A couple weekends ago, Farmboy had a sale on lobster so my mom decided to treat us to a nice surf n' turf meal. I invited Matt to the dinner and he accepted even though it would be his first lobster experience; a lobster virgin, if you will. This impressed me because trying new food can be intimidating to some, especially when you run the risk of accidentally hitting your girlfriend's parents with a lobster claw.

Fortunately, no one was hit with a lobster claw this time but watching Matt take on the lobster made me more alert to how truly odd lobster-eating is. The different techniques and tools needed to enjoy a full lobster is baffling! My family doesn't eat lobster very often so we only have very modest supplies when it comes to eating lobster.  Besides our very own hands, we had a pair of lobster crackers that we used to help break the hard outer shell. At one point, I was desperate to use a pair of kitchen scissors to help me and, since my mom would not allow "scissors" and "lobster" in the same sentence, I resorted to drop-kicking my lobster into submission. When I wasn't using my pro-wrestling skills, I did try to master the art of the lobster crackers. In theory, it's easy to use this tool. You place the lobster claw in the middle then squeeze to break it. Open to find lobstery goodness. In practice, the lobster crackers are a joke. If you do manage to make a crack, it is usually only a tease and never big enough or in the right place to ever give you a clean, easy break. Another scenario if you make a crack is that what seems like a gallon of water comes gushing out of it. At this one particular dinner, the juices created a perfect arc from the claw to Matt's side of the table. The rest of the time instead of the lobster cracking its slippery surface escapes the crackers and ends up in rather inopportune places. Everytime we have lobster, my parents mention a date they went on to a lobster place where one of my dad's lobster claws ended up on the table of diners next to them. What a romantic evening!

I find it funny that in a society I consider to be relatively proper in terms of eating habits, we have adopted quite an uncharacteristic affinity for lobster. It is (usually) completely unacceptable to use your hands instead of designated utensils, make any sort of noise with your body (i.e. slurping, burping), and even put your elbows on the table (though my parents never enforced this rule because, like me, they don't find elbows all that offensive). How does lobster fit into this etiquette schema?! Okay, don't lick your fingers, don't use your hands to pick up your food... except if it's a red, boiled shellfish then you can practically gnaw the shell off and suck the meat out. Even more, people go out to eat lobster... in public. I'm comfortable eating lobster in front of my parents but they also changed my diapers when I wasn't on solid food (think about it). I would not go to a restaurant that actual people frequent and order a lobster. To me, this sounds like an SNL skit about people making an ass of themselves. 

While we were eating, I began to wonder if anyone can eat lobster gracefully. Then it dawned on me the main point in lobster etiquette is to throw all etiquette out the window. I could tell that my lobster (get it? Friends?) was having a hard time with how uncouth and unattractive dismembering a shellfish for meat is. I also knew that, like my first few experiences with lobster, it's disheartening. I find lobster is a food that grows on you everytime you eat it. My first few times eating lobster I felt like it was way too much work for such little reward. I mean, the whole balancing act of getting the meat is more cardio than I generally get in a weeks time all for a handful or so of meat. I have grown more fond of lobster, though I should end this post by saying that I enjoy crab so much more. And so ends the tale of my boyfriend losing his lobster virginity to me.

I had today off from work so instead of bustling around this morning, I got to take it easy and watch my favorite morning talk shows (see: Ellen and The View, though the latter is getting pretty boring). I started to get thirsty so I headed upstairs to get a drink when I see Quincy standing there which isn't too abnormal. I walk around the corner into the dark living room and see Molly's face. I say hi to her and she immediately starts whining, which is not typical of her. At a closer look, I see that Molly is stuck between the couch and the wall/window. I then did what any loving dog owner would do in this situation: I grabbed the camera and took a picture.

