Yes, but only the Prime Minister and the five richest Canadian Olympic luge champions can afford to eat such delicacies. It has to be snowshoed in from Moncton.

I get mad when I browse through other blogs where chicks basically have a professional photographer follow them around to take their picture OVER AND OVER AND OVER while they “go for lunch” “downtown” with “their friends” on a “Wednesday”.

It makes my blog look amateurish, because I basically run into my work bathroom while my oatmeal is in the microwave and take a ghetto selfie in the mirror.  THEN I GO TO WORK ALL DAY.

GET A FRICKIN’ JOB and stop making me feel inadequate.

Considering my obsession with clothing, you would think that I am a careful laundry-doer.  Like, separating all my lights and darks and unmentionables from my mentionables.

Truth is, I have never once separated lights and darks or colours from other colours.  In my whole life.  My laundry is divided into a ”Stuff that I Care About” pile, and a “Stuff that I Don’t Give a Shit if it Gets Ruined” pile.  Then I just shove those piles into the laundry and wash them separately.

I’ve never had a problem.  Ever.

Until Wednesday.

I bought a bunch of cute stuff at the Goodwill near work, and was SO excited about it.  A gorgeous silk maxi dress in a taupe-y pattern, this GREAT red and white striped knit oversized maxi dress from Rodier, a Paris line, and this great, fuchsia pink military dress.  I almost wasn’t going to get the military dress… I remember waiting in line and thinking

“This dress is REALLY pink.  Like retina-burning pink.” 

Then, I came home and threw them all in the wash together.  Of course, that fuschia pink dress DYED EVERYTHING BRIGHT PINK.

Lesson One: It’s probably a good idea to separate your brights from your non-brights.

Ya.  My Rodier dress was now striped red and hot pink.  But not in a good “I’m trying to clash” way.  In a “cheap dress from Suzy Shier” way.

My gorgeous pink silk maxi dress was now bright pink and taupe.  Which wouldn’t be that bad if it wasn’t a huge, flowing maxi dress… it was totally overwhelming, like a pink silk monster, consuming my body in pink-ness.

Lesson Two: You probably shouldn’t wash delicate things 8 times in a row in super hot water.

So, I tried to wash out the dye.  Over and over and over and over and over.  NB – this is NOT a good idea.

This used to be an OVERSIZED MAXI DRESS:

Now it is a child’s dress.

This used to NOT BE RIPPED IN SHREDS:

Yeah.  That gorgeous silk maxi dress couldn’t handle all the vigorous, repeated hot washes… when I took it out of the machine, it disintegrated in my hands.  The fabric just melted:

It used to be in perfect condition.  I feel like a murderer.

This is the pink-dye explosion culprit.  After all of that horror… it turns out that I really like it… so it wasn’t all a waste:

My niece and god daughter Brooke  is the best.  She is always totally happy and cute and love-y.  I mean, look at this picture of her and tell me this isn’t the cutest thing on the face of planet Earth:

PLUS, she loves eating, just like me.  We’re kindred spirits.  Let’s revel in her amazingness:

 Not to detract from my amazingly cute nephew, Ethan, who is pretty wonderful himself:

Yeah.  This morning was a cute explosion in my brain-hole.  Let’s continue basking in happiness with the next component of my Saturday – walking around the park in the beautiful sunshine:

Molly was also being pretty adorable.  I took a couple of pictures that illustrate her endless internal dialogue:

“give me a treat mom give me a treat mom give me a treat mom give me a treat mom…”

“I’m lifting my damn paw give me a treat mom I’m lifting my damn paw give me a treat mom I’m lifting my damn paw give me a treat mom…”

Also, these are my tulips.  They make me happy:

Then, I went to go visit a Schnauzer-Poodle puppy named Crosby.  A Schau-Poo.  Or Pooshnau.  Or Poo-nauzer.  He was super cute and him and Molly flirted all afternoon:

Then, a cozy drive home with the sun beating down on my face…

Happiness…

1. Listen to this song.
2. Imagine it was written about you.

… because it would make me feel all bad-ass and like, I would imagine that as I walk down the street everyone would have this song playing in their heads, and my hair would be all whipping around my face in the wind, and I’d have this like, bad-ass outfit on, and I would get in multiple fist fights in bars, and sing in a band and all these guys would watch me walk by and be like “She’s an eeeeevil-wo-man! But I still think she’s the shit. I mean, look at her hair whipping around her face in the wind!  BAD-ASS!”

Unfortunately for me, I’m too damn nice for my own damn good.

1. Listen to this song.
2. Imagine it was written about you. 

…is highly overrated.

How To Get A Guy To Notice You While You’re Having Sex With Him