Thursday, December 23rd, 2010 – drinking coffee in my new mug, still wearing PJs, dry skin, upbeat
Yesterday, I was just sitting here in my PJs and an old t-shirt emblazoned with the words, “Saskatchewan: Hard to spell, Easy to Draw” (Saskatchewan is shaped like a rectangle, get it?), contemplating coffee and life and realizing that holy shitting hell, it would be Christmas in three days and I hadn’t even checked to see if there was food in the cupboard or more importantly, booze.
This was clearly unacceptable.
It also meant braving the supermarket three days before a holiday, which I grudgingly did last night with all the good cheer of a homeless guy whose cart-full-o-cans has been stolen.
As we all know, the supermarket before a holiday is a joyous event to beat all the joyous events that came before it. It’s a bit like trying to get tasks accomplished while being pursued by flesh eating zombies who intend to obstruct you at every aisle. I like to grab my grocery items in a flash, toss them in my cart, then run like my pants are on fire, on to the next one, then unload, pay and get the merry hell out.
I do not like to have to crawl at the pace of a turtle, while weaving in and out of people and trying to avoid launching small, mad, over-excited human spawn who think they’re the only person in the whole store, into orbit with my cart. Grrrrr it brings out my Hulk. My mellow has been sliced into tiny, blood-dripping shards of rage.
On the upside, I scored some good cheeses and lots of veggies and stuffing mixes and enough Pepsi products to successfully make them rulers of the free world. And ingredients to make a big fuck-off sized trifle. Mmmm trifle… I also have some pear liqueur, some vodka and of course Advocaat, which might be a bit of a pussy drink but it tastes delightful and you can’t be European and not have Advocaat at Christmas, even when you’re not in Europe anymore. Eggnog just doesn’t cut it, frankly. Snowballs. Snowballs cut it.
Apart from Snowballs and trifle, my Christmas traditions are few and far between. Cooking something that involves roasted potatoes, wrapping gifts badly, eating cake for breakfast and watching a popcorn movie like “E.T.” or “The Wizard of Oz”. It’s Christmas. You’re allowed these sinfully gleeful moments.
Mainly because I say so. Did I mention I have so much Christmas spirit that I was playing “White Christmas” on the ukulele last night? Well I was. Don’t be calling me Scrooge.
Anyway, I have noticed this entry isn’t saying much of anything, so I’ll just wish you all a merry whatthehellever holiday/Christmas and get back to my coffee, in my funky-ass new, retro-striped coffee mug. (It makes it taste better you know). Have a fun and safe weekend and don’t go getting shit-faced and doing anything stupid, okay? However if you do get shitfaced and do something stupid, have the good manners to at least film it for us, please?
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
One More Reason To Stay Home This Weekend
Thursday, December 16th, 2010 - coffee, serial killer hair, possible pink eye
I’m going away tomorrow, for the weekend, to indulge in some subzero sporting activities with friends, on a snowmobile. I'm sort of sad as it's the last time I'll get a chance to tear around like a maniac in the snow for a while.I’m a big fan of snow mobiling but much less a fan of actual snow, which is quite the conundrum. I mean snow is cold and wet, who likes that? No one with any logic at all. However, so long as you stay on the vehicle and don’t wind up some hot mess, face down in a snow embankment with your ass in the air, snow mobiling is fun.
Not that it’s as easy as it sounds when you’re hurtling through uneven fields and embankments at a billion miles an hour on a 500lb hunk of metal that doesn’t have anything resembling power steering. Inevitably you will misjudge a turn somewhere, and the time it takes to make it and you will end up flying through the air like Superman - only substantially less gracefully and yelling much less elegant words - and landing tits down in a snow drift searching for your dignity.
It’s all part of the fun, really.
It is hard to stay warm in minus thirty degree temperatures though, especially when ripping through the countryside at fifty miles an hour. You need to wear lots of little thermal layers and leggings under your pants and other flattering attire like ear flap hats, wedged under your helmet, scarves, plural, around your face and neck, enormous, butch snow-boots over your knee socks and a big fuck-off coat.
I actually got a new coat a few months back for this winter. It’s ideal for skidooing in that it’s long, the zippers unlock from both ends (good for sitting on things) and it could withstand a nuclear blast. It’s really sort of like a sleeping bag with arms, a waist, a hidden cuff and a hood with fur trim. It’s not beautiful but it’s functional. You don’t do beautiful when it’s minus thirty out and you’re more concerned with whether you’ll get home without hyperthermia or frostbite and with the correct number of intact toes. Beautiful can kiss my ass. I love my coat!
So while you’re sitting home in your warm house, drinking something delightful and warming, think of me zipping around the countryside yelling “I’m James Bond, bitches!” with my “I just did three lines of coke!” eyes and bad attitude, scaring coyotes and humans alike with my impressive sweary vocabulary, while trying not to die.
All being well I’ll see you next week. Hopefully with all limbs intact. Have a fun pre-Christmas weekend peoples!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I'm sleepy. I have coffee in a gigantic plus-sized cup trying its utmost to shake me awake but some days you just...I don't know. You just need to be comatose. But I'm fighting hard. I am fighting. I've been fighting ALL DAY.
I'm still hobbling around on my mutant hell toe now I have some flip flops that don't aggravate it or touch it in any way and it's like looking down and seeing a big pink slug on the end of my foot.
I'm sorry, were you eating then?
Anyway, I'm still getting around okay is what I'm saying. The world hasn't ended. I'm not yet an invalid confined to a chair, waving a bell around when I need coffee or cheese or a commode.
Seriously, I just pee my pants.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
All Your Dignity Are Belong To Us
Wednesday, December 8th, 2010 - coffee. Mmmmmm coffee...
The other day, I was sitting there, fresh from the shower, in an old grey t-shirt, legs of my hot pink plaid pajama pants rolled up above the knee because I’d just moisturized the living shit out of my freshly shaved legs, furry old lady slippers on my feet, dishevelled, wet, not yet combed birds nest perched on my head and shoulders and an inch of Olay spread on my face, smelling like an explosion in a Bath and Body Works factory mixed with toothpaste and coffee, when the postman knocked on the door.
This is fairly typical. I used to ardently believe the postman and I were at war. I was convinced he sat outside in his van with a scanning device and waited for the moment I was at my most ridiculously undignified, before coming in and demanding my attention, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, he seems sort of skittish. I don’t know how much they pay postmen, but that guy needs a raise, purely for the number of horrific versions of me he gets to see on a regular basis. Me in my paint splattered overalls with feral hair and a manic grin on my face, wielding some giant scissors? Check. Me in my sweatpants and a hoodie covered in pancake mix wielding a wooden spoon and a scowl? Check. Me, in my crusty old Radiohead t-shirt and my underpants? Check, check, check!
I can almost feel his trepidation seeping under the door as he approaches. That blind terror emanating from every pore as he weighs up the option of just dropping the package and running, rather than face whatever fresh hell awaits this time when the door swings open. Why do people only knock on your door when you’re in a state that no one should have to see you? It’s perplexing.
Although, let’s be brutally honest here for a moment, there are actually things way more perplexing than that, like how you can have the unlikely good fortune to get Sarah Palin and Kate Gosselin in the same place at the same time and not use this momentous occasion to test out some military grade weapon in the area? That was a golden opportunity, people! It may never come again.
In totally unrelated news, I’ve been crocheting myself a thick, winter blanket and I’m only a quarter of the way done and my wrists feel like they’ve been fed through a wood chipper. The typing. It hurts.
The other day, I was sitting there, fresh from the shower, in an old grey t-shirt, legs of my hot pink plaid pajama pants rolled up above the knee because I’d just moisturized the living shit out of my freshly shaved legs, furry old lady slippers on my feet, dishevelled, wet, not yet combed birds nest perched on my head and shoulders and an inch of Olay spread on my face, smelling like an explosion in a Bath and Body Works factory mixed with toothpaste and coffee, when the postman knocked on the door.
This is fairly typical. I used to ardently believe the postman and I were at war. I was convinced he sat outside in his van with a scanning device and waited for the moment I was at my most ridiculously undignified, before coming in and demanding my attention, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, he seems sort of skittish. I don’t know how much they pay postmen, but that guy needs a raise, purely for the number of horrific versions of me he gets to see on a regular basis. Me in my paint splattered overalls with feral hair and a manic grin on my face, wielding some giant scissors? Check. Me in my sweatpants and a hoodie covered in pancake mix wielding a wooden spoon and a scowl? Check. Me, in my crusty old Radiohead t-shirt and my underpants? Check, check, check!
Although, let’s be brutally honest here for a moment, there are actually things way more perplexing than that, like how you can have the unlikely good fortune to get Sarah Palin and Kate Gosselin in the same place at the same time and not use this momentous occasion to test out some military grade weapon in the area? That was a golden opportunity, people! It may never come again.
In totally unrelated news, I’ve been crocheting myself a thick, winter blanket and I’m only a quarter of the way done and my wrists feel like they’ve been fed through a wood chipper. The typing. It hurts.
Monday, December 6, 2010
The Lost Art of Conversation
Monday, December 6th, 2010 – Already sick of snow, full of coffee and devious intent
It’s Christmas party season and after an admittedly rather pleasant party on Saturday night, filled with quite lovely geek people and good food, I’ve decided there are certain things that I used to excel at that I no longer have any talent for.
Things like small talk, for example. There used to be a day where I would talk to a table leg if the opportunity came up, just because I could and would talk to anyone/anything. And let’s be honest here, usually it helped that I was so full of pints of cider/lager hybrid goodness, I made David Hasselhoff’s cheeseburger incident seem like a nun at a tea party.
The point is, I always had something to say, even if it was nonsense.
And my ability to shoot the shit with just about anyone, wasn’t ONLY because I had a penchant for attracting the people no one else wanted to talk to. Although, truthfully, back in the day, I was notorious among my friends for being the one in the group who would inevitably end up debating life’s great mysteries with some passing, unwashed hobo because I was too trashed or too polite to shoo them away. Come 11pm you could usually find me in a dive bar discussing life with some resident, random, aged, long haired hippy who smelled like patchouli and cigar smoke and who still thought it was 1972. Sadly he usually also considered it entirely possible that some 20 year old chick would like to give him their phone number and even sadder than that, sometimes I was drunk enough to actually give it to them which usually meant spending the next two weeks refusing to answer the phone.
However, if you want to talk about hilarious ways to embarrass yourself in the snow, or inappropriate underwear, or zombie apocalypse scenarios, or liquor, or that one epic fart you did that one time after a burrito, that scared the neighbours and triggered the fire alarm, I’m probably fine with it.
I’m complicated, what can I tell you?
It’s Christmas party season and after an admittedly rather pleasant party on Saturday night, filled with quite lovely geek people and good food, I’ve decided there are certain things that I used to excel at that I no longer have any talent for.
Things like small talk, for example. There used to be a day where I would talk to a table leg if the opportunity came up, just because I could and would talk to anyone/anything. And let’s be honest here, usually it helped that I was so full of pints of cider/lager hybrid goodness, I made David Hasselhoff’s cheeseburger incident seem like a nun at a tea party.
The point is, I always had something to say, even if it was nonsense.
And my ability to shoot the shit with just about anyone, wasn’t ONLY because I had a penchant for attracting the people no one else wanted to talk to. Although, truthfully, back in the day, I was notorious among my friends for being the one in the group who would inevitably end up debating life’s great mysteries with some passing, unwashed hobo because I was too trashed or too polite to shoo them away. Come 11pm you could usually find me in a dive bar discussing life with some resident, random, aged, long haired hippy who smelled like patchouli and cigar smoke and who still thought it was 1972. Sadly he usually also considered it entirely possible that some 20 year old chick would like to give him their phone number and even sadder than that, sometimes I was drunk enough to actually give it to them which usually meant spending the next two weeks refusing to answer the phone.
Nowadays though, not so much. I’ve lost any desire to make small talk with random undesirables or even regular people. Truth is, for the most part I don’t care what you do for a living or about your kids’ school activities or where you went on vacation last year, because I’m too busy plotting how I can sneak a second portion of hors d’oeuvres and a pint of sangria from the snack bar without anyone thinking I’m a pig.
I’m complicated, what can I tell you?
Monday, November 29, 2010
Another Year More Awesome
Monday, November 29th, 2010 – coffee, buzzed, feeling sassy
Hmm. Still snowing like a bitch outside. Although that’s a pretty stupid saying since bitches, to the best of my knowledge, have nothing to do with snow. But still. Snow makes me grouchy. It’s cold and wet and makes the car slip around unattractively and makes me say things like “Holy fucking fuck!” and pray not to die even though I don’t believe in God.
Today’s actually my birthday. I know, right, who has a birthday in the frozen asshole of winter? Well now you know the answer. I do. And even though it’s not a big landmark birthday or anything fancy like that, I had decided to have a nice, relaxing “me” day where I didn’t do anything at all but stay home and wallow in my greatness and be all luxurious and pampering.
What have I actually been doing? Sleeping a little later than normal then doing laundry and cleaning and all the other things I’ve neglected lately. Every time I’m about to sit down and read some blogs and drink my coffee and eat a Mars Bar and gloat a lot, I see something else I need to do but haven’t had time lately.
Seriously, how does a bathroom get so damn messy in ten days? HOW? Maybe I go in there in my sleep and throw stuff around and rub soil on the floor and overflow the garbage can? It’s the only explanation, I feel.
I am however clinging to my desperate attempts to have a nice day by imagining there will be lots of cake and alcohol in my immediate future, if I can get anywhere to do either of those things without dying or freezing to death. Even if I can make it to the liquor store I will be happy. I’m not fussy. Right now I’m hating all you people with July birthdays who never have to deal with this crap.
Since I’m home all day and obviously capable of using my time unwisely, I might play some songs on my ukulele and drink my favourite coffee until I turn into someone with the brains, coordination and speed of a bluebottle, as I run around the corridors of my building yelling “IMMAWANNAPLAYBITCHES!”
But first I’m…you know…going to put a load in the dishwasher.
Then I’m going to get busy rampaging and rebelling my way through the rest of the day.
Hey, if nothing else I have clean pants.
Hmm. Still snowing like a bitch outside. Although that’s a pretty stupid saying since bitches, to the best of my knowledge, have nothing to do with snow. But still. Snow makes me grouchy. It’s cold and wet and makes the car slip around unattractively and makes me say things like “Holy fucking fuck!” and pray not to die even though I don’t believe in God.