I'm not a terrible dog owner; I knew she wasn't hurt, just a little alarmed. She currently had her two front paws up on the back of the couch, attempting to hop over it and onto the floor. This was never going to happen, nor am I capable of lifting her up over the couch. I pulled the couch out from the wall/window so she could hop onto the floor and walk out. She had no idea what I was trying to get her to do and my pulling the couch out only made her much more panicked. I tried lifting her paws off the back of the couch so she'd be forced to put them down on the ground, but she was gripping onto the couch with her nails. Knowing everything I was doing was just making her more scared, I squeezed myself onto the floor where I was hoping she would jump down to. After she saw me on the floor, she understood how she could get out and did so.

As soon as she was out, Quincy, who is very maternal with Molly, started barking and yelping in anger and relief. Molly grabbed one of her dozens of toys and started victory lapping around the house with happiness. At one point, she ran towards me and, all 55 pounds of her, bounced onto my lap and gave me an appreciative kiss. I was thankful at that moment that due to dogs' poor short term memory, my baby wouldn't remember me taking a picture instead of rescuing her.

My dad's present to me after recovering from wisdom teeth extraction.

This is literally the best poutine I've ever had and, believe me, I've had my fair share of poutine. The chip wagon that created this work of art is called Crispy's and is located in the parking lot of Canadian Tire on Merivale and Hunt Club. It will be a rebirth for your tastebuds.

just asked me to slice a roast for her. I don't even know how to cook a roast; wait, I don't even like roasts, why would I know how to slice one? I have roast angst right now.

Mommy and Molly with matching hair. It looks like they're both stressed out.

I put Incredibad by The Lonely Island (Andy Samberg *swoon*) onto my iPod and have been listening to it non-stop, including while I was making pretzels (yes, I'm pretzel-obsessed) today. Just as I started making them, my parents got home from a walk at the dog park. My mom is in on The Lonely Island as she's seen a few of the videos, not because she's innately cool like that but because I've forced her to. My dad, however, probably thinks I'm referring to the movie Castaway when I talk about The Lonely Island. He steps in just as Natalie's Rap starts and my dad grunts at the vulgarity of the song, totally not getting the irony of Natalie Portman being a Harvard graduate, humanitarian, etc. As a result, he's been giving me weird looks all day, like he's trying to figure out why popular music these days revolves around boat rides and premature ejaculation.

Maybe it's because I was the first daughter and grand-daughter and therefore was never forced to take hand-me-downs but I really love when people pass off old clothes or accessories to me now. I loved borrowing clothes from friends when I was younger because it would be a reminder of that person throughout the day. When I was a preteen, I would routinely steal my mom's scarves in the winter to wear to school because her scent made me feel safe while I was very much in an awkward and anxious stage in my life. Since then, when friends and family have been getting rid of clothes, I love looking through them and thinking of ways I can make them my own.

Last Thursday, I spent the evening at my grand-parent's house catching up with them and having dinner. At some point, my grandmother starts going through boxes of old accessories she's saved. In it, she finds a black and dark green plaid hat, similar to a beret and a bow-tie (why my grandmother had a bow-tie, I'll never know) of the same material. I never thought I was a hat person, but I actually think I can pull this one off. And I still don't think I'm a bow-tie person but I did it up Blair Waldorf style and now it's a headband! My grandmother and grandfather looked at each other and immediately both said I reminded them of my great-grandmother who, like me, loved dressing up and experimenting with different looks. I love how whenever I wear either of these things, I have these memories to take with me and maybe one day I can pass them down to my daughters and grand-daughters. On Mother's Day, I wore the headband to my grandmother's house and her face lit up when she saw me. I know that she appreciates the hand-me-downs as well.

White Fury, also known as Quincy, is Red Bull's fiercest contender as demonstrated by the picture on the right.

When I was 12, my friend and I were really into watching WWE (then known as WWF). Miraculously, this fascination has resurfaced but this time I've dragged Mat into it. After creating my own moniker and theme song (both of which I will eventually reveal on this blog), my mom and I got creative making wrestling names for the dogs. Here I present to you Red Bull, sometimes referred to as Molly.

Amazing as Photoshop is, I could not get rid of my mother's hideous decorating and for that I apologize.

My cousin at Christmas.

