Divine Mookies

Last night the Sidekick was feeling peckish, so I adapted a recipe to make him something divine. Peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal mookies. We are calling them mookies because I don't actually have a baking sheet and I baked the cookies in a muffin tin. Turned out perfect.

Here is the recipe!

Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter Oatmeal Mookies

Makes 18

Preheat oven 425
Ingredients

1/3 Cup - Smooth Peanut Butter
1 Cup - Sugar (white)

1/3 Cup - Coconut Milk (Or other non milky milk, like almond)
2 Tbsp - Canola Oil

1 Tsp - Vanilla Extract

1/8 Tsp - Almond Extract  

1 1/4 Cup - Flour 

3 Tbsp - Golden Flax (ground up)
1 Tsp - Baking Soda
1 Tsp - Salt
1/4 Cup - Chocolate chips 

1 Cup - Oats

1. Mix peanut butter, sugar, coconut milk, oil and extracts together until well combined.

2. Add baking soda, flax, salt, and flour and mix well. 

3. Fold in oats and chocolate chips. If there is too much liquid add a bit more flax.  

4. Lightly grease muffin tins and put a tablespoon of batter in each one, press down a bit. Do not fill past a 1/4 of the tin. 

5. Bake for 8-10 minutes, until the tops have a itsy bitsy bit of browning. 

Take out and transfer to a cooling rack. 

Simply delicious. 

Put It In The Basket

This isn't about Silence of the Lambs and creepy Buffalo Bill. It's about the beach, of course. When do I write about anything else. It's literally (I hope you read that word as Rob Lowe says it in Parks and Recreation) my most favourite place to go. Other than the forest.

Tonight the Sidekick and I went to the beach. We took the milk crate from the back of the truck with us, so we had something to carry our treasures in, like rocks and sticks. We carried the basket tandem style, swinging between us. The Sidekick only agreed to do so because of the cuteness factor. If you didn't know, he thinks we are a pretty awesome couple. I know this because he told me this very evening.

Anyhow, there we were, walking along the beach, searching for awesome things to put in our basket, when the Sidekick startles. I too was looking down, so I saw the critter that scared him, and it was clear he thought it was alive. Well, dead, actually. But once alive. And it was clearly a stuffed animal.

But then he gasps and with this curious smile says, "That's fucking adorable. Put it in the basket."

And into the basket the stuffed critter went.

If that isn't enough to put a smile on your face, I then said, "All we've found is an otter, and it isn't even real." 

To which he replied, "That isn't an otter. It's clearly a beaver!" 

But it doesn't have a beaver tail and it's holding a starfish! He relented because my argument was so sound. In conclusion, I think the Sidekick's wacky tobacky was even wackier than normal.  

I Turn Myself Off

Straight off the bat, I feel the need to address the misleading factor of the title to this post. While it completely makes sense, and certainly pertains to what I am about to say, the sexual undertones, or anti-sexual undertones, are many. I just wanted you know that I know it is deceptive. And also, I don't care.

Work exhausts me. Not my body. My body can keep going after work, but my brain is completely wiped out. I don't have a very cerebral job, either. So, why am I so tired? 

It's because I am 'on' at work. I am constantly talking, listening, understanding and trying to problem solve. I am aware of my surroundings and the people within it. These greetings and conversations, some small and uneventful, others deeper and more important, are draining for me. Don't be mistaken. I enjoy them. Well, for the most part I do, the particularly querulous bride I dealt with this morning certainly wasn't the highlight of my day. Still, I do love interacting with others. I genuinely am interested in the things they have to say, what is going on in their lives, and I appreciate the small glimpses I get into these people's existences.

But while I do like conversing and teasing and engaging with others, I am not equipped to do it all day, then go out and do it in the evening. Communicating with people doesn't energize me. 

In fact, it does the opposite. It drains me. 

