This is Shanan buying produce from Heliotrope at the Regina Farmers' Market.
She's all up on the vegetarianism and how to do it well, and, because she's been at it half her life, she's a little walking encyclopedia of nutritional know-how, which is how we ended up talking about vitamin B12 deficiency.
She started listing symptoms of vitamin B12 deficiency, and I started realizing that all those times I thought HOLY CRAP, I AM GOING TO DIE over the last year, I was probably wrong.
I wish I had seen what he did with that creepy doll sticking out of his banjo case.
I mean, I am going to die, and nothing is going to stop this anxiety-ridden insomniac from sitting bolt upright in bed at two in the morning and shouting PALINODE, I AM GOING TO DIE. That's one of my favourite activities right after making melted crayon shavings and pill bottle brooches for my mom and right before sunset walks on the beach.
(Here's a weird aside that has almost nothing to do with the above paragraph, except that the above paragraph reminded me of summer camp, which is where a camp counsellor unsuccessfully tried to teach me how to use a bow and arrow: Geena Davis vied for a spot on the United States Olympic archery team for the Sydney 2000 Summer Olympics. True fact.)
Sacred Earth has the best soaps ever. You should have some.
Anyway, Shanan helped me to realize that I'm probably not going to die, at least right away. Heart palpitations, confusion and memory loss, constipation, depression, dizziness and trouble maintaining balance, fatigue, numbness in my hands, pale skin, and my sore tongue are not all colluding to seal my fate as worm food. I could, in all likelihood, have a vitamin B12 deficiency.
I actually have a blood test requisition form in my purse that my doctor gave me so that I can have my iron and B12 levels tested. I will get that done in order to make sure that this is, indeed, what is up with me, but I am waiting for a time when it seems convenient to fast and forego caffeinated beverages.
A mail carrier! At work! The strike is over!
Did I just tell you that I feel like crap and lie awake nights worrying about my imminent death and then say that actually getting tested for what might be wrong with me is inconvenient?
I'm an idiot. Or I was an idiot. Now I have seen the folly of my ways. I'll go in tomorrow.
Tangerine celebrated its first birthday!
In the meantime, I bought some time-release B12 vitamins. They're pink. They make me feel proactive.
Shanan's face missed the party memo.
Take a moment to laugh too long and too loud about how sad Shanan looks behind the party cupcake.
This photo has managed to insinuate a 1970s porn flavour into itself with a strong Dacron sidenote. Dirk Diggler, anyone?
Sometimes a bottle of pop is just a bottle of pop.
This pink is cuh-razy.
I've been having these highly detailed dreams in which I am invited over to the homes of famous female bloggers, and I spend my entire visit in each home trying to covertly inspect the undersides of their carpets. I peel back the top layer, which is anything from a practical berber to an antique Persian, I pick at the padding beneath, and I investigate the quality of the floorboards.
In one blogger's home, I kept picking bits of blue underlay from beneath a throw rug, and I was trying to hide the evidence inside a delicious martini slushie my hostess had made.
This is a roasted red pepper tart.
And sometimes carpet is just carpet, right?
The tangerine icing on these cupcakes had just enough butter in it to make me pat my muffin top fondly and secretly give it the pet name "Butter".