Short, Random, Good Smelling Things

Tuesday, May 25th, 2010
Random Thing 1: Woe is my crampy lady belly. Holy crap, it’s like Mother Nature put a porcupine in my tubes while I was asleep and told it to find its own way out. All because Eve ate that stupid apple. Or something.

Random Thing 2: Today, since ‘Bath and Body Works’ were out of my sacred, signature Black Raspberry Vanilla body cream (seriously, WTF, how am I to continue smelling like the Queen of All Awesome Things without that?!) I had to content myself by buying something from their new Summer Vanillas range – namely the apricot body lotion which smells so good on, I might shut myself in a closet and lick myself later. I might have to get the lemon one too, sometime. I’m a fruity gal, what can I tell you? I smell goddamn delicious.

Random Thing 3: I have to confess something. Usually, I’d keep such a shameful admission to myself but I have to come right out and say it. I love “Wipeout”. I know, I know, I’m an avid game-show hater but that show just hits me right in my funny bone. You might say it gives me a funny boner (you might not). Really it’s all about the Big Balls. The Big Balls are the tits (so to speak). You can’t sit there straight-faced and tell me seriously that grown-up people of all ages, sizes and ethnicities, aren’t effing hilarious when covered in mud and being bounced mercilessly into icy water, off of gigantic red, wobbly balls. Don’t even try. You can’t. If you want to see what I’m talking about GO HERE. You laughed, right? Of course you did. Or else you’re dead.

Random Thing 4: “Lost” is over, I’m in mourning, Tuesday nights are a void not even “Glee” can fill (Is it just me or has “Glee” lost some of its sizzle after that three month hiatus it had in the winter?) For those of you who asked, yes I did like the ending to “Lost” – even more now than I did when I first watched it on Sunday, when I loved the island part of the ending but frowned a bit and thought “Seriously?” at the sideways part of things – but I think once I thought about it and figured out what was what, properly, I approve!

Don’t go discussing it in the comments though, I know a couple of people are watching it from the start who haven’t seen the show before, so you know….don’t be an asshole. That’s my job.

Random Thing 5: I have a new friend. His name is Lefty and he’s a cow, in a stylin’ necklace (supplied by some little Mexican guy on a beach – don’t ask). 

Now some may say, “Wow, Veg. He’s a freaking COW therefore, do you think maybe, he might be a SHE?” And to that I reply, “Bite my bum, I make the rules because I am my own Jacob and this is MY island.” (See? That was totally a “Lost” joke. I’m topical.) Besides he has horns. Men are horny. That’s how it goes.

On that fascinating note, I’m going now to have a beer. Goodnight.

Smells Like Summer

Yes indeedy, my little cupcakes! Nothing puts a calm, serene grin on an Assassin’s face quite like summer. The feeling of the warm sun on your skin, making your hair shiny, burning your cheeks and your conk and making you look like an alcoholic for the first couple of weeks till it tans… And by “you” I totally, 100%, mean “me”.

And although it’s only May, it’s been around the 80 degrees mark all week with a nice breeze. It's like freaking San Diego here! Take that Red!

However, being almost summer makes a person start frowning and pulling at their fleshy bits in disgust and thinking about making those fleshy bits a bit smaller. You see, having just emerged from a cold winter spent mostly watching TV, painting and eating scads of cheese and chocolate and doing virtually nothing that involves breaking a sweat at all, spring means shedding the consequences of such sedentary behaviour, eating fruit again and doing something more energetic with your spare time.

So that means walking where possible. Which is fine. I made playlists for every occasion because Lord knows I cannot walk anywhere without a playlist because that would involve suffering my own company for an hour without entertainment. The horror!

And also? Zumba.

Yes, you heard me right. Zumba. As in Latiny-gyratey-dance aerobics.

You can stop laughing now. I appreciate your skepticism, I truly do, because I have about as much dancing talent as a drunk man with one leg and vertigo. I’m ok with this. I’d love to be a natural lithe, snaky-hipped, all abs and rubber bones, sexing-up-the-dancefloor type of mover, but clearly I’m not. So I just do the best I can and have fun with it. So what if I look like someone who’s in desperate need of a bathroom? So what if my expression is less, “Hey baby, I’m hot!” and more “Good God, hemorrhoids are a bitch!”, I have FUN damn it.

Besides, I only do it at home for now, not in public for heaven’s sakes. If I was doing actual classes I’m sure I’d be on YouTube by now under, “Hilarious Rhythm-challenged Halfwit, Dancing like cripple”.

Only, you know…with less grammar. Because it’s YouTube. It’d probably be more, “Yo Batshit Crazy Beeyatch Gitz Grooveh”.