At the beginning of the day, my battery is full and I am ready to tackle the next eight hours. But, as time passes, as I encounter more people, with each smile, greeting, telephone call, I become weaker. My energy gets used up. Until five o'clock comes around and I am mental-weary, dog-tired, and plum exhausted. At this point, I cannot fathom speaking to another living soul (except animals and the Sidekick). The idea alone of going out for dinner with colleagues or meeting up with friends for drinks is enough to send me to the brink of insanity. After a day of work, I am done. So, I toddle off home, where I can recharge myself for another day. 

People often confuse this need to be alone, this desire for solitude and appreciation of quite as antisocial behaviour, or not being friendly. This isn't the case at all. There just needs to be a certain amount of mental preparation for me in order to socialize on my own time. It does happen. I DO go out, from time to time, but it isn't a daily, or even weekly occurrence. Why? A lot of it comes down to being aware of what I need in order to stay happy and healthy. Because I have to engage at work every single day, I know I must keep my evenings and most of my weekends to myself (and the Sidekick, who thankfully understands how I work-sorta, kinda, maybe). 

On my own time, I turn myself off. 

This is where it might get baffling for some people. I don't need to be at home to turn myself off. I can be many different places  like the theatre, beach, or out in the forest. Anywhere I can be where I don't have to engage with others. Sometimes people walk by my yard when I am gardening and stop to chat. I have to turn myself on for these wandering souls, but it's okay, because I know they are going to go away eventually. For those five minutes I talk to them, I enjoy their company, but I relish the sight of them walking away. 

For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me because of these behaviours. There isn't, though. I'm just introverted. It's hard for people to understand. How can someone who vlogs and blogs be an introvert? How can someone who is a receptionist be introverted? How can I go out and enjoy people's company and still call myself an introvert? Well, because I am one, and a lot people haven't a clue what being an introvert actually means. 

What I am grateful for is friends and family who understand my ways and my need for downtime. I am lucky I don't have to be turned on with the Sidekick. He doesn't require me to engage with him. We have our life. Our routine. We chat and laugh and act stupid, but I can be 'off' while doing so. This is probably because he himself has introverted tendencies. I am happy I don't have to worry about what I say around him. Well, okay, I kind of do, because he is a Cancer, but for the most part, he doesn't mind the way I am. 

And I don't mind the way I am either. 

And this made me laugh. 

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Sadder

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I can't say if that's for certain. Sidekick is on the mainland doing guest spotting things. I'm here, at home, with the boys. Writing blogs, eating salads, and getting annoyed when I get kicked off Netflix because Jay decides he wants to watch some crime show. I mean, he's super nice for letting me filch the privileged, but come on! I was just in the middle of an awesome Supernatural episode.

Anyhow, I miss the Sidekick.

It's not a dependency things, either. I love being on my own and cooking whatever I want for dinner, watching crap television, knitting, writing, being a better internet friend to all my interbuddies. Still, I miss his presence. Don't get me wrong, the house isn't quite without him. It's about the same level of annoyingly noisy. He's not a very loud man but the other boys make the most racket. What with all their barking, sighing, growling, farting and snoring - they are a very loud bunch.

Sidekick isn't. He's quiet. And he moves through the house without trumpets or useless chatter.Still, for a slender man, he has a big presence. He takes up a lot of space, while taking up very little space. And it's different when he's not here. I suppose if I was in my own home and not OUR home, then I wouldn't be so displaced. But this is our environment and it only feels right when we are both in it. At least to me.

Guess I am just saying I miss him. Am I allowed to do that.

Tattoos Hurt - FYI

For some reason, whenever you get a tattoo, people feel the need to ask if it hurts. Just so everyone is on the same page about this form of art. Yes, tattoos hurt. Quite a bit, in fact. It isn't always the same pain all the way through, though. It's varying degrees of ouch. Oh, and some areas hurt more than others.

Pain is a tricky creature.

In the tattooing world, it is known that the top of the foot and the neck hurt the most. Since I have both of my feet done, I will have to get a neck tattoo to tell you which one hurts more. Right now, though, I have to say the wrist hurts more, especially if you are doing more than a stupid line drawing.

