Sunday, 25 December 2011

Num num, rum rum in my tum tum

You guys.  I've made a dramatic discovery.  I've identified the one and only CURE for Ebeneezer-itus.  I can't believe I haven't found it before.  It's so obvious.  Are you ready? 

It comes in the form of eggnog. 

RUM and eggnog. 

I've had fun this week. 

Thursday at work was extremely uneventful, and I may or may not have arrived very late and departed very early.  Maybe. 

Friday was even better.  I got to the office in time for the children's pancake breakfast with my adorable twin-mom friend, LB.  I toured around showing off her babies as if they were my own, and then we ate pancakes.  Well, LB and I ate pancakes.  The babies drank some milk.  Actually, it could've been eggnog. 

When I finally got to my desk, a coworker came into my cubical:

"Ok! Let's go!"

"Let's go?!  I just got here!  I'm LOGGING INTO MY EMAIL RIGHT NOW. It's five minutes to 12, for godsake." 

"K. I'll give you five minutes."

And so we left.  I did send one work-related email, so at least there's that. 

After I battled the Christmas Eve downtown traffic (I don't want to talk about it), Hubby and I went hopping about town shopping and eating and doing all things Christmassy. 

And then it happened.  My Holiday Spirit finally made itself officially known.  Via eggnog.  And RUM. 

We watched the Griswolds and drank rum. 

Click here for Youtubey

Yesterday we wrapped gifts and then opened them almost immediately afterward.  I even got a kickass new iPod!  We ate duck breasts for dinner and then drank more rum, and then Tuxedo ran away with a duck breast and left dirty little paw prints across my floor.

As for today, the snow started last night and has been falling at a slow and steady pace ever since.  Even though all the weather experts said it'd be a green Christmas.  But they were wrong, weren't they?  Because CANADA NEVER FAILS.  Want snow? You got it, Canada says. 


The fam comes tomorrow, which of course we're looking forward to.  I just hope I don't run out of rum.   

Happy holidays y'all.  If I can find my Spirit, we know it's not all lost. 

Thursday, 22 December 2011

Money can't pay for that. Not even close.

This one's serious.  And not at all Christmassy.  But I had to write it.


I have a predicament.  An unorthodox Christmas gift/curse. And true to form, it's a doozy. 

I may have mentioned before, the man whose sperm contributed to my creation is an evil and disgusting criminal.  He's not even just a dead-beat-dad.  He's worse.  And beyond everything terrible that he's done, he never paid a damn cent of child support to my lovely mother who did everything possible to protect me from his Crazy. 

Since then, almost 25 years later, he owes, like, I don't know... hundreds of thousands of dollars in back payments, taxes, and arrears.  Not exaggerating.  Fucking asshole.

A couple of years ago the government dragged his ass to court and the judge decided that if he managed to land a full-time job at minimum wage he could afford to pay $700 per month of back-owed child support.  And if he doesn't pay?  Jail. 

Fine, I thought.  If this is where this shit show is gonna land, then fine.  I can deal with that. 

Not that simple.   

Of course the fucker never pays.  Sometimes they garnish his earnings (drug earnings I'm sure) and my mom ends up with 50 or 60 dirty dollars, which she usually splits with me, because she loves me. 

But here's what I've realized: 


I hate it.  That money represents my pain.  That money puts a dollar figure on what we went through, the abuse we endured, the struggles I faced, the struggles I still face. 

Beyond that, it haunts me.  It shows up randomly, out of the blue, and I have no idea where it truly came from or why I have it. 

But this is not my dilemma.  I've come to terms with this.  I've decided that as long as the money flies under the radar, I can live with it. 

Until last week. 

Last week my mother called to say that he was getting out of jail and she had $17,000 coming her way. 


Mom was pretty excited.  Not pleased, per se, but glad to get a Christmas bonus.  And of course I understand.  She went through a lot of shit and having an extra $17,000 can't hurt. 

But it does hurt. It kills me.  It's like he's paying some penalty and then getting away with all the awful things he's done.  Not to mention that he's easily bummed that money off some other poor fool who will never see it again. 

On top of it, he's getting OUT of jail. When he's in jail for the wrong reason alltogether.  Just paying his fine and being set free. 


While I suffer.  While I live with what he did.  While I try to figure out what to do with this ghost money that now sits in my bank account...

So I paid off my credit card.  Because the thought of having some one "fun" thing to treat myself to is sickening.  And the thought of having it stay in my bank account where I can see it all the time is just as bad. 

So I'm debtless. 

Debtless, in theory.  But so damaged. 

And money can't pay for that.  Not even close.

Monday, 19 December 2011

Trying is the operative word

Wow, December 19th and this is only my fourth post so far this month.  Must be some type of record or something. 

Everything's fine.  No need to worry. 

My Holiday Spirit is still nowhere to be found, but it doesn't really bother me - I'm not really investing my energy in trying to locate it.  I've done very little Christmas shopping, and I don't intend to do much more.  I've not sent any holiday cards, nor baked any goodies (although I still manage to eat a shit-ton), and there's a significant possibility that I won't get around to doing either of those things. 