Today’s actually my birthday. I know, right, who has a birthday in the frozen asshole of winter? Well now you know the answer. I do. And even though it’s not a big landmark birthday or anything fancy like that, I had decided to have a nice, relaxing “me” day where I didn’t do anything at all but stay home and wallow in my greatness and be all luxurious and pampering.
What have I actually been doing? Sleeping a little later than normal then doing laundry and cleaning and all the other things I’ve neglected lately. Every time I’m about to sit down and read some blogs and drink my coffee and eat a Mars Bar and gloat a lot, I see something else I need to do but haven’t had time lately.
Seriously, how does a bathroom get so damn messy in ten days? HOW? Maybe I go in there in my sleep and throw stuff around and rub soil on the floor and overflow the garbage can? It’s the only explanation, I feel.
I am however clinging to my desperate attempts to have a nice day by imagining there will be lots of cake and alcohol in my immediate future, if I can get anywhere to do either of those things without dying or freezing to death. Even if I can make it to the liquor store I will be happy. I’m not fussy. Right now I’m hating all you people with July birthdays who never have to deal with this crap.
But first I’m…you know…going to put a load in the dishwasher.
Then I’m going to get busy rampaging and rebelling my way through the rest of the day.
Hey, if nothing else I have clean pants.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Today’s Bitchslap
Monday, November 22nd, 2010 – cold feet, warm heart, loathing
It’s been a while since I’ve had a good whine about insignificant things that really bug me. What can I say? Hola! Here are three of them.
1) Walmart on a Sunday. There is only one thing on God’s green Earth that could be more excruciating than visiting a Walmart on a Sunday, and that’s visiting a Walmart on a Sunday near Christmas. Holy Christ on a swizzle stick, if you’re even contemplating this, don’t do it. For the love of all that is holy, if you want to preserve the few grains of sanity you have left, stay home. Imagine a zombie uprising. Now imagine a zombie uprising of surprisingly sprightly overweight people in velour, surrounded by a mist of small, screaming crotch nuggets and they all. Want. You.
I made the mistake of forgetting all this yesterday as I bustled around the store in order to get in and out as quickly as possible with the minimum casualties. I stumbled down the aisles, avoiding old people with carts and no “driving” etiquette, my arms filled with random useful items I’d picked up as I gymnastically dodged escaped, squawking, frazzled toddlers, running amok like rabid baby chickens. While I fervently attempted to resist the urge to Febreeze the living shit out of them with my new “Brazilian Carnival” air freshener/pepper spray, I had a moment of extreme clarity. THIS is why guns are legal in many states.
2) People who keep telling me “The Big Bang Theory” is wicked good.
Now I had seen a couple of episodes of this show in passing and decided that it was about as funny as dried cak scraped off the underbelly of an alley cat, but I was prepared to be proven wrong. So in the interest of fairness I put on my comfy pajamas and foot-orgasm-old-lady-slippers and sat down to watch a few episodes in order to be shown the error of my ways.
Now how can I put this to cushion my reaction adequately? Just imagine for a moment you’re walking in the woods on a cool, frosty evening. You feel a sharp blast of seething pain in the soul of your foot and realize you’ve stood on a rusty nail and it’s impaled you right through your shoe. In agony you hobble to the only house in sight, but no one is home to help you, however their garden shed is open so you limp inside, breathing heavily from the pain and find a tool box. In the tool box is a fine array of useful items. You pull out some heavy duty pliers and yank that sucker out of your foot. It tears your flesh with its rusty barbs and you scream. You grab some grain alcohol and pour it over your wound. It burns like your crotch after a night with Paris Hilton.
Finally, you accidentally knock over a lantern (so it’s 1807, shut up) and set fire to your own foot, still dripping in alcohol. After an eternity of shrieking and burning and managing to put out the flames, you’re in a whole new, previously un-imagined world of agony, bleeding, dripping flesh, hopping on one leg, suffering from hypothermia, and suffering fevered chills. You finally make it home, half blue from the cold and no longer functioning properly. Your temperature is 105. You’ve lost your keys. It starts to snow. A wolf shows up as you’re sobbing on the frosty doorstep, agonized and burning with fever. The wolf doesn’t care. It bites off your arm. You die.
This whole scenario? Preferable to sitting through three episodes of “The Big Bang Theory”. Comprendez?
3) Another blog I was reading today mentioned today how boring hearing about people’s workouts is and by God, she was right. People who go on about how fantastic working out is and what outstandingly, healthy, awesome people they are because they drag their carcass onto a torture device every day to sweat all over everything, need a swift kick in the fanny.
Sure I envy your steely resolve and will power. Maybe I even hate you a little for it. And maybe you HAVE earned the right to boast about your magnificence, but come on. Workouts aren’t fabulous at all. Let’s get brutal here, people. If you’re doing it right exercise is painful, sweaty and you spend half your work out desperately trying to not look at yourself in the mirror, making those godawful, frightening, torture faces. The only things consuming your mind during a workout are things like, “How come I’ve been running for four days and yet I’ve only burned 30 calories!?!” and “Why can’t I have the metabolism of a 12 year old boy, why does God hate me?”
While you’re pounding several shades of shit out of the mat on your treadmill and cursing through gritted teeth, if you’re at all like me what you’re really thinking is, “I can’t wait to get off of this fucking thing and eat some cheese.”
There you have it. Shocking upcoming whine attractions, “Snow is cold” and “I’m not rich.”
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Why Airports Are Like Hades
I have a theory that if there is a hell, it is not a place filled with scorching heat and unbearable pain, but rather a bland landscape filled with nothing but never-ending shades of grey and everlasting monotony.
I’m writing this in the Minneapolis International Airport during a tedious six hour wait for my next flight, while bitterly regretting leaving my laptop at home and cursing tiny touch screens.
Let me just tell you now, that six hours in an airport is harder to kill than you might imagine, once you’ve exhausted the cornucopia of brightly coloured store-fronts full of expensive local wares, chunky sweaters featuring knitted moose heads and state paraphernalia. Those harshly lit fast food places in the food court, especially designed to separate the weary traveller from the last of their change, are depressing and soulless, filled with blank-eyed travel zombies and overcooked fried foods.
Even watching shiny, majestic planes land and take off through the glass fronted wall of the food court, only occupies your mind for a few minutes before the tingling in your toes and the spreading numbness in your buttocks from the hard, wooden stools, makes you want to get the hell out of there to freedom.
A couple of laps of the concourse and a sniff around the designer goods in the alluring, yet ultimately disappointing, duty free store, under the hovering, oppressive eye of the duty-free-store-clerk-Nazi and you’ve pretty much exhausted your entertainment options for the rest of the day.
Airports are infuriating places if you’re travelling alone. Left to your own devices and desperately trying, out of sheer boredom, not to blow all your remaining finances on things that the next morning make you question your own sanity, a person can go mad just trying to stay sane.
With five hours left to kill and only a giant black coffee and some resolve left to fuel you, you wander aimlessly towards the empty bank of seats scattered around your leaving gate and sit down to read a book you’ve already read twice.
Which brings me to this.
Airports make you appreciate the sheer brilliance of whichever, probably quite insane, Chinese leader, instigated the “one family/one child” law. If you are child free and blissfully indifferent to people who are far too young to vote, a day in an airport will most likely drag you, hollering obscenities, right over the line of placid indifference and dump you firmly into the camp of “ban all children from public spaces until they are 14”. Because the only thing more infuriating than spending six hours in an airport is spending six hours in an airport surrounded by other people’s bored kids.
Whichever quiet sanctuary you carve out for yourself, to pass those last few hours before take off, be it a deserted gate, a carpeted corner or an empty corridor, know that annoying human entities of all ages will find you and infiltrate your serenity with their shrill protests, their fighting, their shrieking, their incessant cell phone conversations and ringtones of hip-hop songs that sound like they’ve been strained through a tin can. You will spend those remaining several hours praying fervently, despite your non-belief in any divine being, that none of those entities will be seated anywhere near you on the plane, yet sense, with a begrudging, tired knowledge, that they will probably turn out to be your row mates and that you will spend the entirety of the flight conjuring up imaginative ways to murder them.
Defeated, you will throw on your headphones, turn up the music and eye up the “Tequileria” place a few short feet from the gate, weighing up what your chances would be of still being permitted to board your flight after several super-sized margaritas and a fart-bonanza-inducing bean burrito.
In surmise, airports will suck out your very soul and fill the space with unending torture.
Whine over.
I’m writing this in the Minneapolis International Airport during a tedious six hour wait for my next flight, while bitterly regretting leaving my laptop at home and cursing tiny touch screens.
Let me just tell you now, that six hours in an airport is harder to kill than you might imagine, once you’ve exhausted the cornucopia of brightly coloured store-fronts full of expensive local wares, chunky sweaters featuring knitted moose heads and state paraphernalia. Those harshly lit fast food places in the food court, especially designed to separate the weary traveller from the last of their change, are depressing and soulless, filled with blank-eyed travel zombies and overcooked fried foods.
Even watching shiny, majestic planes land and take off through the glass fronted wall of the food court, only occupies your mind for a few minutes before the tingling in your toes and the spreading numbness in your buttocks from the hard, wooden stools, makes you want to get the hell out of there to freedom.
A couple of laps of the concourse and a sniff around the designer goods in the alluring, yet ultimately disappointing, duty free store, under the hovering, oppressive eye of the duty-free-store-clerk-Nazi and you’ve pretty much exhausted your entertainment options for the rest of the day.
Airports are infuriating places if you’re travelling alone. Left to your own devices and desperately trying, out of sheer boredom, not to blow all your remaining finances on things that the next morning make you question your own sanity, a person can go mad just trying to stay sane.
With five hours left to kill and only a giant black coffee and some resolve left to fuel you, you wander aimlessly towards the empty bank of seats scattered around your leaving gate and sit down to read a book you’ve already read twice.
Which brings me to this.
Airports make you appreciate the sheer brilliance of whichever, probably quite insane, Chinese leader, instigated the “one family/one child” law. If you are child free and blissfully indifferent to people who are far too young to vote, a day in an airport will most likely drag you, hollering obscenities, right over the line of placid indifference and dump you firmly into the camp of “ban all children from public spaces until they are 14”. Because the only thing more infuriating than spending six hours in an airport is spending six hours in an airport surrounded by other people’s bored kids.
Whichever quiet sanctuary you carve out for yourself, to pass those last few hours before take off, be it a deserted gate, a carpeted corner or an empty corridor, know that annoying human entities of all ages will find you and infiltrate your serenity with their shrill protests, their fighting, their shrieking, their incessant cell phone conversations and ringtones of hip-hop songs that sound like they’ve been strained through a tin can. You will spend those remaining several hours praying fervently, despite your non-belief in any divine being, that none of those entities will be seated anywhere near you on the plane, yet sense, with a begrudging, tired knowledge, that they will probably turn out to be your row mates and that you will spend the entirety of the flight conjuring up imaginative ways to murder them.
Defeated, you will throw on your headphones, turn up the music and eye up the “Tequileria” place a few short feet from the gate, weighing up what your chances would be of still being permitted to board your flight after several super-sized margaritas and a fart-bonanza-inducing bean burrito.
In surmise, airports will suck out your very soul and fill the space with unending torture.
Whine over.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Let’s Get Stabby
Hey you sexy thangs!
I’m feeling perturbed today. I think it’s that time of the month we ladies enjoy so much. The one where someone sucks out all our normal cells and replaces them with those of a psychotic, attention deficient, parrot. A parrot who loves chocolate and zits on their chin. I don’t know what else it could be, man. I have good coffee. I have new boots. I have Kashi bars with chocolate in them. I have my reading glasses on (tres sexy). I have clean hair. Normally these things combined would make me little miss sunshine. Not today though. I’m pouting.
It’s the little things that piss you off the most, no? Examples for today? Bien sur!
1) People who use the word “heroes” incorrectly for one. Cases in point;
“The Chilean miners are heroes!”
“The people who died on 9/11 are heroes.”
WRONG. All of those people are victims of bad circumstances or of bad people.
They’re tragic consequences of fate. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time and something bad happened to them. Heroes? No. The heroes are the people who devised ways to pull those poor men out of that mine. Who showed up every day for months at the World Trade Center site to sift through ash and asbestos and shards of plastic and rubble to find tiny pieces of human remains, despite the danger to themselves.
You are not a hero because something bad happens to you. Stop incurring my wrath, people. I will spoon out your eyes and feed them to a crocodile.
2) I am also feeling a touch disgruntled at airlines who seem unwilling to sell a person a one way ticket unless they’re willing to pay as much as, or more than, the round trip price. WHY? What the fuckety? Let me get this right. I want to travel half the distance, taking up only one seat and half the fuel but you want to charge me more than if I did that all twice? Fuck right off. A turd on your pillow, airlines, you money sucking, tight wadded fucknuggets.
3) People who look at me wrong. You’ve been warned. Also people who point out how grammatically bad “people who look at me wrong”, is. See? I’m not myself at all. Or maybe I am. You decide.
What’s pissing you guys off today? Tell your auntie Veg.
I’m feeling perturbed today. I think it’s that time of the month we ladies enjoy so much. The one where someone sucks out all our normal cells and replaces them with those of a psychotic, attention deficient, parrot. A parrot who loves chocolate and zits on their chin. I don’t know what else it could be, man. I have good coffee. I have new boots. I have Kashi bars with chocolate in them. I have my reading glasses on (tres sexy). I have clean hair. Normally these things combined would make me little miss sunshine. Not today though. I’m pouting.
1) People who use the word “heroes” incorrectly for one. Cases in point;
“The Chilean miners are heroes!”
“The people who died on 9/11 are heroes.”
WRONG. All of those people are victims of bad circumstances or of bad people.
They’re tragic consequences of fate. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time and something bad happened to them. Heroes? No. The heroes are the people who devised ways to pull those poor men out of that mine. Who showed up every day for months at the World Trade Center site to sift through ash and asbestos and shards of plastic and rubble to find tiny pieces of human remains, despite the danger to themselves.
You are not a hero because something bad happens to you. Stop incurring my wrath, people. I will spoon out your eyes and feed them to a crocodile.
