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If I’m going to go bald I want to go bald everywhere. Leg hair is hair too.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone and they start talking in that slow calming everything’s going to be ok, just take a deep breath while I call the nice men with the valium voice and you’re like, oooh is someone freaking out? Then you realize you’re the only other one in the conversation?

I went to the Doctor and apparently:

• Hair loss is a symptom of anemia.
• Exhaustion is a symptom of anemia.
• A balding, tired me doesn’t sound as calm and collected as I think I do when asking why I can see my own scalp.

Really, hair loss is to be expected? By who? I’m too young and too female for a comb over, Doctor.

In good news the doctor doubled my iron prescription and promised that my hair will start to grow back when my iron levels return to normal. And, while my bathroom counter looks like a medicine chest, there’s still lots of room for the mannequin head in case he’s wrong. Off to buy a wig now. I may go blond.

Writing Exercise:

Point One:

I saw a great comedian perform last night. (On YouTube. That counts as live right?) One of his jokes was about sharing the crazy; flaunting it really. Like walking up to someone on the street and saying “peanut butter is the answer” then walking away. Perfect. I may actually try this, although I intend to use bananas instead of peanut butter because I’m not a comedy plagiarist and because bananas, right?

Point Two: (I swear it will connect to point one eventually.)

We all have things we’re self-conscious about. It could be those few extra holiday pounds, a nervous stutter or your steadily balding anemia scalp. Whatever your pain is, it’s usually worse in public wondering “are they staring at my head or just something interesting that can see through my thinning hair, god I miss the ‘80s when my hair was four inches taller and opaque”.

I don’t even necessarily mind that people might be thinking about my faults or pointing them out. The worse part for me is thinking that they might be wondering if I know. “Hey, think that lady knows you can count the number of hairs left in her widow’s peak?”

Point Three: That person, the one who breaks and just announces a litany of her self-loathing flaws to everyone she passes on the street would make an amazing character.

“I ate red sauce at lunch and now there’s an arrow shaped stain pointing at my left breast.”

“I gained eight pounds in four days. Personal best.”

“The tan line on my ring finger used to be a ring. I’m. Divorced.”

Happy writing.

PS. Bananas are the answer.

I’m stressed out studying for my French tests. I’m spending all of my spare minutes going through vocabulary lists and trying desperately to remember the difference between COI and COD. (I think it something about paying for deliveries.)

By Wednesday I’ll probably be bunched up in a corner randomly conjugating whatever verb I hear.

“Where’s Laura hiding?”

To hide – Cacher

Je cache
Tu caches
Elle cache
Nous cachons
Vous cachez
Ils cachent

Laura…what are you doing? To do – Fair (Argh, Irregular!)

Hopefully I’ll be gibbering in French.

Writing Exercise:

What is that person you pass on the street everyday, the one mumbling incoherently to themselves, had a reason for their particular brand of crazy? What if they were me or better yet someone really intelligent, who had gone overboard studying for a test or prepping for a meeting only to become stuck in revisions? (Help.) Happy writing.

Mmmm, unicorn.

From the diagram the flanks are clearly where hopes are stored but I can’t decide if dreams would be considered chuck or brisket. Mmmm, dreams.

I totally want this flask and I don’t even drink. Is it wrong to put crystal light in a flask?

Writing Exercise:

So you catch a Unicorn…

Do you take it to a butcher or try to field dress it yourself? I mean I’d hate to risk an unscrupulous butcher substituting a lower class of magical meat.

Chop. Chop. “Job’s done.” I can totally do this. Could someone just lift the heavy block up for me?

I know it’s been a hard day at work when I buy lotto tickets. (Lotto tickets may be a long shot but they are the only way you can ever buy pure hope. Sometimes I don’t check them for days so I can keep planning what I’d do with the money.)

I know it’s been a hard week when I start surfing job sites. (Oooh, look who’s hiring. Baby, can we move to Dubai?)

But it just hit a whole new level. This week I bought a homesteader magazine because of a story titled Making a living chopping wood. (I mean, I’ve got an ax and who doesn’t want to be their own boss?)

Personal affirmations:

• I am not a lumberjack.
• I will not quit my job to chop wood. (Oh, look an article on gold panning.)
• I will not quite my job to pan for gold.
• I love my job. (I actually do. Most days.)