Instead, I'm focused on our upcoming beach resort vacation next month.  "Aruba, Jamaica, ooo I wanna take ya... Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go..." I've spent a lot of time thinking about what type of new bathing suit I'll buy, where I'll find some cute summer dresses on sale, and how many granola bars I can fit into my suitcase, 

And today I researched how not to die while I'm in a developing country. 

And then I set up an appointment for Hepatitis vaccines and memorized the recipe for a rehydration mixture. 

All in all, my vacation is what I'm looking forward to.  As for the holidays, I'm looking forward to attempting a lamb dinner with Hubby on Christmas Eve, opening our gifts, and having some wine by the fire.  The Griswold Family Christmas may sneak in there somewhere too. 

After that, we'll see.  There will certainly be time for family hugs and minor gift exchanges, but there are no set plans yet. 

And I'm ok with that.  For once in my life, I'm ok with that.  I'm doing what I feel like doing and I'm trying not to put so much goddam pressure on myself. 

Trying.  And so far not failing, so at least there's that. 

Sunday, 11 December 2011

Less is more. And elves on steroids.

K, so a fucking elf threw up in my house this weekend.

Despite the fact that my Holiday Spirit flew to the Dominican for Christmas, a dirty little elf apparently snuck in here last night and made a mess of my living room. 

It started with a tree.  And after that, the Christmas bins from my basement showed up in my kitchen.  And before I knew it, THIS happened:

It even SMELLS like elf puke

Luckily the rest of the crap stayed in bins. No garland, no second or third tree, no candles, no table runner, no smelly pine cones.  I think the bastard elf got tired. Or lazy. Or he realized none of this shit really matters. If my Holiday Spirit decided to skip it this year, why should the elf care?

But I guess he does care - just a little - because at some point yesterday this tree of some traditional winter species did appear in my house.  It's a small one, but still.  I don't even know how the little bugger carried it - it's too big for an elf to lift.  He must have some sort of super-elf strength.  He's probably on steroids.  I wonder if Santa knows.  Probably not.  If Santa knew, he would've called the cops or thrown him into rehab by now. 

They should make a rehab facility for elves.  I bet there's a lot of stress for an elf that could easily drive him to drug and alcohol abuse.  And overeating.  How could you not overeat with all those sugarplums around? 

Come to think of it, I think I might start a rehab resort for the mystical creatures of Christmas.  And I wont make them do ANY of the normal Christmas activities.  They can just sit around and eat cheese and peanut butter and play iPhone Scrabble. 

In fact, maybe they could take turns.  Every year, one third of all the Christmas elves can take a year off.  The remaining suckers will still assume the responsibility for the carols, and baking, and cooking, and parties, and lights, and trees while the chosen third enjoy a well-deserved vacation.  It'll be like a shift rotation.  Like a special workplace mental wellness program.  But for elves.

That way, no one elf has to take on all the requirements of the holidays for more than two years in a row.  And when they return to work after their retreat they'll be rested and reminded of the beauty of the holidays.   Distance makes the heart grow stronger and all that. 

Also, the workforce each year will be reduced by one third, which means we can cut one third of the "fat" from the holidays.  The level of cheer and generosity can remain, but with less toy building and crap gift exchanging.  A re-prioritization of duties, so to speak.  A restructuring of Christmas. 

And our new motto? 

Less is more.  We can't do everything, so we'll just do some.

I like this plan.  Help me implement it, won't you?

Wednesday, 7 December 2011

My mother-in-law totally gets me

It's true.  She may not always agree with me ( I don't think - although I have no idea why, given that I'm of course always exactly right), but after 10 years as part of her family she has managed to figure out my sick sense of humour.

A couple of weeks ago she sent me an email complaining about the R-tard sales girl at a local shop who seemed to think it was totally reasonable to place a sample of liquid hand soap out on the cashier's counter.  HAND SOAP.  LIQUID. You know, along with the hand lotion.  So Ma-in-law would pump liquid soap on her hands while standing in line at the cash.  PEOPLE ARE IDIOTS. 

She also sent me these genius ecards which continue to make me smile and nod in agreement every time I see them in my inbox. 

I basically AM each of these people.  Except Freud.  Although he does seem to be speaking my language on this one.

Saturday, 3 December 2011

How do I get a personal shopper?

I used to love shopping for clothes.  From age 15 to 22 I worked at a denim store.  I got a wicked discount and I spent a significant percentage of my paycheque on clothing.  In high school I had 60-some-odd pairs of pants. 


But as I got older, it got harder to justify the expenditure on all those clothes.  Especially after we bought a house.  Once we bought a house, our expenses jumped form increments of hundreds into increments of thousands.  A house will Thousand-dollar you to death

Shopping for clothing has also gotten trickier since I stopped exercising.  (Although I did go to Yoga the other night for the first time in months, but ended up wanting to punch the instructor in the throat.)

