Papasan Turns 72

Today my dad (whom I call Papasan - and yes, I realize it's a type of wicker chair like thing you get from Pier 1 - stop judging!) is 72 years old.  I know we're not supposed to have favourites, but he's mine.  My mother and I have always had a rocky relationship, and my father was the calm in the storm.  Not that he was around much when I was growing up - he worked 7 days a week to keep a roof over our heads,  food on the table and clothes on our back.  It was my mother who shuttled me (and my sister before me) to practices and lessons.

And yet, my father, the quiet man that he is, the enigma that he was, always had a presence in the house.  Even if he was just sleeping on the couch after getting home from a 15 hour day.  Over the years, our relationship grew and I pried at the layers of privacy that he wrapped around himself.  We would talk about politics, about my school work (I went back to school at 25 and stayed with my parents for two years), about family history, my mom's hormonal craziness, about how I'm the favourite daughter.  It's totally true, you know.  I am the favourite.

I saw my father smile more, and when I moved an hour away and would call (though not as often as I should) he stayed on the phone longer, telling me about his day, and what he'd seen in the newspaper that might interest me.  And I like being the type of daughter that doesn't just call when she needs something, or to complain about her own life.  I want to know more about my father, to create memories of him that I will be able to take out and look at and smile when he's no longer here.

My father is the man I measured all prospective partners to - not in the Daddy's Girl kind of way.   I wanted to find someone who was compassionate, worked hard, was knowlegeable and loved me.  My husband is not like my father in most ways - but he does have all of those traits.   One of these days I'll remember to thank him for showing me what I deserved in a partner.  Although, with his gruff nature, he'll probably just shoo me away, and tell me to stop being so foolish.  But I'll see the thank you in his eyes, and I'll know that he appreciates it.

So, to my Papasan... Happy Birthday to You!  May you have many more, and may I still continue to be your favourite daughter. ♥

My Sweetpea's Pretty New Blog

My favourite Texan Sweetpea, Missie, has had a blog make-over - and it's beautiful! Not that her other blog wasn't, but now it's all shiney and new. I find myself over at her blog checking out her book reviews for recs on some great finds. Although, I usually skip the review because I don't want the surprise of the story to be ruined and just check to see her rating. But then I always go back and see if our impressions are the same. And they generally are - but that's because great minds think alike, dontcha know.

Anyhooo... Missie's blog is called The Unread Reader - although I think she should change the name because she's read a whole heck of alota books! If you're looking for some great reads, head on over and tell her I sent ya!

P.S. She's also got a contest going on right now in celebration of her blog's makeover. The New Me Giveaway! Win a custom blog design from Blogging Bella Designs or a New Book release!

 

Bossy Boots

Today I was chatting with the lovely Shannon, whom I absolutely adore, and in the course of a couple of emails I mentioned that I wear bossy boots and as such I sometimes don’t get along with others. This is because I am a take charge kind of girl. I have learned to restrain my bossy side and let others play, but often that side of me comes out, especially when people are being ridiculous and need to be set straight.

Shannon asked my what my bossy boots looked like and I found the perfect picture to illustrate them. They're Fluevog's and they're divine. Although, I probably wouldn't be able to get me feet into them, let alone walk in them. But that doesn't matter because they are the epitome of Bossy Boots, and whenever I'm in that kickin' ass and takin' names frame of mind, that's what I'll picture on my feet...even if I'm wearing Birkenstocks.

The Slutty Superhero

So... it gets hot in Toronto. Hot and really humid. And we don’t have air conditioning, but even if we did, I would put it on as a last resort because we’re not rich, and the provincial gov’t decided it would be cool (get it?) if they hiked up hydro prices during the day - when everyone uses it. I have a whole other rant about that clusterfuck.

Anyway. It was hot and it was humid, and I had the curtains drawn to help keep the heat out. And I was wearing a cute pair of boy-short underwear with a tank top. It was hot, people. And no one could see me.

So... I was making dinner, because I’m nice like that and Stuart came home and the first thing out of his mouth was, “You look like a slutty superhero.” And then he laughed. Not in a mean way. More like he was laughing at his perceived cleverness.

I, however, was not amused.

“What do you mean I look like a slutty superhero? What exactly does that mean? That I fuck my way out of bad situations?”

He had the sense to realize that he was treading on very thin ice, choosing to mumble something that sounded vaguely like he needed a drink and went to change out of his work clothes. Well, Stuart... you can bet you won’t be experiencing any of my superpowers for the next week.