So, we've talked about it, weighed the pros and cons, debated about whether we're ready, and figured that we'll never be 100% ready - it's a "figure it out as you go" thing. We've considered our work schedules, our neighbourhood, our finances, the way our house is set up...pretty much every factor that would impact our decision to add to our little family.

And I'm excited to announce that it won't just be Peter and me for much longer!

We're starting to look for a dog!

(Did you think it was a baby? A HUMAN baby?? Fools.)

Growing up, Pete and I both lived in homes with dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, quiet dogs, loud dogs. We've both always wanted a dog, but it's hard to find an apartment that will let you have a dog. And when you do, it's located on the 15th floor of a building - not exactly prime for puppy training.

But now that we're getting settled into the house (which, conveniently, has a fenced-in backyard and is close to several grassy areas perfect for running around) and we don't have any big trips planned, we're starting to keep our eyes open for dogs that might like us as parents. Our criteria is pretty open: we want a dog that's not huge but not tiny (30-50 pounds is perfect), good-natured and friendly, easy to train, and doesn't look like it could double as a curly floor mop.

Boy or girl? Doesn't matter. We don't care about it being a purebred or CKC registered or a descendant of champions. We're just looking for a healthy, happy, relatively smart and trainable pet to keep us company. In fact, we aren't sure if a puppy or a slightly older rescue dog is the best bet. There are pros and cons of each: puppies are soooooo cute, in that rolly-polly-fluffy way, but they're so much work to train (unless you luck out with a pup like my parents' dog which was house trained in one weekend, not kidding.) Slightly older dogs have the basic skills down pat but could come with a host of other issues, and you miss out on that awwww, widdle baby phase.

So I think we're going to take our time and not rush things too much. Do our homework and do our best to ensure we are picking the very best puppy (or dog) to suit all of us.

Dog owners: what were your experiences choosing a dog, training a puppy, and so on? Advice? Suggestions? Dos and don'ts?

Halloween used to be one of my favourite holidays. What's not to love about dressing up so you're unrecognizable and going around the neighbourhood bumming junk food? I'll tell you what's not to love: The smell of old people's houses on Halloween.

One of the things I remember most about trick-or-treating was the smell of old people's houses. You know what I mean. It kind of smells like dusty apples mixed with old snowsuits that have been hanging in the basement/attic all summer. A musty, old-peopley smell that's probably caused by their skin turning to dust or whatever happens when you become so ancient you're practically disintegrating.

While the houses didn't stink exactly, the smell was noticeable, and obviously memorable, and not in a totally awesome way, either. I remember one house in particular just had the most distinct, old person smell. I remember anticipating it before the door opened, every year. I remember thinking as soon as we got in the driveway, "oh no, the house that smells like old people, and sure enough, the world's oldest woman would open the door while the world's oldest man sat in his La-Z-Boy watching Live at 5.

This makes me worry.

What if OUR house smells, too? And we just don't realize it because we live in it?

Not old-people smell of dusty apples and brittle bones. But just...a distinctive odor. One that we have become so accustomed to, we're immune. What if everyone that comes over is assaulted by our rank house smell???

What if the kids who come trick-or-treating remember our house as "the one that smells weird" and don't want to come back next year?

What if the snotty moms who bring their kids right to the door (so they can stick their heads into the foyer and get a good glimpse - I'm on to you nosey broads) notice our secret funk and whisper to all the other local bitches and we don't get invited to the neighbourhood Christmas party?

What if...what if the people who have already been there think our house smells off? Then it's too late.

I'm actually legit stressing about this now. I'll be burning the pumpkin-scented candles at both ends all day Sunday leading up to trick-or-treat time. They can say what they want about our decor or the quality of the treats we give out but I'll be damned if we get branded as the Halloween house that smells weird. This is going to be one fragrant mofo.

It's that time of year. The evenings are getting darker, earlier and earlier. The mornings are also dark - and cold enough to freeze the proverbial nuts off a brass monkey. Terms like "comfort food" and "TV night" sound appealing. "Exercising outside" does not. My friends, it's Fall Fatties time. Proof?