2) I am also feeling a touch disgruntled at airlines who seem unwilling to sell a person a one way ticket unless they’re willing to pay as much as, or more than, the round trip price. WHY? What the fuckety? Let me get this right. I want to travel half the distance, taking up only one seat and half the fuel but you want to charge me more than if I did that all twice? Fuck right off. A turd on your pillow, airlines, you money sucking, tight wadded fucknuggets.
3) People who look at me wrong. You’ve been warned. Also people who point out how grammatically bad “people who look at me wrong”, is. See? I’m not myself at all. Or maybe I am. You decide.
What’s pissing you guys off today? Tell your auntie Veg.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Seven: 3. Procrastination
Saturday, September 25th, 2010 - night time with a chill in the air
Why yes, I am still alive, thanks for asking. I've been busy though. Really busy. Only time to check my email once a day, busy. And I'm goddamn tired. But I thought it was probably about time I continued the seven things meme, before I totally forget about it and start babbling about something else instead. You see, I've been procrastinating my meme duties.
So yes, procrastination. I procrastinate quite a bit. I read somewhere that it was a sign of a psychological defect, but I hardly think that's true. I mean hello! Look at me. My mind is a healthy, devious, smart bastard. So I'm declaring shenanigans on that theory. I'd go find the article in question and link to it but honestly, I can't be assed right now so I'll do it later.
See what I did there?
Actually I don't procrastinate everything, of course I don't. I only procrastinate unpleasant things. I mean show me anyone who's keen to do unpleasant things. Only a halfwit with OCD or a Jim Carrey fan is in a hurry to do nasty things. Or a reality show contestant. Or whoever dares touch Lindsay Lohan without bio-hazard gloves.
I never procrastinate nice things. I mean you put a giant bar of chocolate the thickness of a rugby player's leg in my fridge and see how long it takes me to devour it. Go on, try it. I haven't timed this, but I'm willing to bet that before you can spell 'procrastinate' that bar will be cozy and safe in my belly. So obviously I don't have a problem per se, just a tendency to be selective about which tasks I perform in a timely fashion.
I was actually going to write out a list of things I procrastinate and things I don't but then I thought, 'Ah screw it, I'll do it later.'
Because that joke never gets old.
Why yes, I am still alive, thanks for asking. I've been busy though. Really busy. Only time to check my email once a day, busy. And I'm goddamn tired. But I thought it was probably about time I continued the seven things meme, before I totally forget about it and start babbling about something else instead. You see, I've been procrastinating my meme duties.
So yes, procrastination. I procrastinate quite a bit. I read somewhere that it was a sign of a psychological defect, but I hardly think that's true. I mean hello! Look at me. My mind is a healthy, devious, smart bastard. So I'm declaring shenanigans on that theory. I'd go find the article in question and link to it but honestly, I can't be assed right now so I'll do it later.
See what I did there?
Actually I don't procrastinate everything, of course I don't. I only procrastinate unpleasant things. I mean show me anyone who's keen to do unpleasant things. Only a halfwit with OCD or a Jim Carrey fan is in a hurry to do nasty things. Or a reality show contestant. Or whoever dares touch Lindsay Lohan without bio-hazard gloves.
I never procrastinate nice things. I mean you put a giant bar of chocolate the thickness of a rugby player's leg in my fridge and see how long it takes me to devour it. Go on, try it. I haven't timed this, but I'm willing to bet that before you can spell 'procrastinate' that bar will be cozy and safe in my belly. So obviously I don't have a problem per se, just a tendency to be selective about which tasks I perform in a timely fashion.
I was actually going to write out a list of things I procrastinate and things I don't but then I thought, 'Ah screw it, I'll do it later.'
Because that joke never gets old.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Seven: Why Ukuleles Are Cool
Thursday, September 2nd, 2010, bedtime with a song in my heart
Well, I am certainly not doing well with this supposed "Seven Things" meme. So far I've written about one thing and then I totally ran out of things! Things eluded me, people. Until today.
Today I'm writing about Thing Number Two, "Astrophysics and the Process of Nucleosynthesis".
Ha, right. Look out your window. Do you see a flying pig? Well then. In that case I'm writing about "Why Ukuleles Are Cool".
So without further ado:
WHY UKULELES ARE COOL
Ukuleles are cool because they are hideously uncool. You don't see dudes dressed head to toe in leather, hair in eyes, smoldering at you over a cigarette, carrying a little, wee, fey mini-guitar now do you? No. That's because those dudes don't know a damn thing about cool. Sure, your old school cool might involve leather and lung cancer and looking like Ethan Hawke if he hadn't bathed in a month, but the new cool? Ukuleles my friends. Ukuleles are cool.
I'll tell you why. A uke is like a tiny guitar. It makes tiny guitar noises. Like taking a guitar, shrinking it (kind of like you used to do with chip packets and an oven), then forcing it to make cute noises. Plunk plunk plunkety plunk. That kind of thing.
Also, they come in all sorts of fun shapes and colours and sizes. Some are shaped like pineapples! How cool is that? If you said "really fucking cool, Veg" you'd be correct.
Others are shaped like mini Les Paul guitars or tiny Fender Strats. But those are for posers with tiny penises. Don't get your ass caught with one of those. I'm kidding, mine's actually the Les Paul shaped one. I'm so ashamed. No, I'm not.
Ask Jude and Elly how cool ukes are. They'll open their arms wide as a goddamn football field. Because they know. You don’t have to wear cable sweaters, mountain-man bushy beards and eat lentils to enjoy the ukulele.
I mean you can if you want…
As if all this wasn't enough evidence of the mondo-coolness of the ukulele, remember they're from Hawaii and anything that reeks of Hawaii is cool by default.
Well, okay, maybe not Dog the Bounty Hunter. I imagine he reeks of ball sweat, old leather and cabbage. I can’t see that tosser with a uke, can you? A NUKE maybe…
But on the other side of the coin there are pineapples, hibiscus flowers, mai tais, surfing, glorious beaches, "Lost" and ukuleles.
Happy Thursday, bra! (That’s like…Hawaiian talk you know. I wasn’t talking to my brassiere. Not this time.)
Well, I am certainly not doing well with this supposed "Seven Things" meme. So far I've written about one thing and then I totally ran out of things! Things eluded me, people. Until today.
Today I'm writing about Thing Number Two, "Astrophysics and the Process of Nucleosynthesis".
Ha, right. Look out your window. Do you see a flying pig? Well then. In that case I'm writing about "Why Ukuleles Are Cool".
So without further ado:
WHY UKULELES ARE COOL
Ukuleles are cool because they are hideously uncool. You don't see dudes dressed head to toe in leather, hair in eyes, smoldering at you over a cigarette, carrying a little, wee, fey mini-guitar now do you? No. That's because those dudes don't know a damn thing about cool. Sure, your old school cool might involve leather and lung cancer and looking like Ethan Hawke if he hadn't bathed in a month, but the new cool? Ukuleles my friends. Ukuleles are cool.
I'll tell you why. A uke is like a tiny guitar. It makes tiny guitar noises. Like taking a guitar, shrinking it (kind of like you used to do with chip packets and an oven), then forcing it to make cute noises. Plunk plunk plunkety plunk. That kind of thing.
Also, they come in all sorts of fun shapes and colours and sizes. Some are shaped like pineapples! How cool is that? If you said "really fucking cool, Veg" you'd be correct.
Others are shaped like mini Les Paul guitars or tiny Fender Strats. But those are for posers with tiny penises. Don't get your ass caught with one of those. I'm kidding, mine's actually the Les Paul shaped one. I'm so ashamed. No, I'm not.
Ask Jude and Elly how cool ukes are. They'll open their arms wide as a goddamn football field. Because they know. You don’t have to wear cable sweaters, mountain-man bushy beards and eat lentils to enjoy the ukulele.
I mean you can if you want…
As if all this wasn't enough evidence of the mondo-coolness of the ukulele, remember they're from Hawaii and anything that reeks of Hawaii is cool by default.
Well, okay, maybe not Dog the Bounty Hunter. I imagine he reeks of ball sweat, old leather and cabbage. I can’t see that tosser with a uke, can you? A NUKE maybe…
But on the other side of the coin there are pineapples, hibiscus flowers, mai tais, surfing, glorious beaches, "Lost" and ukuleles.
Happy Thursday, bra! (That’s like…Hawaiian talk you know. I wasn’t talking to my brassiere. Not this time.)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Seven: 1. Plane Sailing
Thursday, August 26th, 2010 – after lunch, looking like a crazy cat lady, mainlining coffee, singing badly
My good blogging buddy, Aly, over at Calling People Names, passed on a gigantic, sweaty, meme cape to make me write about seven things. Any things at all, not necessarily things you either love or hate, just seven things.
So because I’m me, and random is my middle name, I’m going to write about seven random, completely unconnected things over the next seven weeks. Can you stand the excitement? Hey you, wake up!
Thing Number 1: FLYING
Anyone who knows me knows how I feel about flying, i.e., I am not completely, 100% “jiggy wit it”. Not even 75%.
Now I love planes. Planes are a weird obsession of mine. I love what they represent, I love their sleekness, their giant size, the possibilities they pose, the way they look, the smell of fuel. Airplanes, aeroplanes, I love them.
I like watching them take off and land and I like loitering in airports watching people going places, drinking coffee and trying to lift suitcases the size of a condo in Miami, onto the conveyor belt. I especially like when they have to pay a baggage surcharge. What do you need a bag the size of Texas for anyway, idiot? Are you going away for a year? No.
My favourite part of any trip is that part; wandering around in the airport, people watching, buying dumb local nik naks, walking the wrong way on the moving pavement and wondering what innocent possession the TSA are going to confiscate from me this time. My eyelash curler (I’m still bitter)? My shampoo? My giant double-edged serated hunting knife with Jeffrey Dahmer’s initials carved into the handle? Is nothing sacred?
So, yes, I am down with all of that. But there are many things about flying I am not remotely down with. Other passengers, for example, are a major downside. If you are a passenger on a flight that I am also on, here’re some rules you ought to know that will keep you alive for the duration of the flight:
1) Do not sit behind me and kick my chair.
2) Do not sit in front of me and recline your seat. I don’t enjoy your head in my lap and the fact I can no longer use the drop down tray without removing a rib.
How do tall people manage to ride coach? It is completely beyond me.
3) Do not sit next to me and talk to me for seven hours about your illnesses, children, husband, job or well…anything. I just want to put on my headphones and shut my eyes.
4) Do not ask me if I’ll swap seats with your kid so he can look out of the window. I booked my seat months ago and I chose the window so that I could look out of it, so I’d have somewhere to lean my pillow, so that I could check the engines were still attached and so I could be sure at all times that the little green alien guy from “The Twilight Zone” – the one who drove John Lithgow and William Shatner crazy - isn’t darting around on the wing, pulling important things off of the fuselage. Plus, I don’t want someone clambering over me fifty times en route to the bathroom. The seat is mine.
5) Don’t stand up the second the plane is on the tarmac after landing. Look at you, all first to get on your feet, wrestling your giant, space hogging Skyscraper-sized bag out of the overhead bin, then standing around for ten minutes while we get to the gate and wait for the jetway. Guess what, genius? You don’t get off the plane any faster doing that. You still have to wait.
6) Don’t turn your stupid phone on the second we land and are still taxiing. People’s reliance on their phones drives me crazy. You can’t wait till you’re in the lobby? If someone’s meeting you they know you landed already, calm down Twisty McPantsonfire. Put the phone down. The day cell phone usage is legal on flights I’m going to stage a big, fucking rally protesting it. Can you imagine anything worse than eight hours sitting next to a brain dead fifteen year old who says “like” 3 million times and calls all her friends about her boyfriend?
Cell phones can only be legal on flights if airlines are providing a lounge for people to sit in if they want to use them. Otherwise I will be buying a cell phone jammer. The only thing I really LIKE about flying is that people can't use a goddamn cell phone.
Don’t do any of those things and we’ll probably get along fine. Well, unless you have an ornery toddler with you who insists on screeching the entire flight, in which case you better pray the TSA did its job with the hunting knife. Need I say more? I didn’t think so.
I’m not very patient on flights at all. I just want to get on, close my eyes and then get off again at my destination. Unhindered.
And of course, I will look out of the window most of the way. Because if the engines catch fire I am the person who will bring it subtly to the attention of the nearest Sky Muffin by yelling, “HOLY FUCK PEOPLE, WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”
Looking out of the window has its downside too though. For example, during one night flight to Europe, I spent the entire night fretting about another plane being too close for comfort. I don’t like being able to see any other planes while I’m up there. If I can see you, you’re too close. I could see the light of this plane just on the horizon as we left New York and I could still see it when we were flying over Ireland some six hours later. It was seriously freaking me out. Until it got light out and I realized it was the light on the end of our wing… Yeah, I’d been tracking my own plane all night, shut up.
No matter how I rationalize it, no matter how safe I know air travel really is in the grand scheme of things, I still can’t help being nervous when I realize that I’m sitting inside a giant metal cylinder filled with aviation fuel as it hurtles through the sky at 500 mph.
Does that sound even remotely sensible to anyone?
My good blogging buddy, Aly, over at Calling People Names, passed on a gigantic, sweaty, meme cape to make me write about seven things. Any things at all, not necessarily things you either love or hate, just seven things.
So because I’m me, and random is my middle name, I’m going to write about seven random, completely unconnected things over the next seven weeks. Can you stand the excitement? Hey you, wake up!
Thing Number 1: FLYING
Anyone who knows me knows how I feel about flying, i.e., I am not completely, 100% “jiggy wit it”. Not even 75%.
Now I love planes. Planes are a weird obsession of mine. I love what they represent, I love their sleekness, their giant size, the possibilities they pose, the way they look, the smell of fuel. Airplanes, aeroplanes, I love them.
I like watching them take off and land and I like loitering in airports watching people going places, drinking coffee and trying to lift suitcases the size of a condo in Miami, onto the conveyor belt. I especially like when they have to pay a baggage surcharge. What do you need a bag the size of Texas for anyway, idiot? Are you going away for a year? No.
My favourite part of any trip is that part; wandering around in the airport, people watching, buying dumb local nik naks, walking the wrong way on the moving pavement and wondering what innocent possession the TSA are going to confiscate from me this time. My eyelash curler (I’m still bitter)? My shampoo? My giant double-edged serated hunting knife with Jeffrey Dahmer’s initials carved into the handle? Is nothing sacred?
