I've been waiting patiently for good stuff to start happening so I can write about it with all my dry wit and contagious enthusiasm. Needless to say, I'm still waiting.

Let's see, is it a recap you're looking for? A recap of the last 18 or so days since I last wrote? Alrighty then, neighbour.

Two weeks ago tomorrow I got a call from The Boy while I was in the middle of a shop: one of my favourite aunties had passed away the night before. She'd been in hospital since February; initially for an operation on her bowels. My Dad and all his sibs have had diverticulitis since they were wee, complete with painful attacks. Once you get large enough patches of bowel with extruding 'pockets', you need to have them removed. Owie.

So, in she went. I was actually a little relieved, since she'd been losing weight in ways that made me a jealous. She was afraid to eat for fear of having an attack, it turns out. We had an afternoon at her place in December and she was already looking like a frail china doll. Once the surgery was over, I assumed the chance of pain would have been lessened greatly and she would revert back to her old self. Unfortunately, an infection found its way into her system, and the brain trust of this city chased that damn infection until the day she died. In the end her white blood count was 10 times normal and they were talking about testing her for leukemia. The day she died they had started blood transfusions, but it turned out to be too much stress on a person who weighed 74 pounds and she suffered a heart attack around 9:30 p.m.

So you'll pardon me if I'm a little bitter about how we lost her, even though I'm treating her passing like a blessing because I couldn't see one possible way that could have ended well.

The funeral was appropriate for my auntie, but only served to reinforce my feelings about these sorts of functions. It's all pomp and circumstance and wailing and moaning; this is not for me. I want music and food and drink and the regaling of everyone with stories of what a happy-go-lucky doofus I was or tales of My Biggest Bonehead Moves etc. I want drunkenness, I want happy tears, I want lots and lots of laughing and possibly some flashing. Mmkay?

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I'm still not working. I've got my resume hooked up with every damn agency going and unless I want to move to Toronto or go back to school to learn a skilled trade, I'm currently SOL.

And that's all I'm going to say on that.

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I've been really enjoying Wil's blog lately, except for the part about him being struck down with illnesses galore. (Take it easy, man.) And Shane's been giving me the giggles, especially since I've decided to burn through his videoblogs all in one go. That doesn't make me gay, does it Shane?

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Yesterday, I decided to make a Strawberry Rhubarb Crumble in honour of my niece coming by for dinner. Thing is, I got so wound up in my cleaning/herding the dogs/making myself presentable/making the actual dinner at the same time that I neglected to add 1 cup of sugar over the fruit before adding the topping. The resulting dessert was, (how can I say this tactfully?), 'tart'. And I sent a big honkin' piece to work with The Boy last night. Needless to say, he was surprised and for a time unable to talk during the dinner break. Now I know why Mom always asked me not to pester her when she was trying to follow a recipe.

I tried to remedy the situation by including said sugar with two tablespoons of water in a pot on the stove. I heated it up to a dangerous temperature and proceeded to burrow five holes into the crumble topping. I carefully measured out the molten liquid into the holes and tapped it on the counter to hopefully spread the magma through it, thus saving a rather large pile of early summer fruit from the bin. The spoon was starting to drip with the remains of the syrup and in a swift (actually not so swift) movement, I reached for it with my left index finger to stop it dripping on the counter.

Sometimes, I am too stupid to live.

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Oh yes, further fallout from the IVF retrieval: I got an infection at the stabby needle 'sites'. *whimper*

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I headed into Ch@pters the other day to pick up my next tome (I usually have one in the hopper here but the chicklit I've been devouring of late is such that I almost speed read them). I like to have an idea of a title or author or genre before I face the miles of shelving in the store, but this time I decided to wing it. The only requirement this time out: the book had to be a trade paperback and it had to have some heft to it.

Heading past True Crime and Self Help (because really, I can't afford every book they have so why bother?), I zeroed in on the Fiction section. I glanced at the Fantasy shelves to see if there was anything from this guy that I hadn't picked up yet. Nope. On to Fiction! Past Anita Shreve, past Steve Martin and Steve Martini, eyes roving back and forth, up and down. At one point I pulled out my camera and took a picture of all the books; it was at once daunting and comforting.

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How's that for an update? Have I missed anything? If so, remind me and I'll cover it next time. Thanks for reading.

Posted at 11:22 a.m.