-Hubby and I stayed home Saturday night to make baked mac 'n' cheese. We used three kinds of cheese. And truffle oil. We ate the whole dish and then passed out in a cheesy, carby coma in front of the fireplace.
-Running outside has become painful. My chest hurts and my poor old knees have started to ache on especially chilly days.
-When choosing outfits I tend to gravitate towards shirts based on their ass-hiding ability and pants with a leeeeeeeeeetle extra stretch.

Fall Fatty season is here. It starts extra early here in Canadialand with our early October Thanksgiving gluttony. Then there are the leftovers. Then there are a couple weeks of trying to replicate the fantastic pies/cookies/stuffing you had at Thanksgiving dinner in your own home. Next up is Halloween, which comes bearing those mini-Mars Bars and tiny bags of chips - none of which are that bad on their own, but who eats one friggin' fun-size ANYTHING? Not this bear. Fast forward to November, when holiday parties slowly start to pop up on the calendar and things like eating an entire wheel of cranberry-brie cheese and a box of crackers in one sitting just start happening inexplicably, and by the time December rolls around with all its advent calendars and peppermint gingerbread fattes, it's nothing to consume your own body weight in eggnog and shortbread cookies on a weeknight, and suddenly, it's New Year's Eve and you're sitting on your couch crying into your pinot noir and inhaling your last Terry's Chocolate Orange, section by glorious section, depressed as shit because you're too enormous to fit into your party dress and go out with your friends, and HOW IN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN??!!

Don't act like this hasn't happened to you.

In an attempt to nip the Fall Fatties in the bud, Hubby and I are going to get our gym memberships this week. I hate going to the gym. I hate encountering naked people in the locker room. I hate Chatty Cathys on the next treadmill that want to talk to me about supporting minor hockey and buying tickets on some massive fruit basket when all I want to do is listen to Chris Brown on my iPod and complete the Intermediate Lakeside Run on level 6.5. I hate the Jersey Shore cast that hangs out in the weight room grunting and walking around with their arms extended two feet to either side of their torsos because their muscles are just SOOOO BIG they can't put them down like normal people. I hate the temperature, the weird smell, the bad techno music, the TV hogs that insist on watching the news (!!!) or the country music channel (!!!!!!) when they work out, the gym bunnies that are wearing more jewelry and makeup to use the StairMaster than I wore to my prom. When I go to the gym, I look like a hobo, not a debutante.

Regardless, keeping the Fall Fatties at bay is a goal and therefore I'll suck up my gym bitchery and get a membership. I'll just wear my iPod at all times, avoid making eye contact with others, and do my thing every day. It beats the alternative of doubling in size by spring. Plus, you KNOW that giving up eggnog and shortbreads is NOT an option. I have no choice but to gym it!

On the weekend, Peter and I celebrated our first anniversary with a trip to the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas, with a stint on Route 66 in between. It was a surprise to me...well, 90% surprise. I had kind of figured it out by the time we got to the airport :)

We arrived in Vegas, picked up our rental car, and did a quick drive up and down the strip, but we got out of the city fairly quickly and set out for Arizona. We got stuck in major traffic at the Hoover Dam but finally made it across the border and got on Route 66. The desert highway was almost completely deserted except for the occasional cluster of trailers, ghost town, or shady-looking motel. I've never been in the desert before and I've never seen the mountains so the scenery was pretty breathtaking.





We made it to the Grand Canyon National Park at dusk, set up our tent in the light of the headlights, bundled up and went to bed. It was freezing, and we slept like ass, but after a hot shower and a good breakfast in the morning we both felt a hundred times better.

We spent Saturday hiking along the edge of the rim and down into the Canyon a little ways. It was scary and gorgeous at the same time. And just unbelievably big. (TWSS)





We spent Sunday, our anniversary, in Vegas. It was pretty much what I was expecting. Ridiculous, slutty, tacky, loud, and awesome. Unfortunately, I got completely sick on a Caesar's Palace mojito at 3:00 in the afternoon and had to take a little time out in our room at the Bellagio. Vegas kicked my ass hard. And early. Embarrassingly early.