Anyway, I went shopping with my best friend last Saturday.  I had only one mission: A dress.  Hubby and I have a wedding to go to on December 17th, so I need a winter- AND wedding-appropriate dress.  Not black, but not slutty/slinky either.  And no flowers.  Flowers are for summer.  Of which IT IS NOT.

We went into LeChateau - tons of prom dresses and lots of jewel tones to choose from.  And of course, several intolerable little sales brats. 

I was about to enter the change room with a few dresses.  I asked one of the little brats to find me my size in another pretty one I'd spotted. 

Brat: Oh really? I dont' think you need that size.  You need a smaller one.

Me: Um, no.  My size please. 

Brat: Well, let me look at you.  *turns her head to the side*

Me: *stands there uncomfortably*  My size will be fine, thanks. 

Brat: I think the smaller one will work.

Me: *walking away toward the change room, hollering over my shoulder* No, my size please!

I started throwing on dresses (which of course all looked like shit) while my friend waited outside. And when the Brat brought me the final dress, what else would you expect?  The piece of crap didn't fit over my fat ass.  When I peeled it off, I looked at the size.  THE SMALLER ONE. 


So naturally, I freaked out and shouted over the wall. 


Brat: Um... Ok, I'll get it off the manikin.

Me: NEVER MIND!  Tell her to never mind!

My friend: *clueless as to what is going on* Uh, she says to never mind...

Me: *storming out* Bringing me the smaller size just makes me feel like SHIT.  Thanks for that. *tears welling up*

Brat: *staring blankly*

I don't even know what to say about this.  It's shocking.  

Whatever.  I ended up finding a dress that was a fraction of the price.  It's cute and the salesgirl was quite friendly.  Which I guess means I win. 

But I don't feel like I won.  I feel like a fat pig (no matter how irrational that is - it's still a legitimate feeling) and I'm afraid that I'll never again enjoy shopping. 

Unless maybe I win the lottery and can have all my clothes delivered to my house.  Ooo, I would totally get a personal shopper.  Someone funny, friendly, and honest.  Someone KIND.  Someone I could trust. 

Will one of you gals be my personal shopper?

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

The little shit knew JUST what she was doing

As you know quite well, I'M A CAT PERSON. 

I have two adorable family members of the feline variety, as well as several cat relatives and cat friends.  I fancy myself a bit of a cat whisperer. 

I'm like Elmyra.  I see a cat - any cat - and I run toward it.  "Kiiiiiitttttty!!!"  It could be a flea-infested, matted mongrel in a little New Orleans bistro and I'll still chase it down.   

My Quasi Step Dad has a cat.  Breyer.  She's grumpy and rude, but I bribe her with treats. 

My pregnant twin-mom friend has a cat.  One time her husband was calling it and I responded with repeated meows from the basement.  It took him a few minutes to figure it out, while my friend and I laughed hysterically.  The cat was outside all along. 

I even have blogger cat friends.  Miss Jacqui and Miss Sarcasm have cats.  But Jacqui thinks hers is evil, and Miss Sarcasm says hers belongs to the devil.  At least I adore them - even if it is from a distance. 

One of my closest cat friends is Miss Mittens.  Mittsie lives next door.  Her legs and head are disproportionately small for her body and her toes are white.  She cuddles with me when I house-sit.

Mittens is a rabble rouser.  

One time she took off out the front door.  It was cold and rainy and I just couldn't leave her, so I followed her out into the front yard.  She led me across her yard, then across my yard, then into my other neighbours' yard - all the while staying just out of my reach.  Then she ducked under my fence and into my backyard.  "Damn it Mittsie!"

I gave up and went back to her house.  But when I glanced out the back door, she was sitting on the edge of her pool drinking the water.  "You little shit."

I crept outside to get her, but her mama didn't raise no fool.  "Nope" she said.  She was obviously cold, the little r-tard, but she led me around the pool anyway, allowing me to inch closer and closer, but not close enough.  Finally she stopped, so I scooped her up and brought her in. 

The stupid bugger knew JUST what she was doing.  She was happy to come inside. It just had to be on HER terms. 

Well, I guess I can relate to that.   

Adorable Mittsie

Mittens died last week, very tragically and unexpectedly.  Thinking of you my little darling. 

Sunday, 27 November 2011

My Holiday Spirit flew the coop

I seem to have lost my Holiday Spirit.  My Holiday Spirit got a taste of my Crazy and got the hell outta here for fear it was contagious.  Turns out it is. 

Most years as it gets cold, as the snow starts to fall, as the decorations start to appear, my Holiday Spirit gets stronger and stronger.  It gets excited about digging out the garland and lights.  It starts to make mental shopping lists.  It looks forward to wearing a Santa hat and a blinking Rudolph nose. 

Not this year. 

This year my Holiday Spirit is watching Christmas commercials, watching Americans get into the post-turkey Black Friday frenzy, watching the lights go up around the neighbourhood.  Watching.  From the outside, looking in. 

