{people of winnipeg}

If this guy was the weather man on my news station, I would absolutely tune in every night. He tells you exactly what's coming with the exact right amount of urgency, and shares some good survival tips too ("ORDER YOUR PIZZA!").

Incidentally, my city was hit with this storm yesterday, and it was just as bad as he said it would be. Credibility.

 Also, this is my favourite bit from the comments section below the video:

{the best thing i have ever witnessed or ever will witness, probably}

I don't overly enjoy grocery shopping.

I heard once that the handles of the shopping carts are germier than public toilet seats. Is that true? Do you think that's true? Because if it is, then the grocery store is just one huge bathroom, right? I mean, I'm not trying to be neurotic but...I just am.

And if you think about it long enough, you will be too.

But the point is not that. Not entirely, anyway.

The point is a little bit that, and a little bit other things.

It's the huge carts and the tiny aisles and the spending of so much money for one week's worth of food and the freezer section and the dumb magazines by the checkout. It's accidentally selecting the leaky milk jug and the carton with the broken egg, and it's forgetting to bring your cloth bags and that coupon for a free pack of yogurt that expired yesterday.

And still, I go. Obviously. Or else everyone in my household would die and that would ultimately be worse than grocery shopping, bacteria-ridden carts or no.

So it was that Monday afternoon found me at the grocery store pushing a full cart to my car and thinking, as usual, about germs. It was then that I witnessed the best thing I have ever witnessed, or ever will witness, I think.

There was an old man with a waxed moustache, white-haired and bespectacled and hunched, pushing his cart to his own car, as slowly and deliberately as if it were a cement block instead of milk and bread and eggs. A few steps back, just as carefully and painfully, an old woman with a cane and a small cloth bag made her way to her car. I saw him notice her, and I saw him smile. I thought that was cute.

And then, an amazing and magical and fantastic and beautiful and weird and awkward and sweet thing happened.

The old man began to sing. To the old woman. At the top of his lungs.

The song was  "Hello! Ma Baby", an old Tin Pan Alley song that I recognized from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. He belted out the first two lines before forgetting the words.

"Hello! Ma baby, hello! Ma honey, hello! ma ragtime girl; send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart's on fire!"

Here, he paused, turned, looked at her, one hand on his shopping cart. She blinked at him. He smiled broadly, considered, continued anyway.

"Blah blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah! Blah blah blah blah blah blahhhhh--"

I stood there, just a few feet away, grinning like an idiot, both hands on my germy shopping cart. At this point, she must have realized that he didn't know any more of the words. She smiled at me, sheepishly. She leaned on her cane, she let the bag rest on the ground, and she started singing too, in harmony with his cheap scats.

"...Oh baby, telephone, and tell me I'm your oooooowwwwwwwwwwwwn!" 

My heart went off like fireworks.

There was a moment of silence then. She picked up her cloth bag. He nodded. "That was wonderful," he said. "You have a beautiful voice."

"Well. I know I shouldn't quit my day job," she said quietly. I think that was a joke, because she looked too old to have a day job.

I, the only audience they had in the empty parking lot, clapped for them. Then we all loaded our groceries into our separate cars and, presumably, went home.

Best grocery shopping trip ever.

{art bound books}

This morning I found out that the Dunlop Art Gallery here in Regina is hosting an art journal project.

The gallery supplies a blank, 6x8 sketchbook which you fill up according to one of the ten given themes and bring back within a year. Paint, draw, doodle, sketch, write, stamp, drool on it; they don't care. The sketchbooks will then be put on display in the art gallery, to be treated with a bunch of respect and admiration by all of the gallery's pretentious art seers for years to come. It's free to participate; all you need is a library card and some good ideas. And your work gets to be in an art gallery--which basically makes you an artist, doesn't it?

Yes. It does.

Plus, the creative muscles in your mind need a little stretching, don't they?

Yes. They do.

You might not know this about me, but this is the kind of thing that makes my blood fizz. Within half an hour of knowing this project existed, I was at the Dunlop checking out my own Art Bound Book, nodding enthusiastically at the lady helping me out and saying, "This is great! What a good idea!" over and over.

So. If you live in the area: GO GET YOURSELF A BOOK.
If you don't: definitely check around and see if you can find an art gallery or library in your area doing something like this. Or move here.

And then click on the links below for some sketchbook inspiration to get yourself going.

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{a list: good songs with violins, trumpets, and/or cellos in them}

I mentioned yesterday that I made a list of songs I like with violins, trumpets and/or cellos in them, and Jen asked if she could see it. So I thought I'd make a playlist out of it on Grooveshark, and you can listen to that by clicking here.

It's not extensive, and some of the songs only have trumpet, or only violin, or just a bit of cello, but it's a start if you need some strings and horns in your morning. And, I mean, don't you? To make you think about sad and beautiful things? So you can lay down dramatically on the floor in the middle of your kitchen and pretend that you're in the middle of a hopeless break-up scene?

If that's not the right way to start your day off, I don't know what is.

{lately}

It is Monday morning and it's one degree celsius and this coffee is cold. It has been cold for two hours. It's still good.