Aside from my ass being kicked by the world's largest and most disgusting mojito, I loved our getaway. A little bit of roughing it, a little bit of luxury. Alone time, crowd time. Dressing up and wearing sweats. It was a perfect mix, just like us, and a perfect way to celebrate our first year married. (Could have been a little more perfect had we won a big jackpot in a casino. But I won't dwell on that.)

Amy at Just a Titch posted a lovely entry about the idea of protesting perfection that made me want to jump up from my seat and shout AMEN, SISTER!

I read lots of blogs regularly. Fashion blogs, where girls put together the most amazing outfits day after day while I sit here in my maroon sweater and Joe Fresh flats looking like a What Not To Wear candidate. Decorating blogs, full of pictures of living rooms and home offices that could be straight out of one of those glossy, $16 design magazines. Cooking blogs featuring Michelin-star-worthy dinners and cupcakes that could be displayed in an art gallery, they're that gorgeous. Lifestyle blogs sharing stories of sun-lit hand-in-hand walks through the crisp fall leaves with hot husbands and adorable puppies and flawlessly tied scarves and $500 riding boots.

Bitch(es), please. I kind of hate you all.

It's easy to paint a fairy tale picture of your life in a blog. I'm sure I've done it in some posts, going on about how my husband is the absolute best ever, and I love my job, and here's a recap of our Paris honeymoon, and blah blah blah. This is all true and I am very, very blessed in a lot of areas. But others? Sadly, tragically flawed.

Without further ado, here's a very incomplete list of my imperfections:

At 29 years of age, I still don't know how to do my hair properly. I can't make it curly. I can't give it any texture. I have three basic hairstyles: hanging limply, messy ponytail, and front bits stuck back with two criss-crossed bobby pins. The only styling product I own is mousse.

I get awkward in group social settings - major anxiety, especially when it involves meeting a bunch of new people. To compensate, I drink. Quickly. I end up acting retarded and then spending days worrying about whether I offended anyone or made a scene.

I am terrible at being spontaneous. If something isn't written down on my little to-do list, I have trouble dealing. I have to know at least a day in advance what the next day will involve or I get all stressy.

I procrastinate. And the more I have to do, the worse I am at putting things off.

I have a library card but never use it. Instead I just keep shelling out $10-20 a pop on books that I read once and then put on the shelf.

When I come home from work, I'm so ravenous after "eating healthy" all day that I just literally cram crap food into my mouth - things like peanut butter out of the jar, chocolate chips by the handful, cheese, whatever's around, hundreds of calories' worth - completely undoing all the "healthy eating". Also, I'm a secret eater, which is probably one of the things I dislike most about myself, and it completely embarrasses me to admit it.

I almost never floss. And I always lie to the dentist about it. And then I get ragged out when they're cleaning my teeth and I turn into Bleeding Gums Murphy.

I generally look like I haven't slept in 48 hours thanks to the dark circles that have taken up residence under my eyes. Also, I'm beginning to see signs of the dreaded '11' creases between my eyes, a symptom of squinting for years at menu boards and street signs and refusing to wear my glasses.

I tune people out. I pretend I'm listening, smile, and nod appropriately, when really I'm thinking about my to-do list, my newly discovered wrinkles, my next meal, etc.

I'm shallow and judgmental and spend way more time making fun of others than complimenting them.

I vacuum around the furniture, not under it.

So there it is...everything's not all sunshine, ponies and double rainbows all the way across the sky 24/7 in my world. Flaws abound up in hurr. What are your flaws? Come on, you must have at least one...

A year ago, I was in the midst of the biggest meltdown of my life to date. I was getting married in three days. I was having recurring nightmares about scenarios such as the-ceremony-starts-in-15-minutes-and-I'm-wearing-Umbro-shorts-and-haven't-showered. And then, three days later, after what was undoubtedly the fastest day of my life (did someone set all the clocks ahead on October 17 to eff with my poor head?) I was married.

