It's raining and I can't even have a cup of coffee.

I'm currently sitting at home on a cloudy, drizzly day in Toronto, while Ken is off meeting with an accountant to figure out his 2007/2008/2009 tax situation (oh, the things we forget to think about while living abroad...).  I'm going a little stir crazy sitting here all alone, as I've been holed-up in this apartment for nearly 48-hours with a stomach bug of some sort. My diet currently consists of soda crackers and ginger ale, which is only adding to my misery, but I can't eat or drink anything else without it flying out one end or the other. (Too graphic? Let's move on....)

In two-week-old news, I've been approved for permanent residency in Canada! Hurray! I thought it would take ages and ages for me to become "legal," but Immigration Canada has pleasantly surprised me with their promptness (I'll be thanking them with my tax dollars all too soon). Now I'm just waiting for my passport to be returned to me from the Canadian Consulate General in Seattle (of all places), then I'll be able to legally find a job! Booooo!

Aside from becoming legal and being disgustingly sick, I haven't been up to a whole lot lately. Ken has been working temp jobs here and there and I've become a master at couch potato-ness.  We did venture out to the zoo last week, which was a whole lot of fun. Zoo-Visiting-Tip: We've found that if you go to the zoo toward the end of the day and stay until closing time, you get to see the animals at their most active. They apparently know when it's time to go back inside and be fed, as most of them start pacing and getting agitated around the time the zoo closes its doors.

The rule doesn't apply to this particular giraffe, however. I'm pretty sure he stole that crate of hay, as the zookeepers walking by seemed perplexed as to how it had gotten in there. (I'm assuming this was a habit for him, though, as he appeared to be significantly chunkier than the other giraffes.)

In other, more recent news, we painted our apartment! We were getting sick of waking up every morning to blindingly-white walls, so we decided to give our place a little boost of color. Unfortunately, the "bark mulch" shade of paint we chose in the store turned out to be a purply, pinky, browny combination that neither of us is too fond of. We spent nearly ten hours on Saturday painting like mad, only to wake up the next morning to an atrocious color that had dried in streaks. We were quite dismayed when we realized a second coat would be needed, but we were hopeful that it would make the color a little less pukey.

Five additional hours later, we had streak-free walls, but the color had only improved slightly.

(Ken's face here adequately expresses the despair we felt when we realized all our labor had yielded icky results.) But what's done is done. I may not have much to do these days, but choosing a new paint color and spending another 15+ hours re-painting is simply out of the question. I don't mind saying that both Ken and I have our moments of creative-genius, so I'm sure we'll find a creative way to make our apartment presentable enough to start inviting people over again one of these days.... I just hope the creative-genius in one of us strikes sooner than later, as I'm pretty sure the color of our walls is contributing to my current nausea.

And that's all for now, folks. It's time for me to force down some more crackers and Canada Dry. Yum!

The Cutest Thing

If this doesn't make you want a puppy, I don't know what will. Sarah and Jason (my sister and her husband) got this little puppy a few days ago. Her name is Ella, after Ella Fitzgerald. She's a yellow lab and she looks so cute. This picture makes me want to eat her up (shwa).

Congratulations to the proud parents.

Tippy

I found a litter of kittens hidden under a bush by our house on a cold Michigan spring day. I was eight years old. I excitedly rummaged through the kittens—much to their mother's dismay—to see how many there were and what colors Ebony (the mama cat) had popped out this time. (Ebony was quite the tramp; she had at least three litters of kittens a year, which turned our barn into a cat-overpopulation nightmare.) As I picked up each of the squirming kitties to examine their markings and give them names, I spotted a little white fur-ball hiding under its mother's left hind leg. I set the screeching calico kitten that I had been examining (I was trying to figure out if it was a boy or a girl—a very important factor in naming kittens) on top of its mother's stomach and reached for the little white one. As I pulled its little body from its warm hiding place, I immediately fell in love with it. Much to my eight-year-old delight, I discovered little spots of gray on each of the kitten's four tiny paws, on her tail, on her ears, and on her squished up, newborn face. I had never seen a kitten like this one before, and with all of the kittens Ebony had left on our doorstep every year, I was quite the expert. I gently cupped the now-howling-kitten in my hands and ran into the house to show my mom. Her reaction didn't disappoint. As my mom and my little sister examined the kitten’s markings, it became evident that this cat was special. Being the discriminatory family that we were, we decided that she was pretty enough to live inside the house.