Today, my Sidekick tattooed a beautiful cover-up on me. It took about three hours and thirty-seven of those minutes were this needling, burning, terrible pain I was certain I wasn't going to live through. I tried to not whine or writhe, but there were these tender spots I seriously regretted having done. Most of the other minutes were uncomfortable, but bearable. And about twenty-four of those minutes I was in very little pain. Regardless, the whole time there was hurting going on. 

Some people deal with pain better than others. Some people love pain. Thrive off it. Enjoy it. I am not one of those creature. That being said, I have a fairly high threshold for pain and just because I sat for three hours, doesn't mean someone else can. To be honest, I mostly did it to prove my Sidekick wrong. And also, I like finishing what is started on the spot, so there is no need to go back to it in the future. 

While I am sad to say goodbye to my adorable line bunny, I am happy to say hello to my new, bigger, more badass bunny. And also, I love my cabbage. So, I am very happy. Now I have come down from my adrenaline high and need to go to bed. Goodnight. 

I Collect Rocks

Remember when Bill Nye collected rocks? He sang a song about putting them in his socks and how he gained weight every time he took a walk. Well, I'm not that cool. I don't have a song about the rocks I collect. Whenever I am out adventuring, I keep my eyes open for heart shaped rocks. Rocks that are in the shape of hearts. 

Apparently, you have to train your eye to spot them. 

There isn't really a reason why I do this. It's just one of those weird quirks I have. For the most part, I will pick up any heart shaped rock I find, but I really like looking for them at the beach. Yesterday, I played hooky from work and spent the day with the Sidekick. We went down island, to Rathtrevor beach and we found the most fantastic driftwood collection I've ever seen. 

Oh, yes, I also collect cool looking driftwood pieces and other things I find fascinating, like beach glass. You might be sitting there, thinking to yourself, what the heck is so amazing about wood that's been kissed by the salty tongue of the sea? And I don't have a great answer for you. Mostly, it's smooth and the inner nature of the wood is tumbled out. Think about what the ocean does to glass. It takes the edge off. The same thing applies to wood. 

Like this amazing horn I found: 

But this isn't about my wood. Err ... I mean, this is about my rocks. My heart shape rocks. And how I refuse to leave the beach until I have found one, or two. Never three though. I can't explain why I do this. It is just something that calms the tempestuousness that brew in my heart. Sometimes there are so many feelings in there, vying for attention, trying to get out. A nice walk on the beach and a three hour search for a heart shaped rock is all I need to settle the storm. 

Here are some of my hearts: 

 

And here are the ones I've found most recently: 

Heart shape rocks. They may seem a weird thing to be grateful for, but they remind me of the love that exists in the world and myself. 

Internet Displays Of Affection

As some of you may know, I am not a huge fan of IDAs - Internet Displays of Affection. For the most part, I like to keep my private life ... well, private. And yes, I do understand the irony of that since I am posting this on my blog, which anyone can read and will probably be floating around forever. Regardless, I believe in respecting personal boundaries and not strewing names and pictures and proclamations of love all over cyberspace. Don't take this the wrong way, either. I mean, what doesn't work for me might be fine for you. If that's the case, so be it. But there are three reasons why I don't write a bunch of gooey crap about my Sidekick on my Facebook or blog or twitter. 

1. It doesn't make my love truer. I don't need to write how much I love my Sidekick on the Intersnacks, plaster it all over our Facebook walls, or post a hundred selfies of us to prove how much I love him. He isn't a secret, by any means, but he also isn't a trophy for me to brandish. Sometimes it gets to the point where other people talk SO MUCH about their partner that you have to wonder if they have their own identity. Mushy back and forth posts ad nauseam often tend to look like overcompensation to my cynical mind. Don't get me wrong, a well timed birthday post is more than acceptable, but daily accounts of your undying love is a bit much. 