So, yes, I am down with all of that. But there are many things about flying I am not remotely down with. Other passengers, for example, are a major downside. If you are a passenger on a flight that I am also on, here’re some rules you ought to know that will keep you alive for the duration of the flight:
1) Do not sit behind me and kick my chair.
2) Do not sit in front of me and recline your seat. I don’t enjoy your head in my lap and the fact I can no longer use the drop down tray without removing a rib.
How do tall people manage to ride coach? It is completely beyond me.
3) Do not sit next to me and talk to me for seven hours about your illnesses, children, husband, job or well…anything. I just want to put on my headphones and shut my eyes.
4) Do not ask me if I’ll swap seats with your kid so he can look out of the window. I booked my seat months ago and I chose the window so that I could look out of it, so I’d have somewhere to lean my pillow, so that I could check the engines were still attached and so I could be sure at all times that the little green alien guy from “The Twilight Zone” – the one who drove John Lithgow and William Shatner crazy - isn’t darting around on the wing, pulling important things off of the fuselage. Plus, I don’t want someone clambering over me fifty times en route to the bathroom. The seat is mine.
5) Don’t stand up the second the plane is on the tarmac after landing. Look at you, all first to get on your feet, wrestling your giant, space hogging Skyscraper-sized bag out of the overhead bin, then standing around for ten minutes while we get to the gate and wait for the jetway. Guess what, genius? You don’t get off the plane any faster doing that. You still have to wait.
6) Don’t turn your stupid phone on the second we land and are still taxiing. People’s reliance on their phones drives me crazy. You can’t wait till you’re in the lobby? If someone’s meeting you they know you landed already, calm down Twisty McPantsonfire. Put the phone down. The day cell phone usage is legal on flights I’m going to stage a big, fucking rally protesting it. Can you imagine anything worse than eight hours sitting next to a brain dead fifteen year old who says “like” 3 million times and calls all her friends about her boyfriend?
Cell phones can only be legal on flights if airlines are providing a lounge for people to sit in if they want to use them. Otherwise I will be buying a cell phone jammer. The only thing I really LIKE about flying is that people can't use a goddamn cell phone.
Don’t do any of those things and we’ll probably get along fine. Well, unless you have an ornery toddler with you who insists on screeching the entire flight, in which case you better pray the TSA did its job with the hunting knife. Need I say more? I didn’t think so.
I’m not very patient on flights at all. I just want to get on, close my eyes and then get off again at my destination. Unhindered.
And of course, I will look out of the window most of the way. Because if the engines catch fire I am the person who will bring it subtly to the attention of the nearest Sky Muffin by yelling, “HOLY FUCK PEOPLE, WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”
Looking out of the window has its downside too though. For example, during one night flight to Europe, I spent the entire night fretting about another plane being too close for comfort. I don’t like being able to see any other planes while I’m up there. If I can see you, you’re too close. I could see the light of this plane just on the horizon as we left New York and I could still see it when we were flying over Ireland some six hours later. It was seriously freaking me out. Until it got light out and I realized it was the light on the end of our wing… Yeah, I’d been tracking my own plane all night, shut up.
No matter how I rationalize it, no matter how safe I know air travel really is in the grand scheme of things, I still can’t help being nervous when I realize that I’m sitting inside a giant metal cylinder filled with aviation fuel as it hurtles through the sky at 500 mph.
Does that sound even remotely sensible to anyone?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
How To Be Unpopular Part Two: Denounce Religion
Wednesday, August 25th, 2010 - the wee small hours of insomnia
But to quote the great unwashed hippy and legendary art school dropout, John Lennon, in his classic 1970s' peace ditty "Imagine", "...nothing to kill or die for and no religion too". Basically that song's preaching a lot of tree-hugging stuff about how if we didn't have nationalism and possessions and religion, the world just might be a better, more harmonious place.
Personally, I think that's a bit of crazy, idealist claptrap, but the bare bones of truth are there. Those things do create disharmony in the world because we abuse them.
So yes. Religion. Religion is not your friend.
That's a general "you", not a personal "you". You, yourself might be religious. Your faith might make your life more inspiring or a calmer place to be. If it helps you in some small way, who am I to tell you otherwise? I wouldn't dream of it.
But generally, in the grand scheme of matters, I stand by my statement: religion is not your friend. At least organized religion is not your friend. Organized religion was never meant to be your friend. It was invented to control you. To give you guilt. To stop you questioning.
But generally, in the grand scheme of matters, I stand by my statement: religion is not your friend. At least organized religion is not your friend. Organized religion was never meant to be your friend. It was invented to control you. To give you guilt. To stop you questioning.
Answer me this. If there really was a God, would there be "Two and a Half Men"? No. You can bet your sweet ass there would not.
The thing is, in its purest form, religion is supposed to be your friend. It's supposed to be about unity, about peace, about kindness and sharing, about goodwill to all men. It's supposed to promote community and working together for a better world, acceptance, tolerance and understanding.
But it isn't. It isn't about any of that. Because we've all made it about hate. And intolerance. And war, hatred and segregation and then we go and justify all of those nasty traits in its name.
It's a man-made hate machine that separates people, that teaches superiority, judgement and fear over people who're not like us. We took something that was meant to be pure and corrupted it to suit our needs.
Soon we'll do the same to Justin Bieber. It's what we do.
I know I'm biased. I'm an unabashed Atheist. But unlike most unabashed atheists, I have actually read the Bible. I read it because I wanted to know what it was saying, what it was about and because if I choose to not believe something I want to know what it is I'm rejecting. And I came to the only conclusion I can imagine anyone coming to. It's a big book, written over centuries, by a lot of different people, reporting fables and stories by hearsay. There are hints on how to live a better life. A more noble life. It's not meant to be taken literally. Yet people use its stories to justify their prejudices. Except the bible doesn't tell you to hate women, or homosexuals, or other religions, or foreigners, or to kill your neighbours and take their land. Yet people do these things in its name every day.
I'm looking at you, Fred Phelps, you ignorant fucknugget. Among others.
I have not read the holy books of any other religions. I imagine them to be of similar ideas. My knowledge of religion in general is basic, but I do know this. It causes undue distress and trauma to the world. Wars start because of it, people hate other people for no reason other than their religious affiliation and countless innocent six year olds have to endure really boring stories in Sunday School when they'd much rather be knee deep in a sand pit with some Legos.
Back in ancient Greek and Roman times, people believed in divinity. They had Gods and Goddesses for everything. If you sneezed there was probably a God for it. If ancient Greeks are to be believed there were deities crowding the skies with their golden wings, bringing everything to the masses, from thunder to love. The heavens were a veritable traffic jam of godlike beings swishing through the clouds carrying exquisitely wrapped gifts of wisdom. We laugh at this notion because we know it's only fable. Yet today people still freely accept there's an omnipotent presence up there looking out for us.
Because that's so much more sensible.
This is what I think. Life is up to us. It's what we make it. God isn't going to make your life better or worse, you are. If you survive a horrific car wreck, it's through bold faced luck and your sheer tenacity. God didn't save you. You are not that remarkable. If somehow I'm wrong, and He exists, you can bet your ass He has more pressing things to do than snatch you from the dripping jaws of death. It's just life. It's not divine interference.
If it was up to me I'd banish it all and make us all one giant melting pot of humanity. Then everyone would need to come up with another reason for their intolerance of anyone not like themselves. Maybe then they'd have to figure out their real issues for once and for all.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Exterminate All Humans
I once met a Dalek in WH Smith.
Let me preface this by saying, when I was about three years old, only two things terrified me. Turning into a chicken while I was asleep, and Daleks.
That was it.
The chicken thing, I believe I’ve told you all before, was down to my granddad, who bought me a bright red Timex watch for my birthday, then told me in a hushed tone, sort of like the kid in The Sixth Sense when he’s telling Bruce Willis that he sees dead people, that I had to remember to take the watch off when I went to sleep or I would turn into a chicken during the night.
Yeah, you laugh now, but when you’re three that’s some scary shit. Adults think it’s funny pranking little kids, but man, we’re gullible. You’re damaging us for life, fuckers!
Yeah, you laugh now, but when you’re three that’s some scary shit. Adults think it’s funny pranking little kids, but man, we’re gullible. You’re damaging us for life, fuckers!
Anyway, the only thing more terrifying than turning into a chicken in my sleep was Daleks, because well…you didn’t grow up in the UK and not have an ingrown terror of Daleks instilled in you from an early age. In fact, you got handed that the second you squeezed out of the birth canal covered in goo, along with your National Insurance number and a Cadbury’s addiction.
Daleks had been terrifying British kids since before I was born. It was tradition!
If you didn’t spend your entire childhood living in abject terror at the possibility of a Dalek attack, you were probably retarded and thinking about rainbows or your toes or some other nonsense.
Everyone fears Daleks. It’s the British way.
If you didn’t spend your entire childhood living in abject terror at the possibility of a Dalek attack, you were probably retarded and thinking about rainbows or your toes or some other nonsense.
Everyone fears Daleks. It’s the British way.
I was fascinated by them and terrified, simultaneously. They could just wheel on into a room, speak in a terrifying robotic monotone, then exterminate anyone in their sight. It was a constant threat. That’s a lot for a three year old to comprehend, let me tell you.
And to make matters worth we had one in our house! Gasp!
OK, so technically it was a paraffin heater with a grill on the front. The apartment was chilly and in winter my folks would use it to heat the bedroom before putting us to bed. Except they had to do this covertly because I would not have that fricking thing in the room with me in case it started to talk and threaten me with extermination the second the lights went out. I was petrified of that damn heater. It gave me nightmares. Nightmares of Dalek invasions. You try being three and explaining to your parents why you’re terrified of a fucking oil heater.
Strangely enough, back when I was living in England, I met a real Dalek.
He was in WH Smiths in Nottingham one busy Saturday morning and I was completely unprepared and unaware. I was innocently leafing through some magazine I had no intention of buying, when something prodded me square in the back and loudly, in that familiar robotic monotone, commanded. “PUT. THAT. DOWN.”
He was in WH Smiths in Nottingham one busy Saturday morning and I was completely unprepared and unaware. I was innocently leafing through some magazine I had no intention of buying, when something prodded me square in the back and loudly, in that familiar robotic monotone, commanded. “PUT. THAT. DOWN.”
It was one of those moments when time stood still. When pooping your pants was a very real possibility.
The Daleks had finally found me. And I was way too young to die.
When I turned around there was a full sized, silver and blue Dalek, looking right back at me. I fell back against the magazine rack. I mean what do you do when your nightmares come to life in front of you?
Me, I grabbed my camera out of my bag and tried to take its picture, but it rolled right back up to me and shrieked, “YOU. WILL. ASK. MY. PERMISS-ION.”
Holy fuck. Yes, Sir. You don’t mess with Daleks, ever. You just don’t. Not if you want to live.
After he graciously allowed me to take his picture, I handed my camera to some old guy lurking nearby, who took a photo of me with the Dalek, while I tried to avoid Senor Dalek’s dangerous plunger of death.
The old guy fiddled with the camera for a moment and the Dalek got impatient. “HURRY. UP. OR. YOU. WILL. BE. EXERMINATED.” it told him, sounding frighteningly excited.
So yeah. That’s how I met a real life Dalek. And lived to tell the tale. What he was doing in a busy store on a Saturday morning I have no idea. Buying some overpriced back-to-school supplies maybe? Who knows? I have a sneaking suspicion the imminent release of a brand new Doctor Who video box set might have had something to do with it, but just maybe it was an actual invasion.
And I was totally there.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Herro!
Wednesday, August 18th, 2010 - lunchtime, feeling evil, eating grapes
Now I don't have many rules in life, but a few of my rules regarding what can or cannot be classed as "entertainment" go as follows:
1) No clowns.
2) No Carrot Top.
3) No ventriloquists.
It's straightforward. All of those "occupations" are wrong and there's no argument I can see, against this.
I never understood how anyone could find ventriloquists amusing in the slightest. Firstly, you can usually see the dude's mouth moving and secondly, someone needs to remind ventriloquists that just standing there with your fist up a tiny man's back yard, does not a show make. You still need actual material.
Also? Get some real friends, loser. You just know that a ventriloquist goes home at night to a Real Doll and a jar of Olay.
Plus come on, those tiny little wooden men are creepy, no? With their permanent half grin and icy stare, piercing your soul as if to say, "When you sleep? I am coming for you with my machete."
I was trying to think of ways to make ventriloquists more watchable and although I think it's probably not even possible, I came up with these suggestions:
1) Maybe your dummy could be a zombie. Zombies are always good material. Plus if he wasn't funny he could torment and abuse the audience and maybe rip pieces of flesh off your faces during the act. At least he'd be memorable.
2) Your dummy could have that bad form of Tourette's where he just yells things like, "Hey lady, nice dress, SHIT ON MY COCK!"
3) You could set yourself and your wooden twin, on fire and burn all the way to hell.
Up to you. Those are my suggestions. I might watch those acts. Feel free to leave your own suggestions in the comments, no matter how devious.
I like devious.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Does Someone Have My Mojo?
Monday, August 9th, 2010 – Six in the pee em, grouchy, lethargic, bad attitude
I’ve been all frustrated the past few days. Seriously, it’s like some demon entered my body through one of my unguarded holes, messed around with a whole lot of shit regarding my motivation to do…well pretty much anything really, and left me in this obnoxious mood. Ok, so not a whole big difference there I guess, you can say it. Such a lot of crap has happened lately, personally, that I've just had to turn my life around and make some pretty big decisions and it's all been a little depressing. But I'll live! But more on that another time.
I can’t even find my painting mojo and I almost never lose that. I even have a spunky new easel made of beautiful woody wood (I have no idea what kind of wood it is, shut up) and it’s all sturdy and new and paint-free and just about as sexy as hell compared to my old one which resembled a really drunk giraffe covered in old paint and that used to creak and fall over if you so much as touched it with a paint brush because it was made of balsa wood or some such cheap crap. The easel not the giraffe.
The new one is so lovely I want to stroke it all day, naked and purring. Also the easel. Although if there's a giraffe in the vicinity, we'll talk.
Anyway, here I am with a new easel and some fresh, blank canvases and everyone must know by now that blank canvases make me delirious with joy in the same way most ladies get gleeful over shoes, yet I can’t find the motivation to paint a damn thing. Well except anything that involves hurling paint willy-nilly at a canvas and winding up with something that looks like it was painted by Jackson Pollock while high.
