal his penmenship books and mark them all up. He should have seen it as a compliment. I wanted to write as well as I thought he did. I was four. He was almost nine.

He used to punch me and throw things at me from across the dinner table and blame me when I retaliated. I used to tell him he was the mailman's child. He used to walk me to my kindergarten class and try to trip me as we walked or throw loogies at me (his). I would fashion a shank and try to stab him (I must have looked good in prison garb). We used to play this game of calling each other by our names spelled backwards. He was Nod, I was Adnil and we were the offspring of Eoj and Teragram.

I don't know when that dynamic changed. Maybe it was when he tried to protect me from the local gym lethario. Maybe it was when he stole my teen romance novels and I realized just how much of a romantic he was. Or maybe it was when we teamed up to convince my parents we were old enough to appreciate Disney World or the benefits of owning and taking care of a dog of our very own. We were a good team. He was my Nod.

We still are. I called him today, to say hi but to also hear a reassuring word. He didn't disappoint. I was worried, as I usually am since I worry if the sky is going to fall, if something, anything will go wrong. Usually it's something beyond my control but I worry still. This time it was about my car and the money that I recently had to put out to bring the car up to road-worthy. I had bad brakes, bad to the point where I was worried (yes, worried again) that I wouldn't be able to stop. One week the brakes were fine, the next they were not. A visit to my mechanic and $500 later and I was on my way, but I was left with almost nothing in the bank account and that had me a bit scared for the next week until my pay cheque came in.

Crap happens, Scribe, he said. You needed the brakes, you got them fixed. Do you have food in the fridge? Are all of your bills up-to-date? Yes? Then you've done everything you can. Crap happens and it's only money. You'll make more of it, but at least you have the car to get you to the job so you can make more money.

He didn't call me Scribe. He called me Linda, since he never calls me Scribe. He doesn't even know I have a blog. He did, however, lift my spirits. He reminded me of the time he had to buy two new cars in a two-month span, one to replace the broken down minivan he had been driving and a second one to replace the car in which he got into an accident. Crap happens. And as long as the good outweighs the crap, you're still in the positive, in the black.

Crap happens and I'm glad that I have my brother on my side to remind me of the positives, of the credits that I still have and to laugh in the face of my worries, no matter how minor, how small in the grand scheme of things. I have my family and that's a great positive in my book.

Spreading sunshine and cheer

I want to hang myself up by the eyelids as this is the fourth attempt to write and post this blog entry, and though I'm not entirely sure what happens, my finger hovers over the publish button only to hit the "Save Now" button. Save me from myself, I say.

It's even supposed to be a nice entry, a happy one, with much sunshiney goodness. While the weather here has cleared and cleaned up over the last few days, we did have a lot of rain. But, thanks to a nice, shiny and humbling award, the Sunshine Award, my days lightened and my mood brightened, and I got a new reader in the process!

Summer of The Circus has Come to Town was one of my very first visitors and one of the first blogs I visited. I got her humour and apparently she got mine. It's been a great blogship ever since. I constantly look forward to her latest post and apparently from the recent award she bestowed on me, she looks forward to mine too - especially when there's witches and spells involved!

The Sunshine Award
I have to say that I love, love, love this award, especially since I get to pass it onto other bloggers whose blogs have touched me... but only in the good places -- like my heart, you heathens!

While I can pick only five, I must say that if you're on my reading list or I'm a follower of your blog, it's for a reason. Whether it's your humour or your insight, there's definitely something there that I enjoy, respect and savour. Now onto those that make sunshine come out of my ass for real:

Lulu at Earwig Sandwich: She had me at the blog name and cinched the deal when she confessed she also leaves her Christmas decorations up until they no longer shine. It was then I knew we were kindred spirits since the wreath is still on my door and I have mini-Christmas trees on my china cabinet. Thank goodness I decided against putting up the Christmas tree this year.

Ange at Signed by Ange: I don't know where I discovered her, but it was probably through Lulu (who had me questioning her culinary experience since she put earwigs into sandwiches). Ange is inspired and inspiring. She constantly feeds me brilliant quotes and even more shiny insight into how those quotes relate to me. Plus, she's called me possum, and it's weird, but I kinda liked it. Plus, her art and ability to see art in the everyday leaves me wanting to continue to pick up the paints.

Dual Mom at We're at Dad's That Week: I'm not a mommy blogger by any stretch of the imagination, but after I was introduced to her through Bacon is My Lover (another brilliant blog, by the way), I was a fan. She's more than a mommy blogger and I'm not apt to call her that. She's more than a mom. She's more than a blogger. She's a self-described heartless bitch and I love it (and her blog).

Claire MontgomeryMD at car dancing: Since I am an avid chair dancer, couch dancer and stool dancer (I'd say table dancer but that has a whole new connotation), her car dancing blog intrigued me. If you can't dance in a car, where can you dance? But, it was the qualifier that had me: Things I Might Tell You on a Naked Road Trip. You must check her out. And try the car dancing thing. People may give you strange looks but at least you'll be dancing. Claire is looking forward to her daughter's 18th birthday next week but not the trip to the sex store or the McDonald's fries her daughters friends have suggested as an appropriate celebration.