2. He's a fairly private person. Sure, his Instagram isn't private, but the guy isn't a 'look-at-me' kind of fellow. While I tend to put a fair bit about myself out into public domain, I understand other people don't relish in these sorts of inter-webby reindeer games. That being said, whatever I do click 'publish' on is usually a slightly distorted version of true life accounts and often do not include names and/or pictures. I have been known to lie from time-to-time for the sake of someone else's privacy. 

3. Things end. No, no, no, I'm not dooming my relationship with the Sidekick. Not at all. If anything, not blabbering on about it and posting ridiculous 3 month anniversary photos is protecting it. Keeping it safe. From personal experience, I've found, dragging more people into your relationship only strains it more. Once other opinions are involved, you are less likely to know what you feel yourself. All it takes is one flippant comment like 'why doesn't he care?' on your Twitter account and you will have half the world, or at least your four hundred closest friends and family members telling you how HE doesn't deserve YOU. I say 'no thank you' to the peanut gallery. 

Now, that I have said this, what I am grateful for is the utter cuteness I get to wake up to every day. Every morning the boys all gather in the bed for pets and snuggles. Dixon, Oliver, Bruce and the Sidekick are all there, vying for attention, being lazy, and it is basically the highlight of life. The other morning, I actually took a picture of some of what I get to be a part of. My Sidekick is in the picture, and my little man. It makes me smile. So I am sharing it. This one time. Because I do love the Sidekick. And you all know how I feel about Oliver. 

It's hard to handle this sort of adorableness. 

Don't Be So Emo OR What The Hell Happened To AFI?

The Sidekick and I just had this conversation.

Him: What's Emo?
Me: I'm not too sure.
Him: I think it's what Goth has turned into.
Me: Emo. So emotional, I am guessing.
Him: Well, yeah.
Me: My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy.
Him: *laughs* There are newer bands now.
Me: Whatever. I'm old.
Him: I'm older than you.
Me: Okay Mr. Hip And With It. What's Emo?
Him: Murder On The Dance Floor?

As it turned out, it was actually a band called Blood On The Dance Floor he was talking about, which apparently is in fact ElectroPop, not an Emo band at all. Bloody horrendous it is too. And what the hell were these guys wearing? Do people actually enjoy this kind of music? Can people take these guys seriously? And do girls find them attractive?

No, seriously, I'm so lost. I have no idea what is going on here. 

Am I being pranked? 

Needless to say, this whole entire evening has been a rude awakening. When the hell did I get so old?

Truth is, I don't know what kids are listening to these days, especially Emo ones. Back when I worked at the record shop, I considered bands like Dashboard Confessional and Sunny Day Real Estate to be Emo. The subculture was based around black hair, black nails, lip rings and parents just not understanding. Also, boys wore tight black jeans and their mom's eyeliner. Other than that, I hadn't a clue what it truly encapsulated. So, I guess things haven't changed all that much, because I am still out of touch.

Then the Sidekick sprang something else on me, something I truly couldn't comprehend. AFI is Emo. I was so flabbergasted by this reveal, I actually turned to the internet to prove him wrong. I mean, surely this had to be a mistake on his part. Surely he must have been talking about some other band, like Evanescence. But no, he wasn't. And after listening to three minutes and thirty-six seconds of their latest album, Burials, I actually said out loud, "What happened to AFI?"

I meant it, too. What the hell happened to AFI? I'm not even talking about their hair and clothes.

Back in the late nineties, AFI was a punk bank. A fast, funny, upbeat punk band with songs like I Wanna Get A Mowhawk and Let It Be Broke, with albums like Answer That and Stay Fashionable and Shut Your Mouth and Open Your Eyes. They coined the term East Bay Hardcore, for crying out loud! Tim Armstrong produced their first album and they signed to Dexter Holland's label Nitro Records!

But that was back in 1995 and apparently things change. Tonight I mourn the AFI that used to be. And my youth.