I’m also halfway through about three paintings that really need to be completed, two of which are Airstreams and promised to various people, who’ll kick my ass if I don’t get on that soon.
I’ve been all frustrated the past few days. Seriously, it’s like some demon entered my body through one of my unguarded holes, messed around with a whole lot of shit regarding my motivation to do…well pretty much anything really, and left me in this obnoxious mood. Ok, so not a whole big difference there I guess, you can say it. Such a lot of crap has happened lately, personally, that I've just had to turn my life around and make some pretty big decisions and it's all been a little depressing. But I'll live! But more on that another time.
I can’t even find my painting mojo and I almost never lose that. I even have a spunky new easel made of beautiful woody wood (I have no idea what kind of wood it is, shut up) and it’s all sturdy and new and paint-free and just about as sexy as hell compared to my old one which resembled a really drunk giraffe covered in old paint and that used to creak and fall over if you so much as touched it with a paint brush because it was made of balsa wood or some such cheap crap. The easel not the giraffe.
The new one is so lovely I want to stroke it all day, naked and purring. Also the easel. Although if there's a giraffe in the vicinity, we'll talk.
Anyway, here I am with a new easel and some fresh, blank canvases and everyone must know by now that blank canvases make me delirious with joy in the same way most ladies get gleeful over shoes, yet I can’t find the motivation to paint a damn thing. Well except anything that involves hurling paint willy-nilly at a canvas and winding up with something that looks like it was painted by Jackson Pollock while high.
I’m also halfway through about three paintings that really need to be completed, two of which are Airstreams and promised to various people, who’ll kick my ass if I don’t get on that soon.
So yes. Motivation is on the fritz. As is my Google Reader which seems to have given up the will to live by not deleting entries I’ve already read, leaving me to wade through three million others that I have read to get to the others. And I can’t seem to figure out how to rectify this, because I’m clearly a moron. In the end I had a tantrum and just marked them all as read while cursing, so I missed a whole bunch of you guys’ stuff from the past few days.
Stupid Reader. Stupid Google. Stupid mojo. Stupid me for not having a cocktail handy.
Stupid entry.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
How To Be Unpopular Part One: Denounce Children
Wednesday, August 4th, 2010, mid afternoon, coffee wearing off, feeling disagreeable.
I have a bunch of you mommies (and daddies!) on my blog Reader and clearly you all are of the opposite opinion, to which I say, good luck to all of you. I truly mean it too. I don't envy you having to raise a tiny human and keep it in check and worry about it every day of your life. I feel bad that it's become a normal part of your day to sniff another human's rear end in a public place, but you willingly do it, because it's your child and you love it. You gave up a part of yourself to raise children and that's an admirable thing. I couldn't do it. Hell, I don't want to do it.
See, kids and me just don't mix. I am happy to look at your newborn and declare it "adorable" or "cute" and I'm respectful enough not to say, "Holy shit, he looks like an old man with Alzheimer's!" which, half the time, is what I'm thinking. If you hand me your baby there's a pretty fair chance my face will host the same look it might sport if you handed me a smoking stick of dynamite (sheer panic and eye-bulging horror) and I will hold it awkwardly, in much the same manner I would handle a turd.
I don't know what to do with a baby. They're alien to me. They know things. I know they know things. When they're not glancing around them not focusing, like tiny drunks, they can look right through your soul. They're sort of like cats - all knowing and with devious intentions.
I don't know what to do with a baby. They're alien to me. They know things. I know they know things. When they're not glancing around them not focusing, like tiny drunks, they can look right through your soul. They're sort of like cats - all knowing and with devious intentions.
But you know... substantially less appealing.
And if I'm at your house and your kid's going to bed, I'll happily say "goodnight" and "sweet dreams" and I might even not mind too much if he, for some godforsaken reason, wants me to read him a story, but be warned - he might not like my story. Unless he's into child-eating zombies. Is he? Then don't make me do it. Even if he's a nice kid and I grudgingly kind of like him, I'll fuck it up somehow. Trust me.
Also, don't make me kiss your child. I don't want to kiss your kid. He has more germs than Michael Moore's computer keyboard after a McDonald's run and if there's even a hint he's going to be sick with a cold in the next week you can bet your ass I'll have it too right after.
Plus, it makes me uncomfortable, okay? I'd be more comfortable hugging David Hasselhoff on a whiskey bender than kissing a toddler with a booger on its chin.
I'm also one of those people who would love the world to be more harmonious by implementing a "let's make the world better for everyone" policy. Just little things, like say, designating some flights as "child free", or at least confine people travelling with kids to a special, cordoned-off, rear section of the plane where their little monster can play, crayon on the walls, shriek and run up and down the aisle to his heart's content the whole flight long, without making me order a double vodka, grab his wrist in passing and hiss things like, "If you don't go sit down, kid, I'm going to throw you out the emergency hatch!"
Naturally, I wouldn't really throw him out the emergency hatch. Mainly because planes don't have an emergency hatch. And oh yeah, it would most likely be illegal. Wouldn't it? Yes? No? Maybe?
Also, I don't really see why other places can't designate certain days as, "adults only". Like restaurants for example. That's fair. Maybe give us childless Scrooges three days of the week and keep four for everyone else. I think that's entirely reasonable. Lots of people want a nice, peaceful evening out without listening to tantrums, even parents do. I don't really want to go eat at a restaurant at 8 pm on a weeknight, when I'm tired, and have to watch some tiny Tasmanian Devil, on a sugar high, do Grand Prix laps around the tables, bumping my elbows and spilling marinara sauce on my favourite shirt while yelling things like "WOOOKUMBAFAAAAAAYEEEE!".
Which brings me to, WTF?
If you're eating in a restaurant, make your child sit down please and keep his piehole clamped shut when he's not using it to eat or talk quietly. It's a restaurant not a playground. I realize it's not easy to make a wilful child comply with your commands but honestly, it's your job. If he can't behave in public maybe you should've stayed at home till he can, or hired a babysitter? Force him to sit down. It's how they learn. And it's probably better than me pinning him against a wall with a butter knife and describing how his innards will look on my sandwich.
See, 'adults only' days would mean your little crotch monster can make all the hullaballoo he likes on kids days and not annoy anyone. Except the waiter who'll possibly spit in your lasagna. Everyone wins.
If you're eating in a restaurant, make your child sit down please and keep his piehole clamped shut when he's not using it to eat or talk quietly. It's a restaurant not a playground. I realize it's not easy to make a wilful child comply with your commands but honestly, it's your job. If he can't behave in public maybe you should've stayed at home till he can, or hired a babysitter? Force him to sit down. It's how they learn. And it's probably better than me pinning him against a wall with a butter knife and describing how his innards will look on my sandwich.
See, 'adults only' days would mean your little crotch monster can make all the hullaballoo he likes on kids days and not annoy anyone. Except the waiter who'll possibly spit in your lasagna. Everyone wins.
Other segregation ideas? Beaches. Kids love beaches. I fully support their right to have as much beach time as summer will allow. But maybe sections of beach could be fenced off for adults only too? You see:
Your kid likes to run around the beach hollering, throwing objects and splashing stuff.
I like to lie in the sun with my book and listen to the tranquility of the waves lapping the shore and smell my coconut lotion and get drowsy and happy.
The two are incompatible. I don't need to have seventeen heart attacks because some four year old shows up one foot from my ear and yells, "AAAAAAAAAAAGH! HEEEEE!" and throws their ball at my head, while you stand there and giggle as if he just did the Cutest. Thing. Ever.
It would be nice if we could both have what we want, no?
Lastly, when you post something online along the lines of, "I am exhausted from a 65 hour, never ending work week, I want a cocktail and 2 days of solid sleep!" expressions of humour, agreement, sympathy or empathy are permitted in response. Saying assholic, superior things like, "Hah, try running around after a baby for six months, then tell me you're tired!" will get you shot. Or at least a place of honour on my dartboard.
I'm just saying.
Flame on, dear people. :)
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
My Middle Names Are “Refined Elegance”
Wednesday, July 28th, 2010 - Yawn! Sleepy!
The temperature up north here finally hit 90 degrees F. this week, meaning I immediately ran outside into the street and did a naked happy dance. You know that “Dawning of the Age of Aquarius” thing they did at the end of “The 40 Year Old Virgin”? That was me. In the street. In front of the construction workers on the corner and the early morning commuters.
Not really, of course. But wouldn’t it be kind of cool if that was true?
Anyway, after all those boring, 60 degree days filled with thunderstorms and rain, it was nice to feel like it’s actually summer.
Of course it took about five minutes to complain about the heat. I remedied this by hitting the beach on Saturday with a cooler full of drinks, a book I never actually opened, my trusty, inflatable, WalMart, classy chair and a boatload of sun block and I spent eight whole blissful hours just floating on the water and miraculously not ending up in the ER with third degree burns.
Which really, I consider an achievement up there with learning to read, learning to drive and staying upright after a bucket of margaritas. Only a tiny strip of red on one upper arm even suggests I was outdoors at all. Go me!
Naturally, I did manage to make a colossal ass of myself trying to mount the chair. It’s not as easy as it looks. It’s like a “Wipeout” obstacle. You invariably end up straddling the thing, ass in the air, clinging on for dear life till you can either hoist yourself properly on top or fall back in. Naturally, after a few quality moments of indiscriminately mooning the entire beach, I gave up and sploshed down into the water in a most elegant manner, making a ripple that turned heads all over the beach, like someone had just chucked a wrecking ball in there.
I’m such a dainty, coordinated flower. I persevered though. I will prevail!
So yes, summer. I finally realized my summer clothes from last year are either decrepit and falling apart or horror – too tight, as I still haven’t shed those few, pesky winter pounds, mainly due to disinclination, poor Zumba scheduling and Nanaimo Bars.
I mean technically my stuff still fits but everything seems to be bordering on indecent in the boobular region. Seems most of those excess pounds are now in my bra. Hmmm.
So I bought a couple of new tops and some cargo pants and things and am now working on Operation Controlling the Muffintop and Regaining Normal Boobage For The Good Of Mankind.
Whoa, that’s a mouthful (as the whore said to the priest).
When not lamenting my slightly expanded mammories or being busy as a fly on a fragrant poop, I am trying not to have a heart attack from the ever increasingly brave rodent running around the apartment every night. The other night he and I shared a small comedy moment when I happened to look down at exactly the right time to see him bolt out from under the desk I was sitting at and screech to a sliding halt about two feet from my foot just looking at me, horrified, as if to say “Where the fuck did you come from?”
“AAAARGH!” I said, jumping a foot in the air, because I hate being startled, and he ran off at approximately the speed of light while I yelled something impossibly intelligent after him like, “For fuck’s SAKE don’t do that, you little mousey fucker!”
So basically, I could sum my last week up in a few words; rodents, elegance, sunshine, tequila, boob expansion. That would have saved you all a lot of time, huh!
Too late.
The temperature up north here finally hit 90 degrees F. this week, meaning I immediately ran outside into the street and did a naked happy dance. You know that “Dawning of the Age of Aquarius” thing they did at the end of “The 40 Year Old Virgin”? That was me. In the street. In front of the construction workers on the corner and the early morning commuters.
Not really, of course. But wouldn’t it be kind of cool if that was true?
Anyway, after all those boring, 60 degree days filled with thunderstorms and rain, it was nice to feel like it’s actually summer.
Of course it took about five minutes to complain about the heat. I remedied this by hitting the beach on Saturday with a cooler full of drinks, a book I never actually opened, my trusty, inflatable, WalMart, classy chair and a boatload of sun block and I spent eight whole blissful hours just floating on the water and miraculously not ending up in the ER with third degree burns.
Which really, I consider an achievement up there with learning to read, learning to drive and staying upright after a bucket of margaritas. Only a tiny strip of red on one upper arm even suggests I was outdoors at all. Go me!
Naturally, I did manage to make a colossal ass of myself trying to mount the chair. It’s not as easy as it looks. It’s like a “Wipeout” obstacle. You invariably end up straddling the thing, ass in the air, clinging on for dear life till you can either hoist yourself properly on top or fall back in. Naturally, after a few quality moments of indiscriminately mooning the entire beach, I gave up and sploshed down into the water in a most elegant manner, making a ripple that turned heads all over the beach, like someone had just chucked a wrecking ball in there.
I’m such a dainty, coordinated flower. I persevered though. I will prevail!
So I bought a couple of new tops and some cargo pants and things and am now working on Operation Controlling the Muffintop and Regaining Normal Boobage For The Good Of Mankind.
Whoa, that’s a mouthful (as the whore said to the priest).
When not lamenting my slightly expanded mammories or being busy as a fly on a fragrant poop, I am trying not to have a heart attack from the ever increasingly brave rodent running around the apartment every night. The other night he and I shared a small comedy moment when I happened to look down at exactly the right time to see him bolt out from under the desk I was sitting at and screech to a sliding halt about two feet from my foot just looking at me, horrified, as if to say “Where the fuck did you come from?”
“AAAARGH!” I said, jumping a foot in the air, because I hate being startled, and he ran off at approximately the speed of light while I yelled something impossibly intelligent after him like, “For fuck’s SAKE don’t do that, you little mousey fucker!”
So basically, I could sum my last week up in a few words; rodents, elegance, sunshine, tequila, boob expansion. That would have saved you all a lot of time, huh!
Too late.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Of Mice And (Wo)Men, Part Quatre
Sunday, July 18th, 2010 - evening, sunny, chewing on chocolate raspberries.
Scene: Saturday night - late, a familiar scenario:
Voice with irritatingly posh English accent: Well HELLO!
Me: Oh please. No. Not again.
Baxter: Yes! Did you miss me? It's been a while, huh?
Me: I thought someone's cat had finally had you for dinner.
Baxter: Don't be silly. I'm far too smart for some feline to catch. I've been around. Watching. You know...covertly.
Me: Spying on me, you mean?
Baxter: Potatoes, Potahtoes...
Me: I have no strength for an argument from you, mouse.
Baxter: Is that why you didn't block your holes the past few days? I mean I just walked right on in. I thought you might have died. Are you ill? Or was it just an act of surrender?
Me: The dishwasher's broken! I had to take the bottom off so the guy could check the pipes and now there's a giant gap under there.