This Sunday, Peter and I will celebrate one year as husband and wife and I can hardly believe it's been a year. Peeps, the time has absolutely flown. It's been a wonderful year. We spent our honeymoon in Paris but to be honest, the whole year has felt kind of like an extended honeymoon. There has been so much exciting and fun stuff happening.

We spent our first Christmas together - the first time I've ever not been at my parents' home on Christmas Eve. We bought a house. We went to the Dominican and to Boston and tomorrow morning, we're going on a surprise anniversary trip for four days. I don't know where we're going, I've just been told what to pack and to bring American money, so I assume we'll be somewhere in the US - and the weather's going to be warm. (Which is extra awesome since this morning I had to scrape frost off my car windows. Does not want.)

Since we've been married, not a lot feels different. Things are just a little more...snuggly. Secure. I have an extra ring on my finger. I still slip up and say "my boyfriend." I still get caught off guard when Peter calls me his wife.

Over the past year we've learned some new things. We've learned how to give each other space. That we aren't there to entertain each other 24/7. That it's OK for Peter to retreat to the basement man-cave to play video games for a couple hours, and that sometimes I want to go shopping or run errands by myself and it doesn't mean I'm upset. We've learned how to appreciate a quiet evening at home as much as a boisterous night out. We've learned when to budget and when to splurge. We've learned that arguing sometimes isn't only normal, but sometimes it's a good thing.

We've only been together about three and a half years so I'm still learning stuff about Peter all the time. For example, he barely ever gets sick, so I'm still figuring out what he's like when he's not feeling well (sooky), at what point he'll actually take Advil (near death) or stay home from work (only when projectile vomiting). I'm just beginning to realize how handy he is, good at fixing stuff and putting things together. How easily he makes people feel comfortable when he meets someone new. How much he loves surprises, even tiny ones like bringing him a can of root beer, the only kind of pop he'll drink.

There are so many little things I love about my husband. He kills spiders for me, makes me eggs for breakfast on days he doesn't need to leave for work until later, and spent a couple evenings this week puppy-proofing the garage so that when we get a little four-legger (soon!! eeee!!) it won't be chewing on jugs of lawnmower gasoline or garden tools. I really feel like I lucked out and somehow I've landed "one of the good ones". I love him more and more every day and the past year with my best friend has been my favourite year ever. I can't believe it's already been a year and I hope we have a gazillion years more.

Driving to work every morning, I listen to quite the little mishmash of music, contests, and traffic reports. There are six local radio stations preset in my car and during the 20-plus minute commute, I mostly tune out the jibber-jabber of the morning hosts and skip around a lot to avoid having to hear Love The Way You Lie or Airplanes or anything by Nickelback. (Good luck. At least once every morning I'm frantically scrabbling at the preset buttons trying to avoid Rihanna's whining or Chad Kroeger sounding like an asshole while screaming "NO! NO!" and completely forgetting I'm operating a motorized vehicle).

Anyway, this morning one particular nugget caught my attention: tomorrow is National Face Your Fears Day, a day dedicated to identifying our fears, taking steps to conquer them, and celebrating the changes. HALLELUIAH!

I don't consider myself to be scared of much. I have the usual phobias: spiders, clowns, fire. I'm scared of owls because they can turn their heads all around and they have big claws. I'm afraid of tanning beds, not just because of goodies like skin cancer and germs on the glass but because I'm terrified of getting trapped inside one, coffin-style, like in I Know What You Did Last Summer, and baking to death. I'm scared of getting stabbed or shot or robbed. Maybe I am scared of everything. But none of those fears is the crippling kind. None of them interferes with my daily life or holds me back. Sure, I stay out of tanning salons, I avoid circuses, I don't light myself on fire or roam around in dangerous neighbourhoods picking fights with sketchy-looking hooligans. Problem solved.

The fear that holds me back most, that effs with my life plans on a semi-regular basis, is fear of failure. That sounds pretty generic, but it sums things up.

I don't invite my friends over for dinner because won't like what I cook. Or they might claim to have other plans and say no - and how will I know if they actually have other plans, or they just don't want to come over?

I don't buy supplies to make jewelry (something I've been curious about trying for a while) because it's going to look like something a 7-year-old threw together during art class.

