Just a little off the end, please

The story goes that Pinocchio began life as a simple pine log, and was given to a man called Maestro Ciliegia who planned to carve him into a leg for his table. When he began, however, a little voice cried out, "No, don’t hurt me!" Disturbed by the talking log, Maestro Ciliegia continued to carve the piece of wood, when again the little voice wailed its pain. Becoming frustrated and confused, Maestro Ciliegia eventually gave up trying to carve the wood, and gave it to his friend, the carpenter Geppetto, who carved wooden dolls.

As Geppetto carved the puppet, the nose began to grow. As soon as Pinocchio's nose had been carved, it grew with his congenital impudence.

Today, a friend of mine shall be Pinocchio, and a plastic surgeon shall be Gepetto.

Yes, my friend is having her nose tipped, carved, and sculpted. But because the procedure involves a hammer and a chisel to remove cartilage, it is more like carving a wooden nose than I first thought.

And like Pinocchio, my friend is a little worried about feeling pain. Luckily for her, this is not 1883 and the procedure will not be sculpted by a carpenter. These days, they use sharper things and afterwards, they give you happy pills that take away any semblance of pain and instead induce a state of euphoria. The constant tapping around the eyes, however, will induce a bruised look – much like a panda.

But in a few months, I’m guessing her nose will be just the way she wants it. Short. And not wooden. Like Pinocchio’s.

Friday night was Light Up night

For those of you not familiar with this concept - as I was until this past Friday night - Light Up night is the night where the city comes alive. It happens every year at this time.

It's been cold, it's been snowing, and it's been a little dreary. Slowly but surely, Christmas decorations have been going up around the city.

A large Christmas tree here, strings of tinsel along the street poles, and bright lights strung around buildings. And on Friday night, they all came alive.

People braved the cold and came out to watch the tress light up, to be the first to scratch the ice in the newly-opened outdoor skating rink, to bring their kids to see real reindeer.

Coming from South Africa, this is all still such a novelty to me. And this is why Christmas, in my opinion at least, is the most amazing, most alive part of the year.

Why do old things smell funny?

It’s amazing what you can find in antique shops. All you need is time, and patience because you can find yourself wondering around and looking at other people’s old stuff for hours, and STILL not find what you’re looking for. That's if you know what you're looking for in the first place.

That’s why you should not have any pre-set ideas of what you want.

This past weekend, I headed out to Canonsburg with D&C. They are avid antique shoppers and since I have never done the whole, “let me buy some old person’s things” thing before, off we went.

Canonsburg itself is a quaint little place, so it’s easy to see how they would have a row of antique shops there.

We meandered through the little aisles and the cubes of things they had in cabinets and on shelves.

D found an old glass thing that looked like a shot glass – until he explained to me that it’s what people used to use to swish water around in their eyes. How odd. Didn’t they just have eye drops back then? Apparently not.

The only thing I don’t like about antique shops is they smell old. Much like death. I’m in my early 30s so death must keep his distance. But standing in that antique shop, I could see him standing by the door. Scythe in one hand. Cig in the other. He throws back his head in a nod and coolly says, “Howzit, bru.”

*shiver*

I flipped him the middle finger and kept rummaging through dead people’s things.

It was then that I found a smelly 1916 edition of a Rudyard Kipling book. I know it was old because the title sounded like a Shakespearean poem. And it smelled funny. Age and odor for just $8. What a bargain!

Hanging from the ceiling they had beautiful old stained-glass window frames, at beautiful prices. $400 for a small colored window? Seriously? I can stop at the local stationery shop, pick up a few acrylic paints and make my own colored window. Thank you very much. $400 indeed!

How can you say "No" to this face?

Well, I didn't, and neither did two of my new friends.

This past weekend, we opened our hearts - and our wallets - and filled a shopping cart (a 'trolley' for those of you in far off lands) with dry cat food, wet cat food, dog treats, and cat litter. Big bags. Massive. Like if you had to empty them out, you could sleep in them if you so desired. But you wouldn't smell so nice if you did that.

Either way, we then trotted off to the local Humane Society where we did the Christian thing and dropped off all this food for the poor homeless animals at the shelter. The folks behind the counter were most grateful for the donation. And the heavens opened and the skies filled with the angelic sounds of harps!

We couldn't leave without taking a look inside the aptly-named "Cat Room". Inside the "Cat Room" were, well, cats. But surprisingly, not many of them. And mostly kittens. After about five minutes I demanded that we leave for fear that I would take away as many of these cute beasts as I could fit under my sweater (jersey for those of you in far off lands).

