BALLOONCEPTION

While I was at the greatest wedding of all the times, I witnessed something miraculous. Something so mind boggling that my poor little brain could barely comprehend it.

What was this amazing thing you ask?

"Manatee" is a strange name for a crayon colour.

It's no secret that I'm fairly organized. Especially now, having just typed that out. And while I prefer to say "organized", some of my friends prefer to say "anal retentive" or "annoying" or "seriously, you spent your Friday evening doing what?"

Doing what, indeed. I'll be getting to that in a moment.

super fun bright purple elephant

A little while ago, Blogger introduced this "Stats" thing where you can keep track of, well, stats. It's a good thing they gave it such a logical name like "Stats" instead of something like "SUPER FUN BRIGHT PURPLE ELEPHANT". Because you would more likely than not be clicking on that link and expecting a super fun bright purple elephant and instead see a page full of stats. How misleading. And dull. Stats? Where's my super fun bright purple elephant?

I made stuff!: "friendship" bracelets.

Occasionally I make stuff. Okay, hardly ever. Well, I mean I bake cookies a lot. And cupcakes. But then I eat them, as that is what you are meant to do with delicious cookies and cupcakes, so there isn't really a lasting end result, unless you count my lasting feeling of satisfaction and joy. I had a point. Oh, right: sometimes I actually make things. Like, crafty things.

Earlier this week, I had a hankering for a smoothie. So I had one. I also had a hankering to do something crafty. I was all inspired by the DIY hex-nut bracelets on Honestly...WTF's bloggy, so I decided to get myself some materials and bust out some bracelets. Note the materials below. Right now, they are all boring and not doing much but laying there and being a pile of string. BORING. But soon they will be bracelets. Magical.

I submit that I was the cutest tiny human ever.

So, I had this other awesome bloggy all planned out, but then I realized that my camera battery was dying, and by the time it was less-dead, it was too dark out to take pictures. Egads! I contemplated taking pictures with the flash, but it just would have looked gross.

Anyway, I was wondering what else I could ramble on about in lieu of my Awesome Blog Post (it really is awesome--just wait and see. Or, be incredibly underwhelmed after all of this anticipation, JUST like when The Golden Compass was made in to a feature length movie and you waited and waited for your favourite book to make it to the big screen and when it finally did, you were so angered that you shouted at the screen as the credits rolled. Yeah, just like that. Except it won't be, because it's awesome!) and . . .

I have piles of irrational fears.

Like the title suggests, I have piles of irrational fears. Maybe even enough to put in to two piles. Two very large piles, though. Like, taller than me. (And we all remember how tall I am.)

I thought it would be fun to list some of my irrational fears. So then we can all laugh at what a bizarre (and--more likely than not--disturbed) person I am. And it's fun to laugh at weirdos. Don't listen to your mom: it really is fun. Try it some time. And don't forget to point for increased enjoyment.

Okay. OKAY. Ready? Set. Go:

Advice Narhwal Says: Never Upload A Photographer's Unedited Samples

Remember way back when and there was that guy who gave everyone lots of unsolicited advice and he said the most important thing was to wear sunscreen and for some reason there was really annoying music playing in the background?

Yeah? Yeah! I think he also said I should dance like no one is watching and live in New York at least once and LA at least once. But that I should leave before one made me hard and the other made me soft. Which leads me to believe that I should just live somewhere in the middle, so I can stay . . . soft yet firm? Huh.

Anyway.

I was thinking that I have piles and piles of advice that I too can dole out despite the fact that no one is asking. But instead of doing mine all spoken-word style, I thought I'd do something way more rad. I present to you: Advice Narwhal.

How to Make Confetti.

I was making some confetti the other day, and I thought to myself, "Hey, Siân. How are you today? Swell? Oh, that's fantastic. You're looking rather fetching, I must say. Oh, you are most welcome. Hm? Oh, right. Well, I was just thinking, confetti is sort of awesome. And here you are creating confetti; you are creating awesome. You are like a mighty god of paper related awesome. And with such a power comes great responsibility. You must share it with the world. Go forth and spread the word of confetti. Also, go get yourself a Blizzard--you deserve it."

So, here I am. Shall we begin?

Confetti is very easy to make, but somewhat time consuming, especially when made all by your lonesome. Follow these easy instructions for optimal confetti-making goodness.

Step One: Gather your paper. You can use whatever sort of paper your little heart desires. I used some wrapping paper because I figured it would be light (a good quality for confetti to have, as it will float around in the air a lot better after having been thrown), and since it is double sided, I get two colours with all the effort of cutting one. It's like a confetti double rainbow.

Manaverage.

When people ask me how tall I am, I usually say 5'10".

That's great and all, but it's not true.

I'm actually 7 feet tall. I just hide it well.

Nah, that's not true at all. I'm actually a man. No, that's not true at all either. I'm actually a horse. Okay, you got me. I'm not a horse. I'm a mop.

But, really.