Because of the little gray tips on her ears, feet, and tail, we decided to name the kitten Tippy. When her eyes finally opened up, we joyfully discovered that they were sky blue—a color that never changed, even as she got older. This fact led us to give her a middle name: BlueEyes. When she did something bad, we went so far as to use her full name, "Tippothy BlueEyes! Don’t eat the yarn!" or “Tippothy BlueEyes! Get off the table and stop licking the butter dish!!!” (I'm not sure how we decided that “Tippothy” was her real name, but it somehow stuck.)

Tippy continued to amaze us as she grew older. Not only was she a beautiful Siamese/barnyard-cat mix, she was the most accident-prone animal that ever walked the face of the planet. When I was ten years old, Tippy decided it would be fun to jump from the top of my loft-bed (it was only a few inches below the ceiling) into the light fixture that hung only two feet away. This proved to be a nearly fatal attempt, as the light fixture couldn’t handle her weight and the whole thing came crashing down to the floor and shattered all over the place. (Tippy wasn’t hurt by the whole ordeal, but she was pretty shook up for a few days; her tail was three times larger than usual.)

When I was in junior high, the dear cat decided that yarn would become a part of her new diet plan. After discovering her yarn-loving tendencies, she decided to come out of the closet with it by eating an entire ball of bright red yarn in one sitting (this became quite the disaster when she started to poop it out, and unfortunately, she needed a little bit of assistance from my mother, some gardening gloves, and a pair of tweezers).

One evening during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, my sister and I were in my room, hanging out of the open window and talking to my dad who was outside mowing the lawn. Did I mention that my room was on the second floor of the house? Please make a note of it, because it’s a very important detail to this particular story. As Sarah and I chatted with my dad through the open window, we suddenly heard the sound of running paws coming toward us. Sarah and I looked at each other in total horror as we realized what was about to happen, but it was too late. Just as I turned around, I saw Tippy leap through the air and go sailing out of the open window. Everything seemed to convert into slow motion: Sarah and I were aimlessly flailing our arms in an attempt to catch Tippy, while Tippy, just realizing what she had done, tried to turn around in midair. Her eyes caught mine for a split second and she gave me the most pathetic, pleading look and a howl, but there was nothing I could do; she fell out of sight and landed on the ground with a loud “thud”. Both Sarah and I were afraid to look outside for fear of what we might see. I guess I was half expecting to see Tippy’s lifeless and broken body lying on the ground in a heap of blood and fur. But after arguing for a few seconds over who would look out of the window first, Sarah and I decided to look at the same time and, much to our relief, the cat appeared to be alive. Tippy, for the first time in her life, landed on her feet. All of her fur was standing straight on end (she looked like she had been electrocuted) and her huge, terrified, bulging blue eyes were taking in the scene around her in total confusion. Sarah and I ran out of my room, stumbled down the stairs, and dashed out the door to see how much damage had been done. Although she was in a state of shock for nearly two weeks after the incident (she wouldn’t come out from under Sarah’s bed or eat anything during that time), Tippy didn’t have any broken bones or internal injuries (unless you count her broken pride as an internal injury).

In spite of her perpetual clumsiness, Tippy was a great pet—definitely my favorite of them all. This probably sounds a little ridiculous to most, but she was also a good friend to me during my childhood. She was great entertainment, a great playmate, and a great comfort. When the household I lived in became loud and unsafe, I would climb into my bed, curl up in a ball under my covers and silently cry, hoping and praying to go unnoticed by those who were under the same roof. But somehow Tippy always noticed, without fail. During those times, she would poke her little head under my blanket, lick at the tears on my face, and curl up next to my chest and lay there until the tears stopped.

Tippy died yesterday. She was sixteen and I guess she was showing signs of stomach cancer. My dad had to have her put down before her condition worsened. I never thought I would mourn the loss of a pet, but Tippy is different. I’m going to miss her.