Writing Exercise:

Ok, so maybe I’m not built for chopping wood full time…but that’s only one of my I’ve-had-a-bad-day dreams. (I also plan on being a cattle rancher and a bee keeper and several other unlikely things. BTW, I’m totally allergic to wood, cattle and bees…I think I see a pattern in my plans.) On the bad days do you dream about doing something else, anything else? When you want to run away, what do you plan? Do you own an ax? Happy writing.

Why yes, I am a clever girl.

Blond hairs on the chesterfield you say?  Total mystery. Now, let’s go chase that rodent. Nothing gets your mind off things like snorting through the weeds for a rat.

Jill’s humans are in Spain and we’re dog sitting. Let me just start by saying that she is a wonderful dog.

• She heels on a leash.
• She never barks.
• And she enthusiastically shakes hands and spins on the spots for treats. (Cleaver girl.)

She is not, however, as innocent as she looks.

I’m totally asleep, and I’ve been here all day. No really, I swear.

While I’ve only caught her on the couch once, the blond hairs and warm patch put a lie to her innocent “I’ve been in my basket all day” looks.

I’m on to you dog. Both humans in this house are brunettes.

I bet if she had thumbs she’d comb herself to eliminate the risk of furry evidence. (I can see her planning it now.)

PS. I just watched a documentary on guide dogs and apparently dogs, like humans, have a dominant hand…er, paw. Cool. For those wondering, Jill is left-pawed. (I totally tested her, and yes I do have too much time on my hands.)

Writing Exercise:

I think I prefer dumb dogs.  Dogs that barely know your gone and then when they realize you’re home get so excited they may run into a wall. Not that Jill isn’t lovely, but I can tell she’s thinking when I talk to her and even though she seems perfectly happy sleeping on her bed (and the couch) I can’t help but wonder if she gets bored and blames me. (I’ve been banned from giving her extra treats to make up for my guilty feelings.)

What if you found out your dog was smarter than you thought. Way smarter. Like has been barking out morse code messages for years and you just weren’t quite cleaver enough to get it. (It’s not that big of a stretch…Jill has creepily intelligent eyes and I couldn’t find my keys for like twenty minutes this morning. I swear, I put them right there.) Happy writing.

Grow little tomato plant, grow.

I came home from vacation to find:

1. No one at home makes my bed while I’m eating breakfast.
2. There are no buffets available in our building and the neighbours are less friendly that you’d think at 7am. (“For the last time Laura, this is my living room, not the Lido deck.”)
3. The chill in the air is no longer an overzealous AC unit. Booo, winter.

Bunker, dog park you need a special pass to access or just a vacant lot?

But, a few things made everything a bit easier.

1. Friends who were happy to see me.  (I missed you too…although I may miss the Lido deck more.)
2. Our furry houseguest. (Welcome, Jill.)
3. Finding a little bit of summer, clinging to chainlink in defiance of the season and lifted legs.

Writing Exercise:

My little tomato plant friend is growing at the very edge of a vacant lot that someone has carefully protected with a chain link fence (perfect for training wild tomatoes apparently). I walked by the empty lot, (furry friend in tow, imagining how awesome the site would be as a dog park and wondering how to get the dog over the fence).  I stopped to contemplate nature/inspect the fence for weak points when I realized that there wasn’t just one fence.  The perimeter fence encompassed another fence which surrounded a corrugated blue hut and a power pole.

Why a fence inside a fence?  Sure, the easy answer is the smaller fence came first, and the outside fence was just to keep out wayward dog walkers. Or…the double fence system is the first line of defence for a secret underground bunker hiding in plain sight. We may never know. (I had to get to work and Jill is surprisingly heavy and unwilling to be thrown over a fence, even to get to the potentially best dog park in the city.)

Happy writing.

In a sick twist of fate, or circumstance, or divine mockery, I was home for two days before being sent to Edmonton on business.

I tried to suggest that I could give the training virtually but apparently I’m invaluable. Or, my boss was getting even with me for going on the best vacation ever when she had to stay home.