Today, for some reason, Brother and I decided to measure ourselves. I stood against the wall and he drew a mark and we tried to make sure it was all straight. The mark turned out more like a scribble, though. And who knows how straight the measuring tape was. But here's the photographic proof of my height:

Do you see that? I'm 5'8.5"--maybe 5'8.75", given the angle of the scribble. Also, I was holding the tape measure to the wall and trying to take a picture at the same time, which proved difficult. Also, why can't cameras have the button thingy on the left-hand side? Jeez.

Anyway, when I was measuring myself constantly, back in the day, I got to "five-eight-and-three-quarters" and stopped. But I said 'five-nine' when people asked, because, well, that's easier to say. And then people started prefacing their height questions with statements like, "GOLLY, ARE YOU EVER TALL!", so I felt the need to tack on an extra inch.

5'9" just never seemed that tall to me. What, that's like an inch or two above average. Stop gawking at me already. I'm normal, okay?! And up until twenty minutes ago, I really thought the average female height for women in Canada was between 5'6" and 5'8". But check this out:

Turns out I am abnormally tall for a Canadian female between the ages of 25 and 44. It also turns out that Chile is producing near-midget women. I also feel the need to point out that I used a nice colon in my red font caption, but it's hard to see. Moving on!

Then I thought, wait--I was born in the UK and I grew up in the United States. THAT'S where all the tall girls are. Canada is just full of teeny-tiny ladies. Ain't no thang. 

Andddddd, no. It just turns out I'm really the average height of a Canadian/British/American male. Go me. I'm man average. Manaverage. BAM. My word. I called it.

So, I've decided--guys, you need to get taller. Because, let's be real here: 5'9" is not that tall. Don't listen to all those "average height ladies" out there, also known as AHLs. They will try to make you think that you are nice and tall.

WRONG! They are wrong. Just stand next to me when I'm wearing my monster 6 inch heels so I can fill you with feelings of inadequacy and fear.

And then go do something about that height thing and get back to me.*

In conclusion, I might as well be 5'10". Ignore my retarded facial expressions as I try to master the fine art of holding a tape measure and look at that minuscule amount of white tape. That is the difference between my real height and the height I tell people I am. Say what? That's nothing: my favourite boots easily have that much of a heel.

So there. I win. At everything. But mostly being Manaverage height.

*I just thought I should point out that I have no issues with short guys--I mean, guys that are awesome and Manaverage like myself. They are just as manly and rad as the above-Manaveragers.

The most amazing book ever.

While Brother was at work, he stumbled across what is perhaps--nay, definitely!--the greatest book of all time. He didn't even have to open it. He could just tell from the cover.

Really, there are absolutely no words that can do this justice, so here it is:

All That the Rain Promises and More . . . A Hip Pocket Guide To Western Mushrooms

I know you really, really want to focus on the man in the tuxedo, with the trombone, and the handful of mushrooms and, well, his everything (especially his face), but I'll get to that in a moment.

First, I was unaware that the rain made promises, and mushroom promises at that. I was sort of under the impression that it fell from the sky, evaporated, and then went back up into the sky. A cycle, if you will. But apparently, this entire time, it's been promising people mushrooms. 

Mushrooms and more!

Maybe trombones. Or bearded men in tuxedos. I'm not entirely sure at this point. 

I also feel the need to point out that David Arora was being redundant in the second part of the title by using the word "hip". Clearly, a pocket guide to western mushrooms is hip, David. There's no need to state the obvious.

Okay. So now you can draw your attention back (but did it ever really leave?) to the dude in the tuxedo and join me in a jovial, "DOUBLE YOU, TEE, EFF?"

At first I was all, I don't even know, but then I found the following image and was all, that actually just confused me more:

So, so . . . SO, apparently mushroom lovers are "opportunivores". What this means is that this trombonist was picking mushrooms--I mean chanterelles--five minutes before a concert. And he was doing so gleefully. I don't know about "opportunivore", more like an "I'd-rather-hold-up-the-entire-concert-just-to-dig-up-some-mushrooms-because-I'm-hungry-and-is-it-okay-that-there's-mud-all-over-my-tuxedo-now-but-here-have-a-chanterelle-they're-delicious-vore." Also known as an asshole. 

Also, there appears to be some heated debate over chanterelles and boletes. Mohammad, I totally agree with you: there hasn't been a bolete I didn't like either. We might be mushroom soulmates. 

And here's a guy peering into a toaster. And apparently you can toast mushrooms. 

Now, children! Children are excellent at picking mushrooms, as they are low to the ground and can be convinced into doing just about anything if you threaten to take away the TV privileges. Also, you can wear mushrooms as hats--they keep your head dry, are fashionable, AND provide you with a snack. Amazing.

Now, I know what you are thinking, that this book must be a dream right? It's just too magical! But, thankfully, it is a real book. It does exist! Santa Claus, respect for the elderly, and knowing the difference between 'your' and 'you're' doesn't exist, but this book does. Thanks, life.