Last weekend was definitely the low point of my past year. It took me a whole week to write this post because I feel like I'm admitting defeat on something I don't really have a say on. The past year has been a delightful reprieve from the depression that has plagued me for the majority of my teen years. Turning 20 this past August, I thought perhaps it was a distant memory from the past, a result of tumultuous teen hormones. This was both hypocritical and foolish because, as I've said many times before, I do not believe depression is something of which you can be cured. This is not as pessimistic as it sounds because I do believe that for many your coping mechanisms are better defined and you learn your own warning signs much better.

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I considered not even writing about last week. To tell you the truth, I had to call Matt to get him to jog my memory about what I/we did last week. It was warm but there was literally no sun. I do not fare well when I don't have a good intake of vitamin D and was, therefore, quite gloomy. I would say it's the most depressed I've been in a very long while, but, luckily, it was nowhere close to the same severity it was 3 or 4 years ago. I described it to Matt as feeling like I was on anti-depressants: very lethargic, unhappy, lazy, and no energy whatsoever. It feels like I just went through the motions. Well, I didn't even do that since I skipped every class except one in which I had a midterm. I spent most of the week feeling sorry for myself and wishing for the end of February (which always gives me some degree of the blues). There were a few highlights though which compelled me to blog about it.

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A few months ago, when logging onto Facebook, I notice in the suggested friends area that my grandfather got a Facebook. My GRANDFATHER. I was really torn up on whether I should add him or not. Whenever I told people this, they got understanding looks because they figured I didn't want him to see/read anything incriminating on my page. That is not the case at all. I'm extremely open, and if you want to know something, I will tell you 99.9% of the time, usually in more detail than you wanted. I just thought it was strange that my 60-something grandfather was using Facebook. I eventually did add him though.

This week, I got a friend request from someone whose name I didn't even faintly recognize. Thankfully, included in the friend request was a message saying, "I'm ____'s grandson." Okay, I barely even know _____ (let's call her Mary). Mary is my mother's cousin, and I'm not even sure if I've ever met her. Then her preteen grandson wants to add me. I have no idea how he knows who I am, considering I've taken my father's last name and, as I just mentioned, I've never, or barely, met them! Long story short, I added the kid because I feel bad pressing "Ignore" for an 11-year-old who claims we're distantly related.

A couple of hours later, I get another friend request. I'm hoping it's my estranged best friend I've been hoping would make the effort to contact me to apologize for all his asshole-ness, and alas, it's what's-her-face's DAUGHTER. I promptly ignored that request. Today, she sent the friend request a second time. Facebook common sense tells us that when someone ignores your friend request, you do not request again. If you're really that desperate, maybe send a message. Am I the only one who knows these unwritten rules?

Maybe it's because I don't really understand the importance of family. Okay, that sounds worse than it is. You do need family as you're growing up, if only to provide you with your bare necessities. I'm just not one of those people who is hung up on the whole "blood is thicker than water" because that's ridiculous. I'm very glad that I genuinely like many of my blood family members. However, I believe it is absolutely possible to create your own family if your blood relatives are jerks. So, when my mom's cousin's grandson and daughter try to add me, and do the whole, "I'm family!" spiel, it gets on my nerves. If anyone's going to pull that with me, I'd rather it be some long-lost relatives still living in Norway, offering me a place to live. Olga, if you're reading this, that's your cue.

I haven't been posting, I know. This has been a hectic week, ish. Tomorrow I have a midterm as well which explains why I'm posting this because I think of any excuse not to study.

Matt is sick, so last night we made a delicious hamburger soup for supper. It had a friggen plethora of vegetables in it, and hamburger, obviously. We put in taco seasoning mix and tomato soup for the broth, along with water. I never know how skilled soup makers get their soup to be salty enough because ours never is, so we always have to pour the salt shaker in our bowl. I mean, while it was cooking I shook that salt shaker like 20 times in the pot, and nothing. Oh well.