Jay at Genius Pending: Another find at Studio 30 Plus (have I mentioned I love that site?), I love how this guy thinks (and writes). These days, he's spread himself a little too thin working on projects and on jobs that he loves. But while his blog has suffered a bit, he promises to reconnect and not stalk our blogs from his cell phone while taking a bathroom break. Thanks for that, Jay.

So that's it. Now these worthy blogs must spread the sunshine on, telling us about five blogs that turn them on - and turn us onto them in the process. They also should link back to me as the award giver. Thanks is not necessary. Reading your blogs is thanks enough.

It bears repeating: if you don't find your name among these five illustrious blogs it's not because I don't love you just the same. The fact remains that I visit your blogs. I don't spend time with just about anyone.

Spread the love.

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble...

I am a full, card-bearing member of a coven.

The Coven is my newspaper at my alma mater, and I started my journalistic career there. I dug and delved into complex issues, participated in scrums, created leads, headlines and cutlines and put it all together in a pretty package day after day, week after week, for two years. I can honestly say that the experience ranks up there with my best moments.

About two months ago, I entered a coven of a different sort. Members: two. I know you're supposed to have 13 but we are just at the beginning, my friend and I. Every coven has to start somewhere. So, start we did.

I had gone over to catch up. I had also expressed my interest in exploring new religions. In a previous post, I had written "Compassion is my new religion." It's still the case, but with this compassion comes a curiosity of other religions - Pagasim, Hinduism, Buddhism and even Wicca, which sort of flows along the same lines as Wicca, worshipping the earth and the sky and all the elements in between.

My first Wiccan circle experience was a little disconcerting. It involved salt, knives, candles and a call to Mother Earth to show me a sign. I had been debating a life path at the time, wondering outloud what my next step should be in a certain situation. So, after calling on the North, South, East, West, Fire, Water, Mother Earth, Father Sky, I raised the question and asked for a sign. A flickering of lights, a loud noise - it could have been anything. What happened next was anything short of eerie.

I'm not going to tell you what the question was. To do so would give away trade secrets and perhaps hurt feelings in the process. I will tell you that I got my sign - loud and ever-feckin' clear. Steps away from where I first uttered the question, hopefulness full on my face, fear quivering in my eyes, there was a loud, fluttering noise and then a small, well-contained crash. A flickering of lights would have been enough, but apparently Mother Earth decided I needed a firmer answer: my friend's painting of Mother Earth had fallen off of a wall, a place of honour it's held for months. And there it was lying on the floor, moments after I had opened the discussion - "Should I... Will I... What should I do..."

To say I was freaked out was an understatement, but I was also intrigued - intrigued enough to buy an "Intro to Wicca" book. It's not to say that I will enter the coven forever, but it's certainly another realm to examine, along with meditation, compassion and anything else that brings enlightenment and balance to my life.

Happy Spring, bloggers. The season is a-changing and so am I.

Single for a week

My partnership has turned into an entrepreneurship, at least for a week.

This past Saturday, I bid farewell to the Man as he embarked on a week-long holiday. It's more of a working holiday, given that he's traveled six hours into the province next to us. He's helping his sister and brother-in-law move houses to new digs on the grounds of Bishop University in Lennoxville, Que.

So, I'm single until Saturday. Don't tell him but I actually looked forward to having the house to myself for a whole week. I had a list of all the things I would do: take puppy to the park (weather and grounds permitting), have breakfast for dinner - in my underwear (I must remember to close the blinds in the kitchen!), set up coffee dates with old friends without calling in to let the Man know and have a whole queen-sized bed to myself.

To-date, I have yet to set up the coffee date; cancelled the pancakes for a healthier choice of broccoli and chicken stirfry; and with a puppy play date set up for this weekend, eating in my underwear was not a good choice. But again, it's only Monday.

I do like spending time with the Man and appreciate all he does around the house, especially taking out the trash since it's my least favourite thing to do.  The other is killing people. Visit here for a look at an exceptionally funny Llamas with Hats video. Killing people is Carl's least favourite thing to do as well. Frying up hands and eating them on the other hand... But I digress...

I felt a little guilty for looking forward to his departure, but only for a minute. Minutes after saying a long goodbye, I was giddy. Giggling. Grateful.

I love my alone time and with a live-in boyfriend and a very curious dog (who follows me EVERYWHERE, alone time is very rare. So, tomorrow, I am off to the gym and then out for coffee with a friend, but not before taking puppy on a much-needed walk (The days of rain in the forecast has put a damper on the dog park plans).

It will also be nice to find the toilet seat in the down position and fewer dishes to be done. Oh, and more room in the queen-sized bed (only if I don't let Kao share - he's a bed hog).