Baxter: Oh that's too bad. It also explains why you were calling the frying pan a "fucknocker" the other night. You had to wash it by hand, eh?
Me: You're a fucknocker...
Baxter: Seriously though. I came down here the other day and I wasn't even met with your normal laughable attempts at barricading me out. No duct tape or tissues anywhere at all. I was almost disappointed. I enjoy the challenge, no matter how pathetic.
Me: .... I put a TOWEL over the gap there.
Baxter: Oh yes! Yes, you did. I'm sorry. I almost forgot about the foreboding towel of doom. It's quite astounding I made it in here in one piece really isn't it? All that highly lethal terry cloth. I could have been ABSORBED or something.
Me: Go stick your tail in a blender.
Baxter: You're still very hostile. Maybelline thinks you may be vitamin deficient. Not getting enough nutrition.
Me: What?
Baxter: Well....I don't know how to put this politely....you have been eating rather a lot of Mars Bars lately.
Me: I haven't eaten THAT many!
Baxter: Come on now. Let's not lie to ourselves. You've been rather fond of the Mars products. And substantially less fond of the Zumba. And well...I was peeking at you the other day puffing and panting while doing that yoga thing you seem so fond of, even though it makes you say very bad words. And let's just say, at one point you were bent over with your derriere in the air and I mistakenly thought someone had landed a hot air balloon in your living room.
Me: What the... ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?
Baxter: I'm just being helpful! Wouldn't you prefer your friends be truthful with you? What sort of friend would I be if I didn't point out that soon your posterior will require its own zip code?
Me: I'm getting one of those electrofying traps right now... Your days here are numbered, rodent.
Baxter: Yes, well, whatever you must do, my dear. I will have the utmost fun avoiding it as I do all your other feeble attempts to catch me. Maybelline will have fun videotaping you painstakingly baiting it and placing it just right. You're an endless source of entertainment for us.
Me: I am no longer speaking to you.
Baxter: Oh dear. I think you should probably go to bed now, you seem rather tired. Maybe a little time out? A little snooze? I'll keep an eye on things here while you sleep. Maybe check out your latest paintings. See if you dropped any cookie crumbs in there, miss Lardy Bum! Keep guard, that kind of thing.
Me: I hate you, mouse.
Baxter: Oh come on now. You'll feel better in the morning. And maybe you can do some painting. If you can step away from the fridge for a second.
Me: OUT! Now!
Baxter: On second thoughts, maybe I'll head up to the next floor for some exploring. You can put the broom down. Think about what I said though. No one likes to buy two plane seats.
Me: *@&#(!
Just in case:
Part Three
Part Two
Part One
Scene: Saturday night - late, a familiar scenario:
Voice with irritatingly posh English accent: Well HELLO!
Me: Oh please. No. Not again.
Baxter: Yes! Did you miss me? It's been a while, huh?
Me: I thought someone's cat had finally had you for dinner.
Baxter: Don't be silly. I'm far too smart for some feline to catch. I've been around. Watching. You know...covertly.
Me: Spying on me, you mean?
Baxter: Potatoes, Potahtoes...
Me: I have no strength for an argument from you, mouse.
Baxter: Is that why you didn't block your holes the past few days? I mean I just walked right on in. I thought you might have died. Are you ill? Or was it just an act of surrender?
Me: The dishwasher's broken! I had to take the bottom off so the guy could check the pipes and now there's a giant gap under there.
Baxter: Oh that's too bad. It also explains why you were calling the frying pan a "fucknocker" the other night. You had to wash it by hand, eh?
Me: You're a fucknocker...
Baxter: Seriously though. I came down here the other day and I wasn't even met with your normal laughable attempts at barricading me out. No duct tape or tissues anywhere at all. I was almost disappointed. I enjoy the challenge, no matter how pathetic.
Me: .... I put a TOWEL over the gap there.
Baxter: Oh yes! Yes, you did. I'm sorry. I almost forgot about the foreboding towel of doom. It's quite astounding I made it in here in one piece really isn't it? All that highly lethal terry cloth. I could have been ABSORBED or something.
Me: Go stick your tail in a blender.
Baxter: You're still very hostile. Maybelline thinks you may be vitamin deficient. Not getting enough nutrition.
Me: What?
Baxter: Well....I don't know how to put this politely....you have been eating rather a lot of Mars Bars lately.
Me: I haven't eaten THAT many!
Baxter: Come on now. Let's not lie to ourselves. You've been rather fond of the Mars products. And substantially less fond of the Zumba. And well...I was peeking at you the other day puffing and panting while doing that yoga thing you seem so fond of, even though it makes you say very bad words. And let's just say, at one point you were bent over with your derriere in the air and I mistakenly thought someone had landed a hot air balloon in your living room.
Me: What the... ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?
Baxter: I'm just being helpful! Wouldn't you prefer your friends be truthful with you? What sort of friend would I be if I didn't point out that soon your posterior will require its own zip code?
Me: I'm getting one of those electrofying traps right now... Your days here are numbered, rodent.
Baxter: Yes, well, whatever you must do, my dear. I will have the utmost fun avoiding it as I do all your other feeble attempts to catch me. Maybelline will have fun videotaping you painstakingly baiting it and placing it just right. You're an endless source of entertainment for us.
Me: I am no longer speaking to you.
Baxter: Oh dear. I think you should probably go to bed now, you seem rather tired. Maybe a little time out? A little snooze? I'll keep an eye on things here while you sleep. Maybe check out your latest paintings. See if you dropped any cookie crumbs in there, miss Lardy Bum! Keep guard, that kind of thing.
Me: I hate you, mouse.
Baxter: Oh come on now. You'll feel better in the morning. And maybe you can do some painting. If you can step away from the fridge for a second.
Me: OUT! Now!
Baxter: On second thoughts, maybe I'll head up to the next floor for some exploring. You can put the broom down. Think about what I said though. No one likes to buy two plane seats.
Me: *@&#(!
Just in case:
Part Three
Part Two
Part One
Friday, July 16, 2010
Life On Mars
This morning I woke up craving something sweet. My mind does all kinds of crazy things in the mornings, often things that would terrify a lesser person, but usually eating is not even close to making the agenda. However, I'm home all day on Fridays, left to my own devious devices and my head knows what it wants. It's pointless to argue with my head. There's just no way you can win.
Today I believe my first thought was, "I wonder if there's a Mars Bar lurking in the fridge?"
Mars Bars are my current love. I grew up with them but they were tossed by the wayside years ago, in fickle favour of new, more interesting candy bars. But I think I was young, I was restless, I just had to sow my wild chocolate oats. Inevitably I came back to my old friend Mars.
Now normally, I can go months without chocolate, but occasionally I need it like oxygen. Mars Bars are at least as crucial as oxygen (and I bet there's a physicist out there who'll back me up on this and that physicist is probably a lady with PMS) with their caramelly, chocolatey, whatever-the-hell-that-other-part-is-y goodness.
Of course, a Milky Way will do in a pinch. It all depends where I am at the time. If I'm in the States a Milky Way is my usual option as really, it's pretty much a Mars Bar with a different name, even if it does taste a little different. If I'm in Canada I can get an actual Mars Bar. I'm a multi national, border-crossing machine on a regular basis so it could go either way. My garbage-can wrapper collection does not discriminate.
Note: For the record I also love British Milky Ways which are nothing like a Mars Bar at all. It's confusing isn't it? It's like chocolate is a whole other language! Thankfully I speak it fluently.
I have a bag of "fun size" Mars Bars in my fridge, or as I always call them "Disappointingly Small Sized" Mars Bars. I don't think the people at Mars really get the point of "fun" AT ALL. If I buy a chocolate bar called "Fun Size", I'm expecting something the approximate length of a wrestler's arm and twice as thick and it should, ideally, be able to mix me a margarita and fly me to the Caribbean.
Today I believe my first thought was, "I wonder if there's a Mars Bar lurking in the fridge?"
Mars Bars are my current love. I grew up with them but they were tossed by the wayside years ago, in fickle favour of new, more interesting candy bars. But I think I was young, I was restless, I just had to sow my wild chocolate oats. Inevitably I came back to my old friend Mars.
Now normally, I can go months without chocolate, but occasionally I need it like oxygen. Mars Bars are at least as crucial as oxygen (and I bet there's a physicist out there who'll back me up on this and that physicist is probably a lady with PMS) with their caramelly, chocolatey, whatever-the-hell-that-other-part-is-y goodness.
Of course, a Milky Way will do in a pinch. It all depends where I am at the time. If I'm in the States a Milky Way is my usual option as really, it's pretty much a Mars Bar with a different name, even if it does taste a little different. If I'm in Canada I can get an actual Mars Bar. I'm a multi national, border-crossing machine on a regular basis so it could go either way. My garbage-can wrapper collection does not discriminate.
Note: For the record I also love British Milky Ways which are nothing like a Mars Bar at all. It's confusing isn't it? It's like chocolate is a whole other language! Thankfully I speak it fluently.
I have a bag of "fun size" Mars Bars in my fridge, or as I always call them "Disappointingly Small Sized" Mars Bars. I don't think the people at Mars really get the point of "fun" AT ALL. If I buy a chocolate bar called "Fun Size", I'm expecting something the approximate length of a wrestler's arm and twice as thick and it should, ideally, be able to mix me a margarita and fly me to the Caribbean.
You know, I actually came on here to say something legitimately of interest and now I've been sidetracked by chocolate and I can't remember what it was... If it comes back to me I'll let you know. I'd hate to think you were all unable to get to sleep tonight from worrying about it.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Under Siege
Thursday, July 15th, 2010, lunch time and I'm using my time wisely
Well. Sober today, how'd you like THEM apples?
This post is going to be very light. You know, as opposed to my usual deeply intellectual stuff about mice and cake and protecting my holes.
Although, oh! That reminds me, because as you can probably guess, it's not like any preparation goes into these entries, but you may remember me telling you all about Baxter the mouse and that Thing of Many Legs from a few weeks ago, who I haven't seen since?
Well last night, I'm reclining in bed, watching the "UFO Hunters" on TV (this is my bedtime viewing every night lately, something about aliens and secret government bases makes me relaxed) when I see something out the side of my eye. On the floor. And honestly, I'm scared to even look. Because what fresh hell awaits me down there now? It could be practically anything. A gerbil? An otter? John Stamos? And my mind's thinking "Maybe Veg, it's better if you just don't know."
But as this is me we're talking about, naturally I had a peek. With trepidation.
And perhaps wielding a book in case of sudden surprise enemy attack.
If my holes are going to be under siege yet again, I should be prepared, right?
Anyway, the culprit was a mean looking, probably carniverous beetle. In search of some milky white flesh to nibble on. And, like all other clearly innard-seeking predators in my apartment, it was the size of a horse (about 2 centimetres). He was just scurrying around the room blindly like Stevie Wonder in a maze. (Sorry Stevie)
Now a sane person would just get up, squish it with a shoe, flush it down the toilet and continue watching TV, but a) I never claimed sanity, and b) I don't squish things. I hate dead bugs even more than live ones, if the truth be known, they just skeeze me right out, so I did the only thing left to do. I made sure I was securely tucked in on all sides, in case it suddenly gained superbug powers and shimmied up onto the bed to bite my succulent flesh with its obviously lethal bitey bug teethy things. I quickly hunkered down into a lovely, warm, state of denial. What beetle? So yeah. Now I have a beetle to worry about. Goddamn insects. Leave my holes alone.
Anyway, what was I going to say before I got hideously sidetracked? Yes. I think I'd like a scroll saw. I have all these ideas of things I want to make with wood but need to be able to cut shapes and stuff. I have no idea how to use these things and I'm pretty sure any kind of saw in my possession would result in various missing appendages.
Note: I actually like the idea of a chainsaw more, just because I'd love just one time, to answer the door in eye goggles, wielding a chainsaw and a manic expression. I have the expression down pat, it's the other two I need to work on.
However, me and sharp equipment of any sort, can only end in tears. I mean, just the other night I was cutting into a big block of cheddar when the knife slipped and sliced right into the front of my right thumb which was holding the block. Thing bled for hours and still looks kind of gnarly today.
Well. Sober today, how'd you like THEM apples?
This post is going to be very light. You know, as opposed to my usual deeply intellectual stuff about mice and cake and protecting my holes.
Although, oh! That reminds me, because as you can probably guess, it's not like any preparation goes into these entries, but you may remember me telling you all about Baxter the mouse and that Thing of Many Legs from a few weeks ago, who I haven't seen since?
Well last night, I'm reclining in bed, watching the "UFO Hunters" on TV (this is my bedtime viewing every night lately, something about aliens and secret government bases makes me relaxed) when I see something out the side of my eye. On the floor. And honestly, I'm scared to even look. Because what fresh hell awaits me down there now? It could be practically anything. A gerbil? An otter? John Stamos? And my mind's thinking "Maybe Veg, it's better if you just don't know."
But as this is me we're talking about, naturally I had a peek. With trepidation.
And perhaps wielding a book in case of sudden surprise enemy attack.
If my holes are going to be under siege yet again, I should be prepared, right?
Anyway, the culprit was a mean looking, probably carniverous beetle. In search of some milky white flesh to nibble on. And, like all other clearly innard-seeking predators in my apartment, it was the size of a horse (about 2 centimetres). He was just scurrying around the room blindly like Stevie Wonder in a maze. (Sorry Stevie)
Now a sane person would just get up, squish it with a shoe, flush it down the toilet and continue watching TV, but a) I never claimed sanity, and b) I don't squish things. I hate dead bugs even more than live ones, if the truth be known, they just skeeze me right out, so I did the only thing left to do. I made sure I was securely tucked in on all sides, in case it suddenly gained superbug powers and shimmied up onto the bed to bite my succulent flesh with its obviously lethal bitey bug teethy things. I quickly hunkered down into a lovely, warm, state of denial. What beetle? So yeah. Now I have a beetle to worry about. Goddamn insects. Leave my holes alone.
Anyway, what was I going to say before I got hideously sidetracked? Yes. I think I'd like a scroll saw. I have all these ideas of things I want to make with wood but need to be able to cut shapes and stuff. I have no idea how to use these things and I'm pretty sure any kind of saw in my possession would result in various missing appendages.
