Got my new birth certificate in the mail! My husband handed me an envelope from the Prince Edward Island Department of Vital Statistics, and I bent it back and forth; hmm, no hard laminated certificate. Maybe they’ve rejected my application for a certificate; maybe I don’t exist?

I tore it open. They’ve changed the format. (After thirty-one years – keeping up with the times, you know.) Now it’s a slip of bank-note paper with all the pertinent info on it, in a plastic sleeve. On the back it says “Void if altered or laminated.”

I liked my laminated birth certificate. It was sturdy. Oh, well.

Now the missing one can show up any time.

Here, birth certificate; I’ve got a friend for you to play with. Here, certificate, certificate, certificate….

Certainly the oddest thing ever heard as I�m putting together an outfit for a party: �Does this say Early Slut to you? It does, doesn�t it. Maybe some other time.�

Oh – gods –

Ceri gave me a tablet of real chocolate as a thank-you for feeding her cat whilst she and her consort were away on their mini-break. Dolfin’s Chocolat noir au th� Earl Grey. Mmm, I said, two of my favourite things.

Egad. This stuff is like chocolate-covered coffee beans for coffee-addicted persons. I broke a corner off this morning while I was working, and crunch – yes, it’s actual loose tea blended in with the fine chocolate.

I’m putting this stuff far, far away from me.

For years now, my friend Annika and I have had photos taken of the two of us – light and dark, day and night. And in every single one, someone’s eyes are closed. That’s about fifteen years’ worth of snaps.

This presented a problem when she was my maid of honour at my wedding three (ye gods, three) years ago. The wedding proofs are a riot.

Anyway, at a party last Saturday night, Hobbes was waving around a digital camera. At last! we thought. Let’s get a photo with our eyes open! If it doesn’t work, we’ll just keep erasing the ruddy things until we get one that’s right!

So we did. If we look glassy-eyed, it’s because we’re making sure our peepers are bright and wide.

Then we decided that we could look serious and have our eyes open too. MLG tried to take that one. He decided that two such stunning examples of feminine beauty should by all rights be smiling instead, and stood there waiting for us to give up. We were all set to outwait one another when a little sprite with blonde braids ran between us on her way to a parental unit. We cracked up. He took the picture.

At least our eyes are open!

You’d think I’d learn. Well, maybe I have, since I haven’t actually acted upon this insane urge to visit Ikea.

(A) I really need nothing in the way of Ikea products. (Well, more bookshelves; I always need more bookshelves, but I also need more space for the bookshelves, which Ikea for some reason does not sell. Apparently it’s related to batteries-not-included or something.)

(B) I really, truly do not need the aggravation which is parking/strolling/standing in line at Ikea. Especially now, the week before school begins.

For some arcane reason, for the past couple of years, my husband and I have decided to go to Ikea on the day after Canada Day (a.k.a. the day after Moving Day here in Montreal), the two weeks that bracket Labour Day, and usually a day around New Year’s as well. We don’t plan it, honestly; it’s just coincidence. I personally believe it has something to do with the amount of “Must-go-to-Ikea” thoughts that are in so many people’s minds around those paticular shopping days; I become infected by the sheer volume of Ikea-connected mental noise. Last week, we picked up a catalogue at a friend’s apartment; today we got a card in the mail saying “Come get your new English catalogue and get X$ off before October somethingth!”; and Ikea’s just generally been on my mind.

Maybe it’s the change of weather. Nice cool nights, days which have finally shed that wet-blanket humidity… yep, it’s back-to-school season all right. We moved the funiture around in our bedroom last night, too, something that I do around this time of year for no particular reason other than I’m seized by the urge to reorganise. Ah, that stretch of the year between high summer and fall; September appears to have arrived early. I’d love it if more of the year were like September.

Anyone know a good place to get real sundaes in the city (RIP Swenson’s)?

I know I’m definitely coming out of a bad patch when I start enjoying parties again.

I’ve always been a poor fan of large groups of people; I prefer intimate gatherings. Lately, though, I’ve not been bothered by being in public places, which usually include crowds and noise. And last night, I was at a party which I absolutely loved. As a rule, I also dislike arriving late, because it means that a whole ton of people turn around and fall on me at once with hellos and hugs. Last night, what with the husband arriving home at 6.30, picking up groceries, stopping by the SAQ, and then going across town to pick up a spare key from a friend, we arrived not only fashionably late, but so late that it was hard to see people in the backyard as we tried to barbecue chicken over rapidly failing coals. But I loved it anyway.

It might have had something to do with the fact that I saw about ten people I hadn’t seen in a year or more, and one or two that I hadn’t seen in a few months. It also might have had something to do with the fact that I saw people I see frequently (whose company I enjoy, hence the frequency). The grilled chicken salad we created was pretty darned amazing. My Smirnoff Ice was unchilled but I didn’t care.

Darn it all, I was just in a really good mood. And I was enjoying the good mood; part of me saw what was going on and rather than saying, “You know, this probably isn’t a good idea for the following reasons”, it said, “Aw, heck, you just have fun. Stop censoring; stop worrying what people think.” (Sage advice from someone I respect. It worked perfectly last night.) As a result, I think I was probably more positive and more open to laughing and being relaxed than I have been in a very long time. I’m usually so serious; last night, I most definitely was not.

Not only that, but I was actually disappointed when my husband walked up to me and said, “I have to go home; I’m working tomorrow.” If I don’t want to leave, that’s a certain sign of having a very good time.

The only iffy spot was, once again, being pegged as an experienced Pagan and being approached by a couple of eager novices for advice in a sticky situation. To protect me from similar future situations where I’m too polite to walk away, I have been given a code word (which I am not sharing here!) so that a handful of people will know to rescue me by removing me bodily from the conversation. Even that discussion, though, had a good side: it proved to me that I can speak excellent French even while drinking my second terribly yummy Smirnoff Ice. Go me!