Last Christmas I decided it was too much to travel to Hometown.  The thought of packing up the gifts and rushing around on the tour of relatives' houses threatened a level of frustration equivalent to watching 48 hours of The View. 

So I hosted dinner for 20 people instead. 

Yeah, I know.  But I wanted to try something different.  I wanted to have the best of both worlds - our family and our own house.  It worked out well, I thought.   I loved not having to load up the car and drive through the snow.  I loved lighting a fire and opening gifts and bottle of wine under our tree.  Our third Christmas in our own home, and yet only the first Christmas in our own home. 

But when it it was all over, I was so tired.  I decided I needed a few weekends to recover.  A few weekends soon turned into all of January.  My birthday in February was the only weekend I really left the house.  When Spring came and I couldn't get out of bed, it all went to shit from there. 

But over the last year I've worked really fucking hard to pull myself out of that miserable hole. 

And now? Now the thought of Christmas is exhausting.  The energy it takes to shop, and wrap, and decorate, and pack, and drive, and visit, and unwrap, and eat, and smile, and laugh is just a too much for my formally lively Holiday Spirit to bear. 

I'm just now getting back on track.  I'm just now finding a way to get up every day, and to go easier on myself, and to create a new routine - a new way of thinking.  I've been systematically identifying and trying to eliminate the Crazy.  Christmas just throws a wrench into that whole plan. 

So the new plan is to not make plans.  I'm going to take one week at a time and see if my Holiday Spirit finds me.  'Cause there's no way in hell I'll venture out into the cold hunting for it. If it wants to emerge from the shadows and face reality, FINE.

If not, I'll just skip Christmas altogether and look forward to my beach resort vacation in January. 

Because, as it turns out, my Vacation Spirit is entirely unaffected by my Crazy.  In fact, I think it was spawned from it. 

Thursday, 24 November 2011

It may be Thanksgiving, but I can do whatever I want AS MUCH AS I WANT

Yes, I'm still alive and kickin.  I just haven't felt all that inspired lately.  Sorry.  Don't leave me!

That said, I did write a little something for my lovely friend Elle at her new group site A Nervous Tic Motion.  I'm so proud to be associated with this great group of writers.  You simply must go check it out.  They cover every possible topic under the sun, and they do it well.  Elle is even looking for a few more semi-regular contributors, so you should totally contact her. 

This is my Nervous Tic for today. 


I recently bought myself a kickass new iPhone.

Actually, I didn’t buy it myself as much as I took the money from Hubby when he sold some random power tool or something. I happen to have a hard time treating myself to fun new things, but that may be a story for another day.

The point is, I GOT A KICKASS NEW iPHONE. Go me.

Now. I’m Canadian and we already had our Thanksgiving (although it’s not nearly as fun as yours with all the shopping, and the sugar-covered meals, and Mayflower plays, but still).

So in honoUr of my many wicked-ass American pals, I’ve decided to list the things I am grateful for. Regarding my kickass new iPhone.

1) I can pitter patter my butt all over twitter AS MUCH AS I WANT.

2) I can take random pictures of my cats AS MUCH AS I WANT.

3) I can send texts to everyone I know AS MUCH AS I WANT

4) Autocorrect.

5) I can text pictures of my cats to Hubby AS MUCH AS I WANT.

6) I can tweet pictures of my cats AS MUCH AS I WANT.

7) I can play Diamond Dash as much as I want. Or as often as my lives get renewed, which is stupid because it should just let me play it all the time, but the effing thing only gives me 5 lives every half hour or whatever so I have to wait between games and so I lose my rhythm and get pissed off.

8 ) I can find a map as often as I need to, which is ALWAYS because I’ve only lived in this city for three years a short time and I never know where I am.

In conclusion, I am thankful for my kickass new iPhone. And my cats.

"Yeah. I'm sitting on the vent.  So what?"

"Really? More pictures? Seriously?"

Thank god for autocorrect.

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Not every day sucks - today notwithstanding

I had a good day yesterday.  For three specific reasons. 

Number One, I posted a "how to quit being so selfless and considerate" like-Cosmo-but-so-much-friggin-better quiz on Cheesy Bloggers

If I've learned nothing over the last several months by fighting nasty-ass Depression and Anxiety, I've at least learned this: I simply MUST find a way to ease up on myself.  I need to check-in once in a while.  I need to give myself the same credit and forgiveness I'd give others.  I need to make room

My old habit of shoving every simple (yet unwanted) emotion into the depths of my soul only meant that I eventually maxed out my capacity and the whole effing shit-show just exploded black depression bile and red anxiety toxins all over my life. 

Hence the quiz.  This quiz will gauge how well you treat yourself - regardless of how well you treat others.  You should take the quiz (HERE) and email it to  Then I'll "evaluate" your responses with my very "advanced" and "scientific" scoring "strategy". 

Number Two, I applied some of my new "mindfulness" depression and anxiety strategies EXPERTLY. 