I don't sign up to run in a race because I won't be one of the top finishers. I might actually be among the slowest group.

Taking classes, making friends, experimenting with a new hairstyle, pursuing freelance writing opportunities - these are all things I end up not trying because I'm scared of the unknown and assuming I'm going to fail.

So tomorrow, on National Face Your Fears Day, I'm going to do three things that scare me. Three things that truly make me uncomfortable - not watching a video of owls on YouTube (omg creepy) or heading down to Skin Cancer Emporium to soak up some faux-rays. Three things that genuinely put me out of my comfort zone.

I'm not sure what they are yet but I have a few ideas. I'll blog about them here later in the week, whether they were glowing successes or raging failures.

What are you afraid of?

Photo courtesy GearPatrol.com


Canadian Thanksgiving is this weekend - the holiday that is fast becoming my favourite. It's essentially the same huge meal as Christmas dinner, minus the stress of buying gifts, and with a trip to the apple orchard thrown in.

Aside from the obvious blessings (my family, my friends, my husband, job, house, car, health) some of the things I'm thankful for this year include:

+ our coffee maker and panini press. in the past year, I've saved probably thousands of dollars in fancy coffees and lunches out thanks to these two hard-working guys.

+ surprise flowers delivered to the office from friends on a down day when I needed a little cheering up.

+ shameless girly pleasures. Gossip Girl, Glamour magazine, sweet pea-scented lotion, absolutely vapid chick lit.

+ DVR. if it weren't for DVR, I'd NEVER be able to keep up with my stories. Until they start putting the good TV shows on between 7 and 9 p.m., when I'm actually usually awake, I'll be a DVR girl.

+ internet videos that make me hoot like a loon at my computer at the office. Double Rainbow, Bed Intruder, Teenage Dream lip-sync boy (man?? how old is that kid??) I love you all.

+ Grooveshark for allowing me to listen to my exact preferred playlist for free. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being free! Runner up: iTunes radio.

+ the world of fashion for making it OK to wear flat boots, stretchy jeans, big oversize shirts, and scarves in public - not only OK, but actually encouraged! How nice to be comfy without looking like a schlump.

What are you thankful for this fall? Happy Thanksgiving, hosers!

Saturday night, circa 2006:



(Note: There were actually other people in the bar than myself and Pirate McGoldtooth in the background there.)

Saturday night: October 2, 2010:



What a difference four years makes...

2006 Saturday night: Throwing up the Shocker on the d-floor while wearing a fake bachelorette tiara (there was noooo occasion for the crown, it was a ploy to get free drinks. You're welcome for the tip)
2010 Saturday night: Home - bath with chick lit and magazines

2006 Saturday night: Hammered
2010 Saturday night: Sober as a judge.

2006 Saturday night: Spent $100+ on drinks, cover charges and cabs
2010 Saturday night: Freeeeeeeeeeeee!

2006 Saturday night: Sweaty and slobbery
2010 Saturday night: Fresh as a daisy

2006 Saturday night: Surrounded by strangers, creepers and fugs
2010 Saturday night: The only person I saw was hubby, who is neither strange, creepy, nor fug

2006 Sunday morning: Projectile vomiting ("I don't remember eating that!"), downing numerous Advils, sleeping the day away
2010 Sunday morning: Bounced out of bed, felt awesome and rested, went for a run

On Saturday, I had a brief moment of oh shit, I'm old, I can't believe my weekend entertainment consists of reading mediocre chick lit and Cosmo in the bathtub when I should be out gallivanting around on the town.

Still, whether it makes me ancient and tragically responsible, 2010 Saturday night is just more my speed these days. Revisiting 2006 Saturday night is still fun once in a while - there are times in every girl's life when drinking your body weight in rum & diet Cokes and suffering through Sunday in a fog of regret and Gravol just can't be beat.

But for the most part, staying in, being comfortable, saving money, not consuming thousands of alcohol calories, and best of all - being able to function the next day - is the way to go, IMHO. I definitely smelled a lot better at the end of the night. Can't argue with the facts.