 

Beastly

Remember that movie adaptation of Beauty and the Beast called Beastly with Alex Pettyfer and Vanessa Hudgens and it was set in High School and Mary-Kate Olsen was the witch who cursed the spoiled rich boy?

Well, this isn't about that film. Though, if I was forced to admit it, I actually kind of liked the movie. It is what it is - teenage tripe. But like Gossip Girl and Vampire Diaries, there's something to be enjoyed in the shallow depths of the shiny, pretty things. Even if you don't want to say it aloud, for fear it will be the one fact everyone remembers, it's entertaining.

But, like I said. This isn't about Beastly - the movie. It's about Beastly - the state of mind.

Don't you hate it when you wake up and feel beastly. The beast of all beasts. As if the only fitting task would be to tear apart your west wing, smash all the mirrors and sit there brooding over the fact that no one will ever truly love a beast. Of course it's melodramatic and completely unsubstantiated, but in the moment, you want to just lock up your castle and never see anyone ever again. And, on the off chance someone does stumble upon your dwelling, you will toss them in the dungeon. Ha! That will teach them to sell Girl Guide cookies door-to-door. Give me all the thin mints and get in your cell!

This actually sparks a very questionable query. Why was it okay for the Beast to lock Belle's father in the dungeon? Isn't that some sort of form of kidnapping? Or, at the very least, false imprisonment? I mean, he knocked. He called out. Twice, in fact. Still, down to the dungeons with you, old man! And, if anything, shouldn't the enchanted servants take some of the blame? If not all of them, then at least Lumiere!

I regress.

The beastly days are the hardest. They come without warning, or sometimes with warning because you ate a pound of candy the night before, and they set your day off on the wrong foot. On these days, it is the hardest to look presentable. If you have a job that you work from home or at an office where you don't have to interact with the general public, you can squeak by in comfy pants and a hat, and silently wish for the day to end swiftly. This isn't the case when you engage with others and on the off chance you are SUPPOSED to look at the very least decent, it can be a daunting task. Like putting lipstick on a pig.

It gets even worse too. No matter what I wear, I am uncomfortable. It isn't my clothes, either. It's my skin. I am uncomfortable in my body. So, I try to put a little more effort in on the days I wake up in a self conscious puddle of raw emotions and unrealistic expectations of myself. Honestly, that effort tends not to pay off. I only end up feeling as if my time and energy are wasted. That I am foolish for even trying. That I would have been better off cutting holes in a burlap sack and wearing a Halloween mask.

Yes, I know this seems harsh. And, sure, it probably has something to do with the hormones. I hear estrogen is a wicked bitch. Still, once in a blue moon, these days come along. Like yesterday and, if I am being honest, which I so often insist on doing, I am still feeling residual affects today. Here's the truth of the matter:

No amount of pretty dresses, hair combing or makeup can change a Beastly day into a Belle one.  

Those are the facts. In the end, I just try to fake it until I make it through. Or make it to the weekend so I can wear oversized sweaters and no pants. Whichever comes sooner. Something funny did come of this. I told my Sidekick that I felt beastly and he told me I was, "The most beautiful beast of them all." Yeah, I cry laughed over that. It's hilarious, but still cut me a bit.

Crap, I have to add something I am grateful for on here. Ugh. Well, I am happy I can step back and know my beastly feelings are irrational, to a degree. And that I probably don't look as bad as I think I do.

Handmade Gifts

I cried yesterday. A good cry. 

All because my Sidekick gave me an illustration of my Little Guy. 

I am lucky to have someone so creative in my life. Grateful someone thinks about me enough to make me these amazing things. It isn't just the time that goes into it, or the talent. It's the fact that this person has given me exactly what I needed. Olive. My little guy. Who is at his other home right now and dearly missed. 

And can you believe this was done with felt markers? I know. Some people are so gifted. The Sidekick is one of them. 

I just love homemade gifts. They are so much more valuable than everything else. Words really do no justice for what I feel towards this. 