A douchebag was sorta trying (inadvertently, I think) to take advantage of me to support his own ego trip.  My first inclination was to just go along with it and hope he'd get bored and move on.  I could see through him, so it didn't matter.  I was also afraid that if I blew him off he'd badmouth me.  And I thought it'd just be easier to put up with it, rather than nip it in the bud. 

Well, despite my reservations, I NIPPED THAT SHIT IN THE BUD, man.  I politely expressed my disinterest in having anything to do with him and saved myself the pain in the ass of letting him walk all over me. 

This may sound stupid, it's a huge accomplishment.  I said "No thanks" even though my gut reaction was to say, "Well, ok, I guess, if I have to, and if I can't get out of it, and if it might turn out badly."

Number Three, I got home only to find the most exciting possible thing in my kitchen (aside from Hubby).  I found a UPS package!  From my darling friend Miss Chicktuition!  I entered her photo contest and she sent me my winnings!  This was seriously the chocolate topping on my peanut butter cake.  Thanks Jacqui!

My "Stay Away From My Mug" Mug; my "Terribly Witty Ideas By Me" notebook; my pink pens and stickies; and a ridiculous amount of adorable chocolate that got eaten within five minutes.  And of course, Miss Chick's button. 

*** You should know that I wrote this earlier this morning before my day at work went to shit and then my car starting making the worst noise in Canada.  But whatever. 

Sunday, 13 November 2011

Is there anything better than shopping with Hubby?

Today was Day Two of a very challenging two-day shopping excursion with Hubby.  And there ain't gonna be a Day Three. 

Day One's primary purpose was to find a cover for my kickass new iPhone.  I want to replace the Plain Jane one I already use.  And although I also have a SWEET pink lizard skin cover, it doesn't provide sufficient protection from the high likelihood that I will drop and/or smash my little gem within mere months, weeks, or even days of owning it. 


Hubby followed me into Future Shop, Best Buy, Bell, Rogers, Fido, Koodo, The Source, and every other phone-related store in Canada.  And of course I never found the perfect cover.  I might just have to design it myself.  I basically want it to be identical to my awesome pink lizard skin, but with better smash-protection. Too picky, according to Hubby. 

As a secondary purpose to yesterday's shopping trip, we were also keeping our eyes peeled for a new winter coat for Hubby.  Winter up in the Great White North is nothing to sneeze at (unless you don't have a warm enough parka so you catch a cold and can't stop sneezing). 

So today, Hubby's coat became the primary purpose of venturing outwardly, and my iPhone cover got unapologetically shoved to the back burner. 

Well, didn't Hubby try a million effing coats.  And of course the one he liked best was $1,050.  Yes, One Thousand and Fifty.  ONE THOUSAND.  I don't even know how he got to the point of trying it on in the first place. 

So we walked our asses all over the biggest mall in town only to end up back at the first store, debating over the very first coat. 

No it doesn't look too tight.  Yes the sleeves are a little long.  But yes, it will be very warm - 80% wool is very warm.  Yes, I love that it's grey.  It fits well.  Do you really need to lift your arms overhead? The pockets are nice. No, your money won't fall out of them.

I eventually just sat in the corner ignoring him while he hemmed and hawed. 

And of course he ended up buying it. 

By that time, I had abandoned whatever meagre interest I originally had.  Just make a decision.  And even though he claims he'd be quite pleased to go without me, we both know I'd get stuck returning whatever piece of shit he came home with.  Like last time, with the bumble bee polo shirt. 

There was one highlight of today's trip, however. 

Some poor old bat was driving like a sleeping toad, and to make matters worse, she proceeded to plough herself over the curb of the mall parking lot and TOTALLY BUST HER TIRE. 

I was so surprised that I couldn't even laugh as hard as I wanted to.  She totally demolished it.  Flattest. Tire. In Canada. 

I simply could NOT resist taking this:

Ha! Shitty buzz. 

At least my day wasn't that bad.

Monday, 7 November 2011

You should be following me on twitter. Or on iPhone.

You may already know that I recently got a kickass new iPhone.  And if I wasn't addicted to twitter before, well, you know. 

And on top of that, now I can text my friends and family and Hubby as often as I like.  In fact, I pretty much just copy my tweets and text them to people who don't follow me on twitter.  BECAUSE THEY SHOULD BE FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER. 

Anyway, I love that Hubby and I can text whenever we want now.  We always emailed often, but texting is more fun.  Especially when you get to see it in the fun iPhone format with the little talking bubbles.  The talking bubbles are the best part. 

Problem is, Hubby leaves his iPhone in the car while he's at work, so he misses my many clever texts.  And my not-so-clever texts.  And my emergency texts.  Like when there's a fire alarm at work. 

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

Proof positive that mornings are assholes

Hubby bought a car.  He bought a car and he did so even though I was supposed to be the one getting the new car. He beat me to it and I'm going to kick his ass. 