Should I have followed through and taken home a furry feline, I wonder what his/her welcome party would consist of, for I already have two of these fine beasts at home. The one would welcome the new addition, perhaps play. The other, well, the other is the demonic spawn of underground evil cleverly disguised in a silver spotted Bengal coat. Would she have welcomed the new addition? Hmmm, not so much. Not unless you consider hissing/spitting/clawing/scratching/biting/back-arching (or a wild combination of these) as much of a welcome. In fact, I think the new addition might not last beyond the night.

And this is why I did not bring home another feline beast. But my heart feels good for at least helping those others. Thanks D & C for jumping in and feeding hungry cats & dogs.

Take 18 of these and if you're still conscious in a month, call me

So I went to the doctor today. Never a fun experience, going to one's doctor.

She started scribbling vigorously in her little prescription pad. She upped my dosage and threw in some Trazodone for good measure because I've been having trouble sleeping. And then a referral for an ENT doctor, and a referral to a dietitian because my BMI is borderline underweight. Visits to my doctor are like Christmas. Giving, giving, and more giving. Fortunately, she is the one doing most of the giving. Who am I to say no to a prescription?

As I'm scooping my long face up off the floor, she asks me if I'd like a flu shot, as if she's handing handing out candy to eager kids. Now not to sound like a 3-year old, but I am terrified of needles. Then I figured winters here are bitterly cold and I don't want to spend weeks in bed feeling death warmed over, I say okay. Sensing her victory, she decides to push her luck:

"While we're at it, would you also like a Pneumonia shot?"

Oh I know, while you're at it, why not just send me to a freakin' acupuncturist, why don't you?! What do I look like, lady? A pin cushion? Easy of the needle happiness there! My arms themselves look like to needles, so watch where you jab that thing.

Four pieces of paper. Two jabs. $10. I love it.

"See me in a month," she says. "Or if they don't work, call me and I'll call you back."

Ya ya, let's see. Just keep those injection things in the drawer. And try not to make your needle glee so obvious.

How about this one?

The next time someone tells you house hunting is fun, beat them for telling lies. For this is not a small white lie. This would fall under the category of large, gargantuan-sized lies.

I have been searching for a new home. And let me tell you, it is NOT fun!

Sure, my current residence is spacious. And modern. It is also a drain on the pocket when it comes to paying my gas bill in the winter. Also, I would not consider fending off the lasciviousness of 'ladies of the night' to be one of my favorite past-times. Neither is smiling and saying "Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back," when propositioned by drug dealers. The final straw that didn't just break the camel's back but rather ripped the poor beast in half were the gun shots I heard. It's like living in the wild, wild west while living on the east coast.

No thanks.

So I have cast my search net wide. I saw an incredible apartment with hard wood floors, a real, genuine fireplace, and a small deck. Unfortunately, the monthly rent and pet deposit was anything but small. Next.

Then I saw two apartments that while it was stipulated had been recently refurbished looked as if they lacked something. Namely security. Since when does a fireplace come with a bedroom? Next.

Then I found it. Perfect. And as I try not to get my hopes too high, I remember its tall ceilings. It's light hard wood floors. Its bay window. Its "all included" headline in the 'For Rent' ad. And it's in a nice tree-lined neighborhood, with a park, and old Victorian houses. And no gun shots. And no prostitutes. And no drug dealers. Too good to pass up. I want it. I must have it. And hopefully I shall.

Stay tuned.

You haven't done your time sheets? Lashings for you.

I've decided that whoever first invented the notion of time sheets was an evil, evil person. An evil, sad, lonely person.

This is, without doubt, the most tedious task of my day. Or as the days pass by, the task becomes the most tedious of my week. And were it not for the constant reminders from my peers and 'higher ups', I probably wouldn't complete my time sheets. It's not that I'm insubordinate, but rather my attention remains focused on the job at hand.

Yes, okay, I realize that clients need to get billed if I expect to get that little deposit slip every two weeks that says my bank account has been brushed with the magic wand of gold-plated tin. For verily, I use those coins to pay my landlord, and the super-friendly folks at the gas and electric companies who also send me little friendly reminders that they too would like some coins dropped into their collection plates. And yet even more coins dropped into the tin plates of the food markets, and the clothing markets, until alas, the coins are all gone. Until my bank account is brushed once again by the magic wand of gold-plated tin. Then it's just like a never-ending cycle.

But I digress: time sheets remain the vein of my existence. Horrible, nasty, time-consuming things.