It’s all Alyson's fault. I use her full name because that’s what people do when they want to let certain other people know that they’ve been a bad girl. She introduced me to Zumba, therefore, is fully responsible for me looking like a constipated ostrich. And also because I watched some demos and thought “That looks fun, how hard can it be?”

Yeah. Now I not only dance like I’m on drugs, I ache everywhere it’s possible to ache and so I now walk like it too. So thanks for that Aly. Truly.

So when I haven’t been Zumbaing my ass off in the mornings to wake me up, I’ve been painting in a nice, leisurely fashion, in a paint-covered, oversized t-shirt and cut off, drawstring sweat pants and flip flops (and that combo is as sexy as it sounds, people) so all in all, I think balance is achieved. For now at least. Between that and the fact I am hideously addicted to Kashi’s Fruit & Grain bars in Chocolate Raspberry, I am a contented little fucker.

Talking of painting, I finished another Airstream. I now have twelve Airstreams in my series. I’m a freaking Airstream maniac. I decided not to fret about this and just embrace it.

So yeah. Back to work. Have a lovely afternoon my little pumpernickel buns!

Stuff and Nonsense

Holy crap, people. I’m either getting lazier or busier, I can’t decide which it is. Either way, you’re all getting a well-deserved break from my ramblings lately, for which I expect a thank you compensation from each of you in the form of moist, delicious sponge cake. Just bake a fabulously decadent cake and overnight it to: Veg’s Belly, c/o Veg, Awesomeville.

You’ll be delighted to learn my cough is on the way out. It’s about time. My neighbours were getting annoyed with the walls rattling from my giant, heaving, phlegmy bosom. OK, my bosom’s not that giant but my cough sure was. It was quite pitiful. I actually coughed so hard at one point, that I managed to pull a muscle in my neck and lower head that I didn’t know existed! I might even have discovered it for science. I am that talented.

 Anyway, that hurt. Quite a bit. Especially if I tried to turn my head to the right at all. Ibuprofen was my best friend for a while there. That and pouting a lot.

What else have I done lately? Well, despite my legendary hermitty tendencies, I attended a little art party gathering in honour of my paintings (or as I call them “the precious”), where I did my once yearly social butterfly bit, talked a lot of nonsense about art, which I know eff all about outside of my own stuff, then once I reached maximum entertainment overload, went and locked myself in a tiny room with a lemon cake and rocked in the corner for half an hour till I felt pure again. Hallelujah! It’s hard being anti-social you know. It takes work. Cake helps.

Everything Is Wal*Mart’s Fault

Well hey there!

One day I’m actually going to have something to say instead of updates on my well being, which I know you’re all on the edge of your seats about at all times. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m obviously of primo importance. It won’t be today though. Sorry.

My stupid cold, which I thought had disintegrated more than a week ago, decided to just relocate to my chest, so now as well as sniffling and sounding like I am living in a tunnel, I now appear to have coughed up a lung. I can feel it rattling around in there, looser than Lindsay Lohan’s knicker elastic. Each rasping rumble sounds like an evil quake surging forth from the core of the Earth.

And my rib cage feels like Jenna Jameson after she’s been pounded by Tito Ortiz. Take that in whichever manner you like, they all work. Holy shit, this is the cold that never dies.

The best part of it is that people look at you in horror in public, like you’re carrying that plague that causes humans to turn into zombies, in movies. They gather their whiny offspring and herd them away from the danger zone, worried eyes never leaving your red, spluttering face, as though tracking a wild animal, lest you suddenly spring up and eat the heads off of their babies. There’s really no need, people. For a start, WalMart has a McDonald’s. I always choose tasty, salty fries over baby heads, when presented with the choice.

Well except that one time. But really, that was the baby’s fault for looking so delicious and meaty.

At least for once I could stand proudly in line at the cashier and know I, with my lung rumbling, red nose and big, wet sneezes that shook the roof, was every bit as annoying as that shrieking kid behind me who didn’t want to get out of the cart.

Hey lady, why are you whipping out a face mask? Do you not savour breathing in my asbestos-ridden cough breath?

I consider my annoyance a small but satisfying victory. That and the fact WalMart has a pitiful cheese selection so I am forced to buy the best cheese there is, Armstrong – in a big, fuck off block of strong cheddar. It’s that or that plastic shit toddlers eat or that they put on movie nachos.

It’s also WalMart’s fault that after two fringeless years, I now have bangs again. I happened to pass a mirror as I was cart-bashing random, hyperactive toddlers out of the way, in my haste to get from the skincare aisle to the chocolate department (don’t stand in the way of a chocolate run, brats, especially by a lady fueled by evil and PMS!) and thought “Fuck me, it’s that wookie dude from ‘Star Wars’!” then realized, with defeated resignation that no. That is most definitely ME. So I went home and had a hot date with some scissors.

It’s all better now. Nothing to see here.