As much as he loves his pickup truck, his new job doesn't really require it, and he's actually been driving more (if that's possible).  I'm not sure if you've heard, but gas is a little pricy. 

[Sidebar:  When we were in New Orleans, gas was $3.30 per gallon.  I want to point out that up here in Canada, we pay $1.25 per litre.  My calulation reveals that we pay 32 cents MORE per litre than Americans do! And there are almost four litres in a gallon! Which means we pay, like, $4.50 a gallon!  $4.50! WTF you guys?]

So gas is expensive.  And Hubby had to make a tough decision to let go of his precious pickup and buy a car. 

Oh, pooooooooor Hubby. 

What's so bad about Hubby buying a new car, you ask?  Of course the problem is that it's an inconvenience to me.  I had to help him drive it home, seeing as he can't really drive two vehicles at one time - especially if he's texting. 

Well, I totally effed up the whole car-switching plan (two people, three cars, and asshole mornings that make it difficult for me to take the bus).  So... the shit-show ended with me leaving my car parked at the office last night. 

This morning I was supposed to take the bus to work and then drive my car home. 

But as I may have mentioned previously: mornings are ASSHOLES. 

I had a tricky time getting up today, but even when I did manage to get my ass out of bed everything still went to shit. 

First Tuxedo wouldn't get off my neck.  Which is ok, becasue he is the cutest thing in Canada, but still. 

This is real.
Then I had outfit issues. 

Then I had to let the neighbour's dog out, but I didn't have the key because I left it in my car (which was, of course, still at the office). 

So I struggled through the neighbour's garage and then struggled to get Doggie outside. 

By then I was late for the bus.  But I was determined. 

I drove half-way to the mall bus station (in Hubby's truck) before I realized that I wasn't wearing my glasses and I couldn't see a fucking thing. 

So I TURNED AROUND and drove home. 

Then I spent 10 minutes searching for my goddam glasses. WHICH I FOUND IN MY LAUNDRY HAMPER.  No, I don't have a clue. 

Then I decided to change my jacket to a warmer one. 

And of course forgot my phone in the pocket. 

By this time I was way too late for the bus, so I drove to work - in Hubby's truck... WHICH REQUIRED GAS - and parked his truck RIGHT NEXT TO MY CAR at the office.  So we have three cars, and two of them were parked in my office parking lot. 

The same office parking lot that has some remarkably passive aggressive parkers who leave angry notes on windshields.  Including this one that I saw on someone's window the other day.

Luckily this one wasn't on my windshield, but I still took a picture of it.

So I left my car at the office again tonight, and I'll attempt the whole damn thing once more tomorrow. 



Thursday, 27 October 2011

There are so many effing things wrong with this

I've been driving to work more often lately, rather than taking the bus, since mornings are such giant assholes.  Driving takes less time if I make sure to leave after rush hour, which I can pretty much guarantee, since mornings are such giant assholes. 

I don't even have to pay for parking because nobody makes me.  I never seem to get a ticket.  I do repeatedly get "warnings" but this never translates into actually requiring anything from me, so why in the hell would I ever feel threatened?

The tricky part is that arriving so late to work means that most of the parking spaces are already occupied. But that doesn't really matter either, given that most people just park on the edges of the rows and in the corners anyway.  It's a gravel parking lot - there are no pretty yellow lines or anything. 

But then tonight I was walking to my car and explaining all of this to my boss (who was carrying my huge-ass pumpkin).  "No I don't pay. Yes, they give me warnings. No they never give me tickets."

And then we saw something on my wind shied from the distance, which I assumed was another warning.

Well.  It wasn't. 

A napkin?  Really? 

And I wasn't even blocking anybody! Why are people so uptight?

So, in response, I wrote the following open napkin note to my anonymous office-mate.


Wednesday, 26 October 2011

A white tutu, a blow pop, and the scariest things that EVER happened

You guys. Are you aware of what special event is taking place in less than one week?

Yes, yes, you guessed it. I will be shaving my private parts.

No, wait, that's Tuesday nights. My mistake.

Next Monday night will be fun too, however, as it will be HALLOWEEN. The scariest night of the year.


See? Scary.

I love Halloween. I even wrote about it on Cheesy Bloggers this week, and I hope all you halloweenies will write about it too. 

The first Halloween I remember took place at 4 years of age. I was the Tooth Fairy. My mom's clever idea I suppose. I had a white tutu and a wand. And I insisted on leaving coins on neighbours' front porches.

Other years I went as an Indian (feathers, not dots - sorry that's rude), a clown, a baby. We used to sucker some lucky parent into driving us around in their minivan to help transport our multiple pillow cases STUFFED with candy.  And these were the old days, folks - the days of can cola and mixed goodie bags. There were no effing fortune cookies and mini playdough cups back then. This was the real shit. The heavy shit.

I used to wake up early on the weekends and creep (very skillfully across the creaky hardwood floor) into the spare bedroom closet where the giant pillow cases were stored to collect a few handfuls of breakfast. I would carry it in the front of my nightie to the basement, watch tv, and stuff my face.

