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.

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

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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?

Viva tequila!

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.

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'".

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.