It Really IS an Honour Just to be Nominated

On the ‘Links I Like’ section of this blog, I have listed one of my absolute favourites - Suburban Turmoil. I can’t remember, exactly, how I happened upon this blog but it has turned out to be one of those I visit at least half a dozen times a day, hoping for a new entry. Lindsay, the blogger extraordinaire, makes me howl with laughter with her wit and wry observations on being a stay-at-home-mom. One day, I hope my blog grows up to be just like hers.

Last week she had an entry about bizarre kids’ names. She wanted people to write in with the most annoying name they’ve ever heard and I couldn’t resist. You see, in the apartment building we used to live in, there was a kid named – wait for it - Frobisher. While I’m sure the name is near and dear to his parents, Frobisher’s mom may as well dress him in an ascot and send him off to school for his daily beating.

Anyhow, Frobisher isn’t the only one with problems in the name department. Lindsay’s loyal readers came through with over 300 entries, ranging from unusual to cruel. She would narrow them down to the best (or, in this case, the worst) and then have her readers choose a winner.

Well, whaddya know, Frobisher made the list! And while it wasn’t chosen as the worst name (that distinction went to twins called Sharon and Notsharon), it was still an honour just to be nominated.

And to Frobisher and his parents…thank you.

(Check out an article Lindsay wrote on the surprisingly common practice of naming kids some pretty bizarre things. Frobisher starts to look pretty lame tame in comparison).

I’d Like a Hairstyle to Complement My Tiara Please

I can’t really update on my new ’do because it is still looking all salon-y. Wait until I wash it and try to style it myself before I can accurately say if I like it or if I will have to go into hiding until it grows out. But even if I don’t like it, I will probably go back to the salon just for the people-watching.

It was good entertainment, especially since there was a big society soiree taking place that very evening. Apparently, Ottawa socialites had descended on the salon en masse. At first glance I felt like I wouldn’t fit in, what with all the big hair (on both the society mavens and the poodles in their laps).

But once Leticia Moneybags and Babs Trophywife returned to their Rockcliffe mansions, I realized that the stylists could produce more than just the ‘old money look’, much to my relief.

Forget Hospital Wait Times. What About Hairdresser Wait Times?!

I had an appointment for this Saturday to get my hair coloured and hi-lighted. I’d booked it almost three months ago, during my last visit, so needless to say I kind of forgot that the appointment was going to clash with my Japanese lessons.

I called today to reschedule. I told the receptionist that I need a Saturday afternoon or weekday evening so Hubby the Great will be available to look after The Wee Man. She said that my hairdresser is “booked until Christmas”. CHRISTMAS! But I’ve got faded hi-lights and split ends now! (Much whining).

I’ve had one too many bad experiences with hairdressers in this town to want to find someone else, but what is a girl to do? My “beauty” regimen has really taken a hit since having a baby but there is only so much I’m willing to neglect – and only for so long.

Thinking this hairdresser's wait-time could be an industry-wide epidemic, I decided I had better get over the fear and book with someone else. So this Saturday afternoon I’m booked into a new salon. Should I have taken it as a clue that I didn’t have to wait until the New Year to see one of their stylists? Guess I’ll find out this weekend.

IKEA – Swedish for Husband Hell

We'll try for the summit in the morning

This past Saturday we visited IKEA for the first time in a long, long time. We only needed shelving, but the thought of even the briefest visit gets my normally laid-back spouse agitated.

It all starts in the parking lot, where the only spot you can find will be so far away from the entrance to the store that you may as well pack provisions and prepare to set up base camp.

Once we reached the front of the store, Hubby the Great noticed the parking stalls “reserved” for families. Of course, they were all taken. I was tempted to inspect the cars to see which ones had car seats (as opposed to those who take “Family Parking” to mean a dad and his 30-year old son), but knowing that Hubby the Great’s blood pressure was rising, I decided to forgo my vigilantism.

We fought our way through the throng and got to the shelving. They were completely sold out of the one we needed – natch. Go figure, after I finally built up enough nerve to visit IKEA on a Saturday afternoon (of a long weekend no less), and convinced Hubby the Great that it really wouldn’t be like lighting his eyeballs on fire, they didn’t have what we came for.

Clearly, we weren’t going to be repeating this adventure anytime soon, so I had to settle for my second choice rather than risk suggesting we try again some other weekend.

With second runner-up shelf in hand, we made our way to the check-out where we gathered with similarly harassed-looking customers. That’s where it hit me. I know what IKEA really needs. Forget the cheap Swedish meatballs, IKEA should be serving liquor!

Perhaps they can implement my little suggestion in time for me to convince Hubby the Great to return to Satan’s Scandinavian lair (probably this time next year).