I'm making lists: a grocery list, a Christmas present list, a list of people I need to call or email, a list of good, catchy songs with violins and trumpets and cellos in them, and a list of all of the sweet, miscellaneous things I need to do today. All of my lists are very long and very good and contain things like, piano lessons at 3:45 and Starts With Them, Ends With Us, by Dan Mangan.

I've been needing to make lists and create some semblance of organization around here lately because on Saturday I realized that, all of a sudden, I have five jobs. Five. Like, real jobs that pay real money, as opposed to sweeping the kitchen or cleaning the toilet.

This is fantastic because only a few months ago, I was at a bachelorette party introducing myself to some girls I'd never met and when they asked what I did I had to tell them that I didn't have a job at the moment {piano lessons were done for the summer}. I made a stupid joke about being irresponsible and lazy and then the girl beside me was like, "Oh. I'm a neuroscientist." {Actually, I think she might have said "nurse". But still.}

Anyway. This is life at the moment. Lists and jobs and time-slot-shuffling. It's fantastically chaotic. But, somehow, not, also.

I'm happy when I'm busy.

{AN ARMY OF REALLY SHORT GHOSTS: a true and scary story for your halloween}

It was a dark night. I don't remember if it was stormy or not, but I know for a fact that it was dark, because it was night. I was in grade seven, and it was a school night, and it was midnight, and I wasn't asleep yet because I thought it was uncool to go to bed before midnight. Seriously.

I'm so glad that "coolness" is no longer more enticing than "sleep".

But the point is not that.

The point is that I was crawling into bed after a three-hour phone conversation with my best friend and, having discussed all facets of all of the current issues {friends, boys, and school}, was very tired, and very ready to sleep.

I laid there for a bit, and then started thinking about ghosts.

There was a girl in my class when I was in grade five who always talked about them. Always, always, every day. She'd said they came out at midnight, which didn't bother me then, because I didn't know yet that staying up that late was a cool factor determinant and went to bed pretty faithfully hours before. I'd said she was making it up. She'd said she'd seen them. I'd said there weren't any in my house. She'd said they were everywhere. I'd said I didn't believe in ghosts; she'd said that that made them mad. I'd said that if they didn't exist, they couldn't be made mad. She'd said they were going to probably murder me in my sleep for saying that.

At recess, on the brightly lit playground, dangling from the monkey bars and feeling especially invincible, I'd usually retort with something brave and mean sounding like, "WELL GOOD. THEN I WON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU TALK ABOUT THEM ALL THE TIME."

But then, at home in my dark room, I'd hide under my covers every time the house creaked, and run screaming down the hall to my parents' room when my frayed nerves just couldn't take it any longer.

In grade six, the girl laid off the ghost stories just slightly, and by grade seven I was sleeping a little better. I still didn't believe in ghosts, but alone in my dark room at 12 AM, I sometimes thought about them.

Anyway.

So I was laying there thinking about ghosts, the clock read 12:04, and the room was getting stuffy and hot. I couldn't sleep, even though I was so desperately tired. I pushed back the covers. Something caught my eye.

A glowing pair of eyes, staring up at me from under the blankets. 

I screeched like an injured cat. Every hair on my head stood on end and my body leapt out of bed almost involuntarily, before my brain could register anything about what was happening.

If you're thinking "pet", you're wrong. We had no pets in the house. If you're thinking "nightmare", you're also wrong about that, because I wasn't sleeping. I was more awake than you've ever been in your entire life. If you're thinking "ghost", then you're thinking what I was thinking, and you'd have been right where I was, on the other side of the room trying to calculate a way to get to the door and down the hallway without having to pass the Ghostbed.

Cowering in the corner of the room, wishing my body had bolted in the opposite direction, I strained my eyes to see into the inky dark. We lived on a farm; there were no streetlights to light my room even a little at night. I could hear coyotes howling in the distance. {Coyotes sound like ghosts, did you know that?} I became aware of a presence to my right and my heart leapt clean out of my chest. The eyes were there, embedded into the wall of blackness, hovering about three feet off the ground, and there were more than two of them. 

IT WAS AN ARMY OF REALLY SHORT GHOSTS.

Now I ran. Past the bed, out the door. My parents' room was down the stairs, through the living room, through the kitchen, through the dining room, around the corner. It seemed impossibly far. I stubbed my toe on the stair railing, I slid down the last few stairs on the heels of my feet, I banged my elbow on the fridge as I flew past. I saw glowing eyes in my peripheral; they were literally right on my tail.

Literally. Right on my tail.

Literally.

I stopped, two feet from my parents' bedroom door.

I looked down.

You know when you're so relieved that you just start sobbing?

My mom came out of her bedroom then, and I told her what had happened and she thought I was maybe sleep-walking or completely out of my mind. And this is the part that I hesitate to share because of obvious reasons... But I feel like grade seven is far enough in the past that it's not so shameful {?} to admit that, somehow unbeknownst previously to me, the little smiley faces on my Boxer Joe pyjama shorts glowed in the dark. And that when you stand in front of a three-way mirror in the pitch dark in glow in the dark polka-dot pyjama shorts, somewhat hysterical and quite tired, the effect is a teensy bit similar to a wee little army of really short ghosts.