Yesterday my mom and I went to Bulk Barn. I had never been there and was very surprised at how cool it was! I thought it was only candy, for some reason, but it had a lot of sweet stuff. They had this energy drink called Jungle Juice that had a picture of Donkey Kong on it and I'm going to get it next time. I only took one picture inside because I'm always afraid it will be againt store rules or something and a big, burly man will come over to confiscate my camera. I really liked the visual of all the spices, etc. in the plastic containers. But I still haven't figured out the intricacies (anything) about my camera so the pictures are severely subpar. I wish I intuitively knew everything about photography because I'm too lazy to actually learn. Boo.

Wish me luck on my midterm - more about the textbook for that class and how I'm surprised it wasn't written in like 500 A.D. by some bitter, old white guy.

I will make this short and sweet, like myself, because I am very tired.

Matt's grandfather died of a heart attack on Thursday, so our weekend was spent in the funeral home. It was a sad time, but also a good time because I got to get to know his family on a deeper, and more vulnerable level. I was lucky enough to have met Pepere a couple of times and he was a man that made it so easy to like him. He was personable and laid back, two traits I very much admire in a person. Like the children he raised, he  was extremely welcoming and engaging, accepting me immediately without any judgment. I wish I had the chance to know him better; it seems from the stories I heard about him that we had a lot of things in common. He died suddenly, as he always wanted, and was very peaceful when he died. I'm sure he is now looking down at all his children and (19!!) grandchildren with immense pride and love.

Being the optimist I am, here is another good thing about this weekend... my boyfriend looks damn good in a suit.

Christmas 2008 tree before Santa came. Notice that, after 20 years of Christmas, I finally got my mom to resist tinsel, my nemesis.

Sunday night, I was going out for dinner with Matt's family, but my parents were having veal parmesan at my house. We were talking about veal, and the controversies surrounding it. I used to eat veal when I was a child and, without even knowing what it was, stopped eating it because the taste and texture were a little too gamey for me. During this discussion, one of my parents mentioned that the breaded veal they buy is actually a pork schnitzel.

Really? Storebought veal is actually pork? They said that it says veal on the box, but if you check the ingredients, you'll see it's actually pork. I already didn't believe that idiocy (sorry, guys), but I had to check the box myself. I mean, if I went to the grocery store and picked up something that said tofu on the box, and then checked the ingredients and it was actually chicken, I'd be fucking pissed - well, I wouldn't because I love chicken, but you get the example. Particularly because pork isn't exactly a widely accepted meat. If a Muslim, or Jew, or someone who just didn't eat pork, for personal rather than religious or cultural reasons, wanted to get a nice piece of veal and realized it was pork after dinner, I expect they would march down to M&M and sue their sorry asses.

I confronted my parents about this and showed them the Ingredients part of the box which, of course, indicated that sometimes veal is just veal. My mom just shrugged and said, "Well, it tastes great." It made me laugh that they went through so much trouble to forget that they were eating a baby cow to just wholeheartedly embrace it when faced with the truth. Hey, whatever works.

After not receiving the Dark Knight for Christmas because my mom figured Matt would get it for me, and Matt assumed my mom would get it for me, my sweet boyfriend went out on Boxing Day to get it for me at which time I watched it for the fourth time. I was so happy I had the DVD of it because that means I could watch it with my parents as everyone needs a little Dark Knight in their lives (minus Christian Bale because he sucks, plus a lot more Joker). For some reason, both my parents acted like 3-year-olds in Toys 'R Us after just being told "no" (wait, parents never say "no" anymore...), i.e. they acted like little bitches not wanting to watch it.

WHO DOESN'T WANT TO WATCH THE DARK KNIGHT?!

Now my dad is obstinate most of the time just to be piss me off, so I forgot about him but my mom is a whole other story. When I asked her why she was so against the Dark Knight, she said she didn't think it looked like a good movie. Seriously? Okay, Mom, everyone who has ever watched this movie had a religious experience - let's not undermine this fact. She then said she just doesn't like Batman movies. So I thought maybe she didn't like how campy the first Batman movies were, and I could understand that. She then said that she hated every Batman movie except the last one where George Clooney plays Batman and Arnie is Mr. Freeze. This made me laugh because that is the cheesiest movie I've ever seen.

To save some time and stupidity, she watched it with me last night (except the last 45 minutes because we were falling asleep), and she loved it. Of course.