Note: I actually like the idea of a chainsaw more, just because I'd love just one time, to answer the door in eye goggles, wielding a chainsaw and a manic expression. I have the expression down pat, it's the other two I need to work on.
However, me and sharp equipment of any sort, can only end in tears. I mean, just the other night I was cutting into a big block of cheddar when the knife slipped and sliced right into the front of my right thumb which was holding the block. Thing bled for hours and still looks kind of gnarly today.
If I can do that with a cheese knife, people, can you imagine what I could do with a saw of any sort?
Hell it would make defense against beetles easy though.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Blogging 101: Never Post Drunk
Monday, July 12th, 2010, One in the ay-em, which technically makes it Tuesday, but as I am not yet asleep, it's still Monday. Officially.
Hi! I've had margaritas! Home made margaritas and not very authentic ones at that, but successfully using up the spare tequila I had lying around just calling my name. I mean I'd hate it to go bad or something, sitting there on top of the fridge all forlorn. And really, can you think of a better way to end a warm, summer weeknight? No. Me neither.
However, I couldn't find a store bought mix (ok, I forgot to go look, sue me) so rather than give up, I made them with frozen lime soda. Yes, I know, it IS classy! I think I may just have invented actual white trash margaritas. You can thank me later. They still tasted pretty good, despite the lack of fresh fruit or indeed any margarita ingredient except tequila. Let's face it that's the most important one, right? Let's not kid ourselves. Screw formality.
Don't tell anyone but I am rather toasted, I freely admit it. My toes feel like they're possibly in a separate continent from my feet and I've already corrected about 67 typos in this entry alone. Hola!
To complement those fine, high class drinks, I played some mariachi music I found on YouTube (it seemed appropriate somehow...) and threw some paint around on a little canvas I had repurposed in the hope of painting a design I could photograph, print and use to make those cute little blank greeting cards you pay a fortune for in stores.
I'm kidding. I'm very reasonable. And bribable.
I can already tell you're thrilled. That's what all that yawning means, right?
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Suffering for Independence
Sunday, July 4th, 2010 - 8:25 p.m., craving a Mars Bar
Well hi there! It's July 4th, it's hot as a pig in heat and naturally I'm a big, hot, sunburned mess.
I spent the day at the beach at one of the nearby lakes, with a cooler full of icy cold drinks, some slightly soggy food, and boasting a quite impressive hangover due to copious amounts of margaritas last night, while happily floating on my big blue and white inflatable chair, purchased from Satan (That's 'WalMart' to you) last summer for $20.
It's freaking enormous too. I can barely even touch the water when sitting against the back rest and I'm a gigantically tall (ok...average) five foot six.
I spent hours just bobbing over waves on that thing, partaking in my favourite beach pastime - trying in vain to stop cold water splashing up my clunge. There's always a random icy wave that just takes you by surprise and infiltrates your fleshy fortress with its icy tentacles. And I think we can all agree, ladies - there is surely nothing worse than a cold *fanny.
Except perhaps finding your fanny under attack by that mutant that makes up the dude half of Speidi. That guy is the human equivalent of herpes, I swear.
*By "fanny" I mean it either in the British/Australian or North American way, up. To. You.
I thought I was such a wiseass too, by smugly slathering my pasty white flesh in factor 50 sunscreen regularly and remembering parts that normally I forget, like my feet, my knees and my nose, however I clearly wasn't smart enough to figure out that floating in the water with your feet dangling overboard meant there was a chance the sunscreen would wash right off and leave you stumbling around blindly two hours later, hair sticking out in every direction like a feral child, two giant, red, swollen hams attached to your ankles and a look of absolute torture plastered on your face, like someone who's just seen Hulk Hogan naked.
So yeah. For once I do not look like a crazed alcoholic with a bulbous red schnoz after a day in the Sun, but instead I walk like I pooped my pants. If you hear some echoey, loud, far-off voice yelling "Pigfucker!" drift by you on the breeze, in the next couple of days, that'll be me, trying to get my shoes on.
P.S. If you are the man from the beach today who was wearing the fetching shiny, red Speedo, please don't do that anymore. Speedos belong on only two groups of people - swarthy, oblivious Italian men and perverts.
Happy Independence Day America. I hope you ate well, drank lots, got in some quality relaxation and that your extremeties are burn-free.
Well hi there! It's July 4th, it's hot as a pig in heat and naturally I'm a big, hot, sunburned mess.
I spent the day at the beach at one of the nearby lakes, with a cooler full of icy cold drinks, some slightly soggy food, and boasting a quite impressive hangover due to copious amounts of margaritas last night, while happily floating on my big blue and white inflatable chair, purchased from Satan (That's 'WalMart' to you) last summer for $20.
I spent hours just bobbing over waves on that thing, partaking in my favourite beach pastime - trying in vain to stop cold water splashing up my clunge. There's always a random icy wave that just takes you by surprise and infiltrates your fleshy fortress with its icy tentacles. And I think we can all agree, ladies - there is surely nothing worse than a cold *fanny.
Except perhaps finding your fanny under attack by that mutant that makes up the dude half of Speidi. That guy is the human equivalent of herpes, I swear.
*By "fanny" I mean it either in the British/Australian or North American way, up. To. You.
I thought I was such a wiseass too, by smugly slathering my pasty white flesh in factor 50 sunscreen regularly and remembering parts that normally I forget, like my feet, my knees and my nose, however I clearly wasn't smart enough to figure out that floating in the water with your feet dangling overboard meant there was a chance the sunscreen would wash right off and leave you stumbling around blindly two hours later, hair sticking out in every direction like a feral child, two giant, red, swollen hams attached to your ankles and a look of absolute torture plastered on your face, like someone who's just seen Hulk Hogan naked.
So yeah. For once I do not look like a crazed alcoholic with a bulbous red schnoz after a day in the Sun, but instead I walk like I pooped my pants. If you hear some echoey, loud, far-off voice yelling "Pigfucker!" drift by you on the breeze, in the next couple of days, that'll be me, trying to get my shoes on.
P.S. If you are the man from the beach today who was wearing the fetching shiny, red Speedo, please don't do that anymore. Speedos belong on only two groups of people - swarthy, oblivious Italian men and perverts.
Friday, July 2, 2010
More Stuff You Didn't Need To Know
Friday, July 2nd, 2010, hot, blustery afternoon, at home on a long weekend
Check me out, writing actual entries on Fridays, that don't involve memes!
Ha, fooled you. Today is totally going to be a meme. I always complain about the damn things yet I always do them regardless, because obviously, there is nothing I enjoy more than talking about myself ad nauseum. Or complaining. Or throwing darts at pictures of Tom Cruise's head.
This one was bestowed on me by the evil, but quite delightful Muummmmeeeeee who knows the world cannot possibly survive without knowing what makes me tick.
Where were you five years ago?
I was living in New York City, working in advertising and planning an exciting trip to the Keys with my sister. I'd wanted to go to Key West since I was about 12 years old and finally I was stoked to be doing it! So we flew down to Fort Lauderdale and drove down to the middle Keys, where we were staying a night before moving on to Key West the following day. It was beautiful and tranquil and the small hotel we stayed in that night had everything; a salt water pool, hammocks, cocktails...and a big, fucking hurricane called Rita. So the next morning instead of heading to Key West as planned, we got our asses evacuated and had to drive maniacally around Florida trying to outrun it, while improvising accommodation, dodging alligators and drowning our sorrows in extreme amounts of beer, pizza and my sister's legendary farts. Good times.
I still haven't been to Key West.
Where would you like to be five years from now?
In my Airstream, travelling around, free as a bird. Maybe we'd finally make it to Key West, who knows? Naturally, I'd have a totally mobile job, my Airstream would be custom fitted for all my needs (including a cocktail bar to match its retro decor) and I'd stay only in the most beautiful of spots, moving on when I needed a change. I'll be mysterious and admirable and adventurous, like that Dos Equis dude who claims to be "the most interesting man in the world", only unlike that guy, I'd look less like "the most dishevelled homeless guy in the world with 'the diabeetus'".
Check me out, writing actual entries on Fridays, that don't involve memes!
Ha, fooled you. Today is totally going to be a meme. I always complain about the damn things yet I always do them regardless, because obviously, there is nothing I enjoy more than talking about myself ad nauseum. Or complaining. Or throwing darts at pictures of Tom Cruise's head.
This one was bestowed on me by the evil, but quite delightful Muummmmeeeeee who knows the world cannot possibly survive without knowing what makes me tick.
Where were you five years ago?
I was living in New York City, working in advertising and planning an exciting trip to the Keys with my sister. I'd wanted to go to Key West since I was about 12 years old and finally I was stoked to be doing it! So we flew down to Fort Lauderdale and drove down to the middle Keys, where we were staying a night before moving on to Key West the following day. It was beautiful and tranquil and the small hotel we stayed in that night had everything; a salt water pool, hammocks, cocktails...and a big, fucking hurricane called Rita. So the next morning instead of heading to Key West as planned, we got our asses evacuated and had to drive maniacally around Florida trying to outrun it, while improvising accommodation, dodging alligators and drowning our sorrows in extreme amounts of beer, pizza and my sister's legendary farts. Good times.
I still haven't been to Key West.
Where would you like to be five years from now?
In my Airstream, travelling around, free as a bird. Maybe we'd finally make it to Key West, who knows? Naturally, I'd have a totally mobile job, my Airstream would be custom fitted for all my needs (including a cocktail bar to match its retro decor) and I'd stay only in the most beautiful of spots, moving on when I needed a change. I'll be mysterious and admirable and adventurous, like that Dos Equis dude who claims to be "the most interesting man in the world", only unlike that guy, I'd look less like "the most dishevelled homeless guy in the world with 'the diabeetus'".
What's on your list to do today?
Let me see. I have to finish this damn meme. I then have to eat this grilled cheese sandwich, let some guy in to fix the dishwasher because I managed to slaughter its will to live, then I have to finish painting a Cylon (yes, another one!) for a friend of mine, package up some small paintings ready to ship to some other people and finish perfecting John Locke's nose, for my good buddy Red. Then I am making a big-assed batch of frozen margaritas for my joint Canada Day/4th of July party tomorrow, (can 2 people and a stuffed cow constitute a "party"?) and I might do some yoga.
What five snacks do you enjoy?
Well I have to say I enjoy potato chips a lot. The more bizarre the flavour, the better too. You're just never going to catch me buying Salt and Vinegar or Cheese and Onion flavour. This is where the UK outdoes the whole rest of the world. It has the best chips/crisps on Earth. With the best flavours. Every time I go over there I bring a suitcase just for fancy flavoured chips. Apart from chips I like red grapes. And devilled eggs. And chocolate dipped strawberries. And cupcakes. And I like cucumber drizzled in black pepper, salt and vinegar. And sweet pickles. And...oh wait, you said five? Well you got eight, because I provide value, baby. Value.
What would you do if you were a billionaire?
Probably the same answer as the five years from now thing. Airstream, travel, cocktail bar, hammock. Only maybe without the mobile job - I'd just paint and craft full time and sell those for fun. Wouldn't that be nice? And I'd pay off my debts and my family's mortgages and get a better car or truck to pull my Airstream and I would be almost worry free. People tell you money can't buy you happiness, but they can pucker up and kiss my pattoot. Money might not buy you happiness but I just bet it comes pretty damn close.
I'm not going to nominate anyone for this meme, but feel free to take it and abuse the shit out of it with your own answers. In fact, I encourage it. Have a happy fourth of July, America. And a perfectly adequate weekend to the rest of you too. Ha.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A New Reason To Block My Holes
Tuesday, June 29th, 2010 - the wee small hours of insomnia due to freaky things
For the love of God, people. As if I don't have enough to contend with, fielding the occasional sass from a tiny rodent trying to nibble my toes or steal my cheese or whatever his motives are for harassing me, now I have a new nemesis to worry about. He appears to live in a gap in the skirting board where it doesn't quite meet the floor due to some substandard asshole not doing his job properly. Goddamn builders. Or carpenters. Or whoever deals with skirting board issues in apartments. Goddamn you all to hell you cowboy jackasses.
So I'm sitting around, chewing a cereal bar and inhaling a Diet Pepsi when I look down at my clean, shiny hardwood floor and see.. it. Slithering - yes, slithering, across the floor, back toward the crack at the bottom of the wall.
And it was the length of a bus! A really long bus, like the sort that takes football teams to games and has like....toilets on board and maybe a buffet. This wasn't a bus though. No! It was a THING OF MANY LEGS.
I shuddered a little even typing that if you must know. Ew. So, yes. It was a giant Thing of Many Legs and like every other interloper that comes anywhere near me, it clearly wanted to suck out my innards and have its babies in my bum.
It didn't say that, obviously, but I knew. I could tell by its swagger. Did I mention it was the size of a bus?
Or - ok, so it was an inch long. It was scary. You had to be there. And although I couldn't see it clearly, I could sense its poisonous, spindly leg hairs and green, zombie-like, gelatinous goo dripping off every pore in its body. So I did what any Indiana Jones type of pioneer, macho, not-scared-at-all, badass mofo would do - I shrieked like the fancy lady I am, grabbed a bottle of Febreeze and spritzed his ass. From a distance, naturally...
He didn't die, but I bet he smells awesome.
As you know, I don't do well with any sort of bug in general and centipedic things in particular, mainly because they are gross, they slither, they make me goose-bumpy all over, lose my mind and try to run in twenty directions at the same time and they are sent express mail straight from Satan himself.
In fact, I have to say, Baxter the mouse is looking more and more appealing to me since The Thing of Many Legs showed up. I wonder if he eats centipedic, buggy, gross things? If so, I might just say he can prolong his mously visit a touch. I almost got to ask him too because the second The Thing Of Many Legs slithered off into the crack, high on the fumes of Febreeze and the satisfaction of terrifying a grown up human, and I eased myself down off the top of the couch (I was up there to get a better view, you understand, I wasn't SCARED), I looked up toward the kitchen in time to see a furry thing with a long tail duck under the dishwasher.
For fuck's sake. It's like an open house for vermin at my house tonight.
So, who's coming round for tea?
For the love of God, people. As if I don't have enough to contend with, fielding the occasional sass from a tiny rodent trying to nibble my toes or steal my cheese or whatever his motives are for harassing me, now I have a new nemesis to worry about. He appears to live in a gap in the skirting board where it doesn't quite meet the floor due to some substandard asshole not doing his job properly. Goddamn builders. Or carpenters. Or whoever deals with skirting board issues in apartments. Goddamn you all to hell you cowboy jackasses.