Turns out it was neither. The real reason I was sent to Edmonton? I’m being tested. I arrived at my hotel to find a sea of stetsons and sign welcoming the Canadian Rodeo Championships. Seriously. Cowboys. I then spent three days riding in elevators with cut, abdominally triangular men whose job is to cling desperately to a bull with their thighs. WITH. THEIR. THIGHS.

“I will not grope a stranger. I will not grope a stranger. I will not grope a stranger.”

What’s next Universe?  A firefighting convention?  I only have so much self control.

“I’m happily married.  I’m happily married. I’m…chaps!”

PS. While I was in Edmonton I witnessed an actual bar fight. I had to jump out of the way of a falling drunk. The police came and the bouncer ended up with a huge lump on his head.  It was scary and it wasn’t even the scariest thing that happened that night. I’m not sure I love Edmonton.

PPS. Bouncers who’ve just had their asses kicked aren’t as appreciative as you’d expect when you offer to tell the police what happened during their beating.

Writing Exercise:

I have a weakness for men that I’m sure would make horrible husbands for me. (Cowboys for example. I’m allergic to cows, horses and hay.) Thankfully I also had (and have) a weakness for a man who makes an excellent husband. What’s your weakness? Are you being tested?

The dragon actually breathes fire. I. Want. I’m pretty sure it would be ok with Strata. We’re a pets friendly building. This counts, right?

Before we visited The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, Andre and I went onto Pottermore to be officially sorted by the Hat.

Andre answered the questions; he’s a Gryffindor. (Yay!) Then it was my turn.

I answered the questions sure in my Gryffindor future. I was confident the Hat would see my bravery.  Or on the off chance that it didn’t, the Hat was sure to recognize my intelligence and place my in Ravenclaw. Or at the very least identify my ambition and cry out Slytherin.

Our mascot is a badger. Isn’t that a rodent?

Imagine my shock when the great Sorting Hat flashed a yellow and black crest on my monitor and congratulated me on joining HUFFLEPUFF.

I’m Hufflepuff? I may never recover.

Thankfully the awesomeness of the being in the Wizarding World dulled my pain slightly.

• We rode a terrifying cart through Gringotts bank vaults. Universal staff took pity on us and let us cut lines twice (we were really short on time and the lines were really long).
• I bought more Honeydukes candy than is healthy for anyone. (“Next witch, wizard or muggle in line please.”)
• And, I met a Hogwarts student that gave me private magic lessons. (Turns out Andre is gifted at yet another thing that I need help with. Not that I’m bitter. At least I’m not a muggle.)

With the addition of the Wizarding World, Florida now runs a close second to the Sargasso Sea for my favourite place on Earth.

PS. Shopping for new (yellow) robes and having a magical mirror tell you that you look fabulous takes the sting out of being sorted into the wrong house.

PPS. Several friends read the description of Hufflepuffs and said that the Hat clearly saw into my soul. (Loyal and unafraid of toil. FINE!)

PPPS. I have been informed that the badger is the old world equivalent of a wolverine and you don’t screw with a badger.

If I can find out how, I’m totally buying one of these and so should every Hufflepuff.

I’m starting to feel better about my sorting experience.

More Awesomeness from my vacation

The goblin (sir) and I had a good chat in the money exchange building. I’m glad Universal decided to hire goblins…it really sells the experience. Jobs for magical creatures! Fair wages! S.P.E.W.!

Knockturn Alley. So creepy pitch black it was hard to take pictures. But on the upside, it was so scary there were very few children around.

OMG they have a real Hogwarts Express. The train actually takes you between Kings Cross and Hogsmead. I’m home.

Loads of unattended baggage. But Andre told me I wasn’t allowed to “adopt” any more pets.

I’m happy to say that I was not the only fully grown adult person who squeed and took pictures of everything I saw.

Writing Exercise:

I never wanted to leave The Wizarding World. But, unlike on the cruise ship (where there were no good places to hide from the TSA search parties) I think I could totally stay in Harry Potter land forever without anyone noticing.

1. All the staff wear the same student robes that I now own. (I’m not 100 percent sure that makes me staff…but I think I have an argument to make or at least a compelling disguise if found after hours.)
2. With age comes wisdom, and the ability to lie more convincingly. “No, I don’t think we have met. I’m new.”
3. Water rides + hand soap = shower facilities. (I’ve got it all figured out.)

Is there somewhere you would want to hide forever? Happy writing.