I mean, I cried. Happy tears. Maybe that says it all. 

Let's Keep This Pinteresting

The Sidekick hates Pinterest.

Not because he isn't a fan of art and pictures and such, but because people print off grainy tattoos that a hundred million people have and want to put them on their bodies. When all he wants is to design something awesome and unique to the individual wanting to put something permanently on their body. I can see how this can be frustrating. Do you know how many people have an infinity symbol with the world 'love' in it? A gazbillion. And where do they put them? On their wrists. Upside down, of course. Because it's for them and they want to read it.

And I never really thought about upside down tattoos until Mr. Sidekick said, "What are you going to do, have a whole sleeve the wrong way on your arm?" Whatttt???? Yep. So here I am, with two upside down tattoos on my wrists (neither of which say love or have an infinity symbol in them) and knowing I have to cover them up because they are in fact UPSIDE DOWN. Then I ask the man, "Why didn't the guy tattooing them steer me right?"

Do you know what he replies?

Because people don't listen. What a sad state of affairs! I would have listened. As soon as Sidekick pointed out how if I wanted to build a sleeve it'd all be upside down I felt silly! Thank goodness for cover ups. And just the other day I ran into a girl with upside down tattoos on one arm. The word 'believe' on her wrist, I believe, but then she put two birds under it, which were upside down as well, then another tattoo under that, also upside down. It looked terrible.

So, I guess I understand why Sidekick dislikes Pinterest. It's detracts from originality and spreads poorly done work. It's great to have an idea for what you might like and using pictures as a stepping stone and jumping off point, but there's something to be said about being open minded enough to have an awesome piece of work designed specifically for you.  

On the other hand, I love Pinterest. Mostly because I do love art and pictures and weird things and it inspires me. I can create boards for my novels and give myself visuals of the characters and places inside my books and that's something to be grateful for. Also, it allows me to save awesome imagery! There are some really odd things on the internet. It's kind of nice to have one place where I can collect these wicked and weird and beautiful pictures.

That being said, only one of my pins has ever really gotten a lot of attention. A picture of Charlie Hunnam (Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy). Goes to show you where most pinners minds are at.

Anyhow, this is my account over there.

But before you click the link, beware. I am a bit of an odd duck. And no, I don't have a tattoo board.

Three Cheers For Bruce

So, I'm a step-mum to Bruce.

He's a funny cat. Definitely not one you want around when you don't have a bedroom door. At twelve years old, the guy wants what he wants. Food. Yep, that's pretty much all he wants, and he tells you when. In the mornings, you can't open your eyes without him meowing. If he sees you are awake, he will sneak up and pull your hair ... with his teeth.

Sure, he has characteristics that are annoying, see above, but he's very affectionate. Every night I go up to bed and he's there, curled up. Waiting.

And he comes on over. Starts purring and just hangs out with me.

Sometimes his affections are more aggressive. Sometimes he pokes my face with his paws, sometimes his claws are out. He also has this almost nauseating drooling problem that starts up whenever he purrs. The more you love him, the bigger the drool puddle grows.

Why yes, those are drool droplets on my stomach.

And the damn cat always has dirty feet, which in turn make the bed and walls dirty.

And he can be quite ornery, especially when it comes to Dixon.

Still, there's something about Bruce. He commands attention. You notice when he walks into the room, mostly because he is very heavy footed. I always thought cats were graceful and surefooted. Not this guy. He can rival a herd of elephants when he barrels down the stairs. And you can't help but adore him. He's the cat even people who hate cats love.

Anyway, last summer, just after I moved to Vancouver Island, Bruce got in a fight with some of the neighbourhood cats. They jumped him. It was like gang initiation, I am guessing. Apparently we live in a rough feline community. So, he got hurt and I drove him to the vet without a carrier. A Bruce loose in the car wasn't a wise idea, but I didn't have anything to put him in. He kept trying to stretch across the dashboard and pawing at my hands. Actually, upon reflection, this is probably the most dangerous thing I've done in the last year.