Until one morning Mom called my name. I came bounding up the stairs two at a time without thinking and looked up at mom... with nothing other than a blow pop sticking out of my face. "Gotcha" was the look on her face. "Oh. Shit." was the look on mine.

When I got to 9th grade I was AGHAST that Mom wouldn't let me trick-or-treat with my friends. She said I was too old. WAY TO RUIN MY LIFE, MOM. Instead I ate candy, watched The Simpsons Halloween specials, and handed out treats to little kids. Ever since then I've preferred the handing-out-candy part to the walking-around-in-the-cold part.

I still dress up though - at work. One year I was a terrifying zombie bride, and then Maryann on a 3-hour tour. Last year I followed the yellow brick road in some WICKED ruby red shoes.

I haven't decided this year, but I'm leaning toward garden gnome. Because if you know me, you know that garden gnomes are THE SCARIEST FUCKING THINGS THAT EVER HAPPENED.

Other than that I have no big plans. Maybe another pumpkin carving contest, of which Hubby will fiercely protest and then take tremendously seriously until he wins all the little kiddies' votes and gets to brag about it for years to come.

Welcome to my life.


Sunday, 23 October 2011

Day 5 - My Life in Music

Day 5 of my 30 (or 100) Day Blog Challenge is upon us, y'all.  And it's a tricky one. I may have been procrastinating on this one because it seems to require a lot of thought, and I'm pretty lazy. As you know.

So, I decided to just power through and come up with 15 songs that represent my life's soundtrack. Happy listening.


The Polka Dot Door
This is a kids' show on TV Ontario which I LOVED. Turns out Hubby's new coworker's father-in-law was the one and only PolkaRoo! Amazing.

Father of Mine by Everclear
My biological father was a useless and evil douchebag. Enough said.

These Boots are Made for Walkin by Nancy Sinatra
Mom and I had to do some ass kicking in those early years.

I'll be Missing You by Puff Daddy
My lovely aunt (more like second mom) died at age 38 of lung cancer. It's been nearly 20 years and I'm not yet over it. DON'T SMOKE.  It's not worth it.

Lean on Me by Bill Withers
I don't know - I just got a good vibe from this song as a kid. My cousin and I used to sing "Pee on me."


Shimmer by Fuel
To this day  my fav song of all time. But it spoke to me in 9th grade especially.

Everything you Want by Vertical Horizon
I had some stupid boyfriends (and some not so bad ones either) - but none of them were Hubby. I didn't know what I wanted until Hubby saved me from myself at age 16.

Here's to the Night by Eve Six
Looking back, high school was not an ideal time in my life.  When I look back I have feelings of anxiousness and insecurity.  However, this song always reminded me that it wasn't all bad.

Ten Glorious Hubby Years

You Belong to Me by Jason Wade (from Lifehouse)
Our song.

I'm Real by JLo with Ja Rule
Our first summer song.

Lullaby by The Dixie Chicks
Our other song - our first wedding dance.

I Will by The Beatles
Our other song - sung to us at our wedding my my QSD (Quasi Step Dad).

The Last Year

Bad Day by Fuel

Help by The Beatles
Ever really listened to these lyrics? Yep.

Don't Stop Believin by Journey
But I haven't given up yet.

You should join me in my 30 (or 100) Day Blog Challenge! Even if you skip some days or whatever, I don't care.  Link your posts up here so I can read them!

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

My New Orleans Photo Journal

It took a while to determine what my favourite things about New Orleans were, but then we arrived home to Canada at 1:00am to a rainy 8 degrees it became clearer. 
Palm trees!

Any hot and sunny place in which the temperature goes up to 90; in which I forget what clouds look like; in which I can wear a tank top at night... is MY KINDA PLACE.  When PALM TREES are one of the first things I see coming out of my hotel to cross Canal Street toward the French Quarter?  That's when you know you've got me.  I'm totally hooked. 

When you add a shit-ton of people, music, and restaurants? Well, my glee flies to a whole new level. 

Deep fried & heavily cheesed 
Our first meal started with the requisite cup of gumbo - which was delish.  And then they brought us this meal, and we knew we were in trouble.

Let me tell you, Hubby and I are not vegans or anything, but frig, how can anyone survive eating food like this day after day?! Holy hell.  And on a full stomach of beer and gumbo? You guys. That's tough, y'all.

Balcony view
So after a couple days of clogging our arteries, we wanted to find a better quality dinner that wouldn't cause immediate heart attacks and wouldn't cost a small fortune either.  I think our first mistake was thinking this might be possible at all, let alone in the heart of the French Quarter. Once you add mild alcoholic inebriation to the restaurant search, settling for a good balcony view of Bourbon Street becomes more realistic. 

