Paint Chips and Dip

The latest renovation Husband and I are attempting to complete with a minimum of fuss or bloodshed is the downstairs bedroom which was painted a murderous red by the Filthingtons, who I am gradually coming to picture as a roving family of butchers. I cannot fathom any other reason why anyone would select for the walls of their home a colour I have come to refer to as "Sucking Chest Wound Red".

So far it has been fairly smooth sailing. We peeled from the walls the 4 square feet of cork board that had been glued on with industrial strength adhesive. We filled the holes and patched to space the cork board damaged. We sanded and swept and did all the other things one does in order to prep a room for surgery. And then took a nap because we were up late the night before playing Flip Cup with a bunch of Marines.

It took less time than we thought to transform the Murder Room into my new library. Husband and I worked very hard. We are  sore and tired, yet pleased with the results. We have also come up with an effective system for home reno that saves time and wear and tear on the marriage. Because it works so well I am going to pass it along to you:

Buy a house that doesn't need renovating.

Je suis un artiste?

I am headed to a meeting of the Cold Lake Art Society tonight. Just to clarify, I do not identify myself as an artist in any medium, including reality. However Husband, in his enthusiasm for my silly doodlings, chatted me up to some people we met at an art show last winter and now I am invited to attend as a guest or, as I like to put it, a fraud. 

I have no portfolio prepared and I'm hoping to blend in with the wall next to the hummus dip.  

This is a fine example of art that I did not make.

Death by Elocution

Dear Parent,

Never let me know you hate it when it's pronounced...

Nuculer

Sangwitch

Liberry

Suposably

Exspresso

Affidavid

Volumptuous

Triathalon

...because you'd be amazed how often I can work all of these words into a simple conversation about your child's day.

I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride it where I like.

I'm slowly getting a feel for what it means to live in this part of Alberta. This morning I learned a few more lessons when I hit the pavement for my first road cycle of the season. Nothing too crazy, just a short loop to suss out the road conditions and maybe spot a few new side trails to walk the pooches. 
Returning home after an hour, I feel as though I have achieved something very special, as though some sort of award is now mine to claim. I couldn't have done it on my own.

To the three motorists who gave me the courtesy of a full lane when passing, thank you.
To the rest of the hundred or so pick up trucks who sped up and refused to budge even one centimeter, thank you for not actually clipping me. Or maybe your aim was bad.
To the Grand Am who honked and shouted "Nice tits!", thank you.
To the on-coming black Ford pick up, license number (deleted) who swerved into my lane and deliberately forced me into the ditch, I sincerely hope we meet again when I am wearing my cleats. 

A Hippy's Lament

A million, million dragonflies, bodies blue and beautiful, take flight from sun dappled willow branches.

Garter snakes and grasshoppers scatter, -swish!- into the reeds at the edge of the muddy trail.

Beaver head for cover, sleek and swift in the dark water, slapping the water in affront.

At the pond's edge moose crash, thinking the trees a safer bet.

Yet another photo is ruined.

Low flying jets are stupid.

Seen here: nothing at all. Thanks Maple Flag.