Regardless, he had some wounds.

I spent a fair amount of time bathing these wounds with salt water and feeding him medicine in order for him to get better. Yes, I cleaned the drain sticking out of his tail, much to his displeasure. Not that it was fun for me either! Still, when he went back to get his stitches removed, the vet said he'd never seen a wound so clean. That's right, I take my wound care seriously!

He's a big guy too, this Bruce. And not just portly, though he is certainly carrying around a few extra pounds. Personally, I think it's more to love, but the vet said his weight is a concern. Problem is, he's always been this way.

Big boned, maybe. But he can reach the counter tops when standing on the ground. No, seriously. Here he is fishing for a tuna.

See, the man is a beast.

Also, Bruce is a fantastic example of how blended families can work. I don't know if it was me taking care of him while he was hurt or the fact I give him pets before bed every night, but he loves me. Sure, he loves me in that aloof cat way that's only acceptable when he deems it so.

And I love him. Full wholeheartedly. Without expectations.

Drool puddle and all.

Three cheers for Bruce, the captain of the football team.

  If you look closely you can see where he ruined the wall. 

Best Way To Start The Day

One of my most favourite things is the ability to look at a situation from another point of view. I'm not talking about 'walk a mile in my shoes' sort of thing. I'm talking about simply standing back and seeing the scene through the eyes of someone else.

This morning, I saw the world through my dog's eyes.

It was the best day ever for him.

Dixon couldn't have come up with a better way to the start the day.

The Sidekick didn't agree, though.

It was a terrible way to start the day.

Why?

Because he dropped all the dog food on the kitchen floor.

It. Went. Everywhere.

And he cussed loudly, and left in a huff.

But Dixon.

Oh, Dixon couldn't believe his good fortune. It was his birthday all over again!

Tail wagging. Ears at the ready. Jumping around. Looking at me with those big brown eyes. And I saw it written all over his face.

"BEST DAY EVER!"

It made me laugh. I mean, I held it together until the Sidekick promptly removed himself from the house in search of coffee. But as soon as that door closed, I laughed and let Dixon relish in the kibble strewn across the kitchen.

Don't get me wrong. I understand the frustration of a morning not going your way. I've dropped enough boxes of spaghetti noodles to sympathize with my Sidekick. But Dixon's face. The utter joy and excitement there. It erased even the slightest annoyance I may have had over cleaning it up. Because I did sweep the kibble up, off the counters, from under the stools, and actually gave the boys their breakfast in a bowl.

Still, I am ever grateful for the ability to see the world through other people's, and creatures', eyes. I guess some people call that perspective.

Deadly Sin

Today I am experiencing one of the deadly sins.

Well, technically, I've experienced a few. I made these really amazing buns for dinner and I wanted to stuff them all in my mouth. I didn't. By some miracle I managed to have a bit of restraint. Still, gluttony was present.

And lust is pretty much a given on any day of the week.

Let's all just hope my wrath never gets released. But those aren't the sins I am talking about. Nope. I'm talking about good old fashioned pride.

I am so incredibly proud of my Sidekick today.

One week ago, he quit smoking. This is a milestone. It is a stepping stone on the way to a happier and healthier life. Really, this is a huge thing. For him. For us. For me alone because I loathe smoking, the smell, the look, the everything.

But it isn't about me. It's about him. And it's something he's been trying to do for a long, long time. Cutting back. E-ciggies. Stressing about it. Then, bam, cold turkey.

And it's been a week. And that's amazing.

I myself haven't had an addiction before. I've never even smoked a cigarette in my life. True story. Not even a puff. So, when it comes to giving things up, I'm probably not the most understanding. I have this whole 'just do it' attitude, which is probably extremely annoying. Though, in my defence, I try to be supportive and understanding.

All this said, I'm so very proud and pleased for him. I mean, this has been one of those things needling me from behind. The truth is, I've dated a smoker before, and I swore I would never do it again. So, how did I end up here?