So I'm sitting around, chewing a cereal bar and inhaling a Diet Pepsi when I look down at my clean, shiny hardwood floor and see.. it. Slithering - yes, slithering, across the floor, back toward the crack at the bottom of the wall.
And it was the length of a bus! A really long bus, like the sort that takes football teams to games and has like....toilets on board and maybe a buffet. This wasn't a bus though. No! It was a THING OF MANY LEGS.
I shuddered a little even typing that if you must know. Ew. So, yes. It was a giant Thing of Many Legs and like every other interloper that comes anywhere near me, it clearly wanted to suck out my innards and have its babies in my bum.
It didn't say that, obviously, but I knew. I could tell by its swagger. Did I mention it was the size of a bus?
Or - ok, so it was an inch long. It was scary. You had to be there. And although I couldn't see it clearly, I could sense its poisonous, spindly leg hairs and green, zombie-like, gelatinous goo dripping off every pore in its body. So I did what any Indiana Jones type of pioneer, macho, not-scared-at-all, badass mofo would do - I shrieked like the fancy lady I am, grabbed a bottle of Febreeze and spritzed his ass. From a distance, naturally...
He didn't die, but I bet he smells awesome.
As you know, I don't do well with any sort of bug in general and centipedic things in particular, mainly because they are gross, they slither, they make me goose-bumpy all over, lose my mind and try to run in twenty directions at the same time and they are sent express mail straight from Satan himself.
In fact, I have to say, Baxter the mouse is looking more and more appealing to me since The Thing of Many Legs showed up. I wonder if he eats centipedic, buggy, gross things? If so, I might just say he can prolong his mously visit a touch. I almost got to ask him too because the second The Thing Of Many Legs slithered off into the crack, high on the fumes of Febreeze and the satisfaction of terrifying a grown up human, and I eased myself down off the top of the couch (I was up there to get a better view, you understand, I wasn't SCARED), I looked up toward the kitchen in time to see a furry thing with a long tail duck under the dishwasher.
For fuck's sake. It's like an open house for vermin at my house tonight.
So, who's coming round for tea?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Undead Want Me
Wednesday, June 23rd, 2010, whenever
Hi! I woke up this morning to find that I have two very attractive puncture marks on the left side of my neck. Clearly a vampire has visited me in the night and sucked some of my precious Assassin blood. It’s pretty ironic, since the last thing I saw before I went to bed last night was “True Blood”. Well ok, maybe not exactly ironic, unless your name is Alanis Morrissette and you haven’t quite grasped grammar concepts fully, but it was at the very least a fitting coincidence. A fly in your chardonnay, Alanis, really? Ironic, how? Whoa, that joke hasn’t been topical in about 15 years! Go me!
Amendment: I was thinking, perhaps the fly in Alanis's chardonnay was actually a recovering alcoholic and he ended up dead in her chardonnay? Now THAT my friends, would be ironic!
I’m not worried, I can replace the missing blood quickly by inhaling lots of coffee and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich. But it’s the principle of the thing. Taking it without asking me. Vampires are assholes. Sure, some are very attractive yet dangerous assholes, like Eric on “True Blood”, although if you’re slightly brain deficient and wishy-washy romantic they also apparently shimmer like glitter, rescue plain, sulky teenaged girls from ridiculous situations and have tousled hair and permanent “sexy” pouts that make them look vaguely constipated, like that giant douche in that horrendous “Twilight” thing that’s going to go on FOR FREAKING EVER, causing me to want to punch things. More than usual even.
Then to make matters worse, I find this mosquito flying around my room as I’m trying to drink my coffee and it’s eyeing my milky white flesh longingly and buzz diving me like a kamaikaze fighter pilot on an enemy freighter.
No, there is no coincidence between that and my obviously serious neck puncture wounds, don’t you go thinking it. That was the work of vampires. Never doubt me.
Hi! I woke up this morning to find that I have two very attractive puncture marks on the left side of my neck. Clearly a vampire has visited me in the night and sucked some of my precious Assassin blood. It’s pretty ironic, since the last thing I saw before I went to bed last night was “True Blood”. Well ok, maybe not exactly ironic, unless your name is Alanis Morrissette and you haven’t quite grasped grammar concepts fully, but it was at the very least a fitting coincidence. A fly in your chardonnay, Alanis, really? Ironic, how? Whoa, that joke hasn’t been topical in about 15 years! Go me!
Amendment: I was thinking, perhaps the fly in Alanis's chardonnay was actually a recovering alcoholic and he ended up dead in her chardonnay? Now THAT my friends, would be ironic!
I’m not worried, I can replace the missing blood quickly by inhaling lots of coffee and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich. But it’s the principle of the thing. Taking it without asking me. Vampires are assholes. Sure, some are very attractive yet dangerous assholes, like Eric on “True Blood”, although if you’re slightly brain deficient and wishy-washy romantic they also apparently shimmer like glitter, rescue plain, sulky teenaged girls from ridiculous situations and have tousled hair and permanent “sexy” pouts that make them look vaguely constipated, like that giant douche in that horrendous “Twilight” thing that’s going to go on FOR FREAKING EVER, causing me to want to punch things. More than usual even.
Then to make matters worse, I find this mosquito flying around my room as I’m trying to drink my coffee and it’s eyeing my milky white flesh longingly and buzz diving me like a kamaikaze fighter pilot on an enemy freighter.
No, there is no coincidence between that and my obviously serious neck puncture wounds, don’t you go thinking it. That was the work of vampires. Never doubt me.
Anyway, I don’t actually have anything to say (when do I ever have anything to say, hmmm?) so I’ll leave you. Try not to cry.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Soccer Sounds a Lot Like "Sucker"
Friday, June 18th, lunchtime and it's raining like a little bitch
Apparently there's this "World Cup" thing going on at the moment. I hadn't particularly noticed until I kept seeing people posting about it, and even then, those posts are mostly from the ladies bestowing much admiration on the toned physiques of many studly, athletic gentlemen.
Apparently there's this "World Cup" thing going on at the moment. I hadn't particularly noticed until I kept seeing people posting about it, and even then, those posts are mostly from the ladies bestowing much admiration on the toned physiques of many studly, athletic gentlemen.
Me though, I don't give a donkey's ass. This is because where football (or 'soccer' to you people who can't deal with a sport where you actually use your feet, being named appropriately) is concerned, I prefer to ignore it. This is primarily because I grew up in Scotland - a country where football is an actual religion right alongside Protestant and Catholic and therefore, you had to hear about it every, single, motherfucking day from every male human you encountered from the milkman to your classmates to your doctor.
It didn't help that we had a dismal team. Every World Cup we'd wheel them out and send them to qualifiers and if they actually did qualify - i.e., if the entire opposing team dropped dead on the field and forfeited - the whole country would get into a giant party mode for about three months in anticipation.
This was always more fun than the actual tournament, because once the World Cup actually began, the fun was generally over because usually Scotland would last about oh....one round, before being unceremoniously booted out for colossal sucking offenses.
This is because Scotland was never an athletic country. We placed athleticism roughly somewhere on a scale between "voting Conservative" and "eating vegetables" on a scale of importance. The most practiced exercise in Scotland was walking fifty feet to the corner shop for a Mars Bar and some Irn Bru. So it's hardly surprising we didn't birth the upper echelon of sportsmen, really.
We'd get all indignant at the draw because Scotland would draw teams like Germany, Brazil and Italy, while our mythical nemesis, England, would draw something improbably snoozeworthy like Lapland, Swaziland and Lichtenstein.
Or at least that was our excuse for failing miserably.
Or at least that was our excuse for failing miserably.
Not that England, was a whole lot better. They got just as passionate about football and the World Cup and just as monumentally disappointed in their team's generally lame efforts. They did manage to win it once though, back in 1966 and we've had to hear about that victory every, single, motherfucking World Cup or important football event since.
I remember as a kid thinking "Seriously, this 1966 thing again? That was a lifetime ago and they're still talking about it? They haven't won anything since then to get all proud about?" Because naturally that occasion was a fluke, unlikely to be repeated. It was 44 years ago people, you're not allowed to boast about something that happened BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN BORN. You almost wanted them to win something so you could hear a different record.
I remember as a kid thinking "Seriously, this 1966 thing again? That was a lifetime ago and they're still talking about it? They haven't won anything since then to get all proud about?" Because naturally that occasion was a fluke, unlikely to be repeated. It was 44 years ago people, you're not allowed to boast about something that happened BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN BORN. You almost wanted them to win something so you could hear a different record.
Of course, that's totally just sour grapes from a person who comes from a country that probably deserved a medal just for making it onto the field without stopping at the pub. Because if there was a World Cup for drinking, Scotland would join forces with its soulmate, Ireland and drink the rest of the world under the table, over it and probably on top of it too.
Anyway yeah. I hate football. I hate people's devotion to it and I detest commentators with a fiery passion. You can call me Scrooge.
HUMBUG.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Of Mice And (Wo)Men, Part Trois
Wednesday, June 16th, 2010, some ungodly hour of the morning
Something mously is stirring...
Baxter: Well hello!
Me: Oh for fuck’s sake, you are kidding me.
Baxter: Did you miss me? It’s been a while, huh?
Me: Tell me I’m having a bad dream.
Baxter: You’re having a bad dream.
Me: Thank the lord!
Baxter: Not really. I’m back. I decided to give you some space for a while. You were getting a little psychotic there and I was feeling a little unwelcome.
Me: No shit.
Baxter: I see you are still employing the old duct tape hole-plugging method. It amuses me greatly.
Me: You’re never going away are you?
Baxter: Hmmm. Not really, no.
Me: I might get a cat. A really big cat with an attitude.
Baxter: Now, do you really think that’s wise?
Me: How’d you mean?
Baxter: Well, I don’t want to be negative or anything but, cats need nourishment.….and look what you did to that plant.
Me: Yeah well…this cat would be eating mouse.
Baxter: Oh touché my dear, touché!
Me: Sigh.
Baxter: Anyway, I’m glad to be back. I’ve missed the entertainment. I’m happy to see you’re still hilarious.
Me: What the hell are you talking about now?
Baxter: That thing you do.
Me: ?
Baxter: You know. The thing. Where you wear the sports bra and the funny pants. Where you throw your arms in the air and suffer some sort of seizure.
Me: What? You mean ZUMBA?
Baxter: Is that what that was. I just thought you were unwell. You had a terrifying painful look on your face.
Me: THAT IS MY SEXY FACE!
Baxter: Oh dear.
Me: You utter fucker.
Baxter: Well there’s that other thing you do. The one when you lie on the floor in funny positions. That scared me also. Maybelline was watching on video. She almost dialed 911. She thought your innards were imploding.
Me: What. The. Fuck?
Baxter: You were down there on the ground, with your limbs flailing all over the place and a look on your face like death was near.
Me: I was doing YOGA!
Baxter: You were? Oh. I am sorry.
Me: I hate you.
Baxter: You know, I’m pretty sure yoga is supposed to be peaceful and meditative.
Me: I am fucking peaceful and meditative!
Baxter: Well I don’t want to say you’re mistaken. But generally yoga doesn’t call for people to yell “No way is my leg going there, motherfucker!”
Me: It is the way I do it, mouse. Maybe you should just go away and stop spying on me.
Baxter: Well I’m going now actually because it’s past my bedtime, as you are aware. But I just wanted to alert you to my return. In case you missed me. Or were lonely. Or distressed.
Me: I am now, you little, long-tailed, hoity toity tool.
Baxter: I’m going to ignore that. See you tonight!
See here for Part Deux
And here is the first part.
Something mously is stirring...
Baxter: Well hello!
Me: Oh for fuck’s sake, you are kidding me.
Baxter: Did you miss me? It’s been a while, huh?
Me: Tell me I’m having a bad dream.
Baxter: You’re having a bad dream.
Me: Thank the lord!
Baxter: Not really. I’m back. I decided to give you some space for a while. You were getting a little psychotic there and I was feeling a little unwelcome.
Me: No shit.
Baxter: I see you are still employing the old duct tape hole-plugging method. It amuses me greatly.
Me: You’re never going away are you?
Baxter: Hmmm. Not really, no.
Me: I might get a cat. A really big cat with an attitude.
Baxter: Now, do you really think that’s wise?
Me: How’d you mean?
Baxter: Well, I don’t want to be negative or anything but, cats need nourishment.….and look what you did to that plant.
Me: Yeah well…this cat would be eating mouse.
Baxter: Oh touché my dear, touché!
Me: Sigh.
Baxter: Anyway, I’m glad to be back. I’ve missed the entertainment. I’m happy to see you’re still hilarious.
Me: What the hell are you talking about now?
Baxter: That thing you do.
Me: ?
Baxter: You know. The thing. Where you wear the sports bra and the funny pants. Where you throw your arms in the air and suffer some sort of seizure.
Me: What? You mean ZUMBA?
Baxter: Is that what that was. I just thought you were unwell. You had a terrifying painful look on your face.
Me: THAT IS MY SEXY FACE!
Baxter: Oh dear.
Me: You utter fucker.
Baxter: Well there’s that other thing you do. The one when you lie on the floor in funny positions. That scared me also. Maybelline was watching on video. She almost dialed 911. She thought your innards were imploding.
Me: What. The. Fuck?
Baxter: You were down there on the ground, with your limbs flailing all over the place and a look on your face like death was near.
Me: I was doing YOGA!
Baxter: You were? Oh. I am sorry.
Me: I hate you.
Baxter: You know, I’m pretty sure yoga is supposed to be peaceful and meditative.
Me: I am fucking peaceful and meditative!
Baxter: Well I don’t want to say you’re mistaken. But generally yoga doesn’t call for people to yell “No way is my leg going there, motherfucker!”
Me: It is the way I do it, mouse. Maybe you should just go away and stop spying on me.
Baxter: Well I’m going now actually because it’s past my bedtime, as you are aware. But I just wanted to alert you to my return. In case you missed me. Or were lonely. Or distressed.
Me: I am now, you little, long-tailed, hoity toity tool.
Baxter: I’m going to ignore that. See you tonight!
See here for Part Deux
And here is the first part.
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So. People have nudged me about my total ineptness at updating this thing and they are correct. It's just, I don't have a life reall...