So.

Happy Halloween.

I used to be adamantly against smart phones. "Robots!" I said. "They know too much!" I said. "I don't have that kind of money!" I said. But, you know mostly the thing about the money.

And then, in a weird little twist of fate called a Christmas present, I became the owner of an iPhone. 

I still think they know too much, and am a little weirded out at the intelligence and abilities of the little computer I carry around in my purse, but I can't leave home without it. I mean, it might be a huge conspiracy, someone trying to rule the world and get a camera inside the homes of everyone in the world and get everyone's bank information and, ultimately, control of our Starbucks gift cards... but I'm past caring because it's all just so dang convenient and fun. 

But the point is not that. The point is look at the sweet apps you can download {for free, most of them} to enhance your already ridiculously privileged iPhone existence! Or, for today at least, here are four of my favourites.

1. Photosynth 

This one is a camera app for making panoramas or fish-eye shots, capturing a lot more than you could with just your iPhone's built-in camera on its own. It's actually really easy to use once you get the hang of it.

2. Songza

I use this one every morning. You open it up, pick your activity, pick your mood, and it plays a custom playlist of good music for you. It's fantastic and free and I've found some wonderful new music with it.

3. Starbucks Every coffee shop should have an app like this. You can store your gift cards on it and scan your phone at the point of purchase instead of rifling through cash or whipping out your debit card. It has a billion other features too, including a filtered search engine (for if you're specifically looking for a Starbucks with wifi, or if you only want to find stores open past 6 pm, etc).

4. Cinemagram
This app is ridiculous. And I love it. It's Instagram's weird uncle. Instead of taking a picture, you take a short video, and then you decide which part of the video you want to animate and which part you want to keep as a still. I love it, even though it's awfully creepy.

What are your top four?

{my own head}

Life is just the right amount of exciting around here right now.

I'm trying some more new things and learning some more new things and exploring some more new places and meeting some more new people and remembering to get the right amount of sleep and drinking a tad more coffee, but not too much. That's a good combination.

It's fun when you start to figure out your own head; how it functions, what it needs, what it can do, what it can't, when you should push it, when you shouldn't. That's probably the first step to becoming a rational adult!

I'm on my way.

{free shipping}

Free shipping in the society6 shop until Sunday. 

Click the picture, if you want to.

{how royal canoe simultaneously wrecked and made my day}

Today was going to be a ridiculously good day. I was going to walk down to the bakery, spend some time in the sun, go for lunch with Kiersten, teach some piano lessons, and then finish off at The Exchange with Royal Canoe.

Obviously, the show was the main thing. Have you heard these guys? They happened in Winnipeg, of all places. I don't even know what genre they are; it's like they've collected the discarded scraps of convention and technique and sound from under the tables of varied hip-hop and indie and pop artists and sewn them seamlessly into their own giant patchwork of an album. They're mad. It's fantastic. Their live show? Anticipated to be the musical highlight of my month. Case in point below: the video that made my day. Watch all the way to the end for goosebumps and just ignore the guys in the balaclavas if you're prone to nightmares. However.

This morning I woke up to snow and the realization that the show was actually scheduled for November 23. Not October 23. And then the further and worse realization that the one in November has been cancelled. I almost crawled back into bed {for a year}. Dear Royal Canoe: Why are you doing this to me? Please change your mind.

As for tonight, I guess I'll just listen to their Extended Play album that I downloaded from Noisetrade {check it out and get it for yourself here} over and over as loud as my iPod will allow and cry into my cereal. And there will be no milk, because it's too cold to run out and get some.

*This post was also published on The Rooster today. Jump over there and read it again?

{lab rats and fondue}

On Saturday night, Liz and I kidnapped our friend Bethany from Boston Pizza, where she was having a quiet birthday supper with her family. Liz blindfolded her and led her to my waiting car where she was greeted by two lab rats who were trying to take over the world and wanted her dead.

Because I figure, if you're going to do the whole "kidnap your friend and take her to a surprise party" thing, you should do it with a wee bit of, like, flair. Or something. I'm only a little ashamed to admit that I spent Friday evening home along talking to myself in helium voices and recording it on garage band. Only a little. You should've been there.

Video Evidence:
I'll save you the ten minutes of tinny Jeopardy music and Bethany saying, "I don't know!" over and over {it was pretty cute, but I feel like she's been through enough} and just tell you that she got the answer right, saved the world, and arrived at the party safe and on time.

I'm thankful for silly friends.  {PS: The guy mentioned is just someone Bethany and I both know from our childhood. He wore a puffy yellow vest every time I ever saw him and was a tad obnoxious. In his defence, he was in grade 8 when I met him, and what grade 8 guy is not a tad obnoxious? Guy: if you ever come across this and somehow figure out it's you, no hard feelings, ok? I edited out your name because I feel like Bethany would be a little mortified if I didn't. I feel like Bethany's going to be a little mortified anyway. Oh well.}