Well, this here Sidekick is freakin' adorable. Like beyond. And he makes me laugh.

Anyway, just saying, I'm proud. I want to sing it from the mountain tops and crap like that. I'll resort to simply posting about it. Now that I think about it, is pride a deadly sin if it's for someone else? I think not. Oh well. I'm not changing the title now.

She Let's Her Hair Down

Guys don't hit on me.

A bold statement if I've ever made one.

Well, it's true.

My ex, we will call him Jay, once told me that I am severely unapproachable. When someone speaks to me out in the wild, I instantly have a 'get away from me' and 'don't touch me unless you want to lose a hand' vibe going on. This may have been the case seven years ago when I was living in the city and cultivated a harder exterior after one too many run-ins with yahoos and wack-a-doos on the street.

These days, I like to think I'm softer. Not only because I've let my workout regime fall to the wayside, but because I've grown up a lot. I've matured. And I stopped shaving my armpits and have embraced a nice frolic through the dewy morning grass. One of those last things isn't true. I'll let you decide on your own because I feel all readers should be involved in what they are reading to some extent.

For example, I'm not going to tell you my surroundings or what I am wearing as I type this because I firmly believe you have enough of an imagination to come up with that information on your own. In actuality, you really shouldn't be thinking about what I am wearing or where I am while I write this. It has nothing to do with the content of the article, nor does it make reading it any more enjoyable.

Back to the subject at hand. I like to think I'm not so unapproachable.

Still, guys don't hit on me. Probably because I don't play the damsel in distress very well. I have the whole, I can do it by myself thing going on. And apparently, self-sufficiant women, do not great lovers make. Or so people mistakenly think. Because I am a fantastic...let's not go there.

The truth is, men don't ask to pump my gas, carry my groceries, or query over whether or not I want to partake in a sampling of food or beverages with them. Probably because I am so happy in my current relationship status they already know I'm not available to them. Still, it's because of guys not hitting on me that I am aware of when I am being noticed more than usual. When something doesn't happen, like never ever, and then it starts to happen, you see it. Like, for example, if you never hear birds outside your window and then, one day out of the blue, you hear a sparrow singing his little singsong. You'd take note.

Well, today, I got all sorts of attention from fellas. Ones driving by me. Workers at the grocery store. Random teenagers I let cross in front of my car instead of running over and making pavement paint out of them. Smiles. Nods. Waves. Hellos. Weird starts to conversations like, "There are so many cereals out there, hey?"

Here's the thing: I'm only doing two things differently in life these days.

1. Wearing more dresses
2. Letting my hair down

With the nice weather comes the dresses. In fact, I have waited a very long time for Spring to roll its lazy ass around so I can indulge myself in wearing clothes that I frankly shouldn't be wearing. I mean, I can't bend over in these outfits. And if I do, I better be wearing cute underwear. While this could totally be the reason I've been drawing the attention of Harry, Larry and Bob, I like to think guys don't really notice clothing. I mean, you could seriously ask my Sidekick what I wore on any given day and I doubt he'd actually be able to tell you. Likewise for any dudes I've ever had the pleasure of running into. They'd be able to tell you if my boobs looked good in a shirt, but wouldn't have a clue what was actually on the shirt.

So, dresses to the side, I also got this amazing new shampoo and conditioner from this salon and it seriously rocks my locks. I have been letting loose and leaving the elastic band at home. This crap smells so good, I want to eat it. I catch myself sniffing my hair at awkward moments. No, really. I'm one of those weird hair sniffer people.

Thus, in conclusion, men like it when women wear their hair down. I can only surmise that my lack of attention was due to the fact that I always, like every single freakin' day, wore my hair up in a messy sort of bun. Now the curly tendrils are tickling my back and the air has shifted. Perhaps it makes me more approachable, or maybe guys just like the looks of long flowing hair, either way, I think I've just cracked the attraction code.

Or perhaps I am mistaken and spring has simply sprung.