However, when the drinks were forgotten, and the food was the worst possible shit I've ever put in my mouth, and then the waitress tells us "sorry..." half of Hubby's meal has been "lost in the ether of the kitchen" and she "looked twice, but it just wasn't there" and she doesn't seem to have any intention of replacing it... I start to get testy

So, in my most successful New Orleans moment, I told that absent minded dufus of a waitress - not rudely, but frankly - that in almost 30 years of eating out, a mysteriously missing side dish has never, ever, not been replaced.  Especially when it was shitty food worth less than McDonald's but costing 10 times more.

Hubby's bead hunt.
And after 10 minutes of waiting for the manager who never showed up, I placed a 20 dollar bill on the table and Hubby and I leisurely marched our asses out of the shithole with pride and went out to Bourbon to spend the rest of our hard-earned money elsewhere.  Thankyouverymuch.

Like on beers and beads.  Although the beads are "free" so to speak.

Polly want a beignet?
Besides the constancy of heart-clogging food, the first thing I learned about this great city was this: 

N'awlins is a tip-driven town.

Everyone here wants my money and they will do near anything to get it.  They may get naked and stand outside a strip club to lure me in.  They may play me a Canadian tune on the guitar. They may dress like the Swamp Monster and charge me for a photo.  They may even walk around talking to a parrot.  Maybe.

Ride me.
And if I'm really lucky, they may just offer me a ride behind a mule. Um, thanks?

The second thing I learned in New Orleans?  When you allow me WANDER THE STREETS WITH BEER IN MY HAND, I'm most likely gonna be up for sharing my money. 

Sure! Want a dollar for your mule?  Here you go! Want 30 bucks for 3 minutes of pure casino exhilaration? Sure! I've got it right here! You can have it! No, I don't mind. Who needs 30 bucks? Not me! 

This is what you call ladylike.

Unless it's for beers. I need money for my beers.

Yes, I need one for each hand. 

And yes I need a paper bag for the beer bottle, because without concealing it, it would be WAY too obvious that I've been drinking. I don't like to be too obvious.

Because I'm a lady.

You heard me...  LADY.
Besides the street beers and the penis beads, I think another favourite thing about New Orleans was the alligators. 

Man, our swamp tour was wicked cool.  Captain Lewis just drove us out into the muddy waters and riled us up some giant gators.  I think jacqui would be jealous.  As she should be! That was one awesome trip.

Crazy mofo

On top of how cool gator hunting was, this is where I achieved my next greatest New Orleans success

On the way back through the swamp, I spied - yes, little old me - out of the corner of my eye, a GIANT GATOR sunning himself on the shore.  I waved at Cap'n Lewis and he slowed the boat, turned us around, and we got one last peak at the Louisiana swamp king before he took off into the water.  Crazy mofo. 

The giant gator, and Hubby too of course. 

Also a crazy mofo
Oh, and the cute orangutan who was carrying around her cute baby.  Except she wasn't as much of a crazy mofo as she was a super hot mom just rocking it out in the zoo.  Who, by the way, was also asking for money - ahem, I mean food.  Asking for food
Super hot mom

Speaking of crazy mofos, if you have not seen Bourbon Street you have not seen crazy.  Crazy goes to a entire new world on Bourbon.  So much crazy that not even I can keep up. 

But don't think I didn't try. 

Bourbon Street was my ultimate favourite thing about New Orleans.  "Loser lapping" up and down Bourbon with beers in both hands, beads around my neck, live music pumping out of every bar, and the sweet smell of piss, garbage, and vomit on every corner is my idea of FUN. 

And who's that on the right?
And on Bourbon, my friends, is where I achieved my final New Orleans success

These people were such crazy mofos that they'd never resist a high five, right?  Right.

I managed 50+ high fives in 15 minutes and I have never needed to wash my hands more desperately been so pleased with myself.  Bourbon's where it's at, y'all. 

Oooooooooo... ghostly.
After all that craziness we weren't sure what would become of us.  The last day got really humid and we weren't sure if we'd ever be able to eat or drink again.  We thought we might end up in one of these spooky-ass tombs. 

Even if we did die from high intake of to-go beers, fried foods, and live bands, it would've been a very worthy death. 

I wouldn't really mind dying in any smelly city if the streets were even half as charming with old plaster and black balconies; if the souvenirs were even half as tempting; or if the if the locals were even half as sweet and grateful to tourists. 

It really was something special.  You should go. 

Monday, 17 October 2011

From the N'awlins Airport

How the heck are y'all doin?! 

Hubby'n'me is jus' sittin and waitin in the airport in N'awlins, Loosiana, ready to head on home to Canada.  Our trip was ahright ahright! It was jus' so nice to get away. 

I got all kinds a fun stories to tell y'all when I get home, but for now I got jus' one cute pic to share.  ("Take ya time, baby! Take ya time!)

Uh huh, that's a little ol' gator.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

I very nearly punched her in the face

Hubby and I are leaving for New Orleans tomorrow and I really feel like I've not done enough preparation.

We have our flights and our hotel booked.  And that's it.  Normally we at least have a couple tickets to a show or tour, but not this time.  This time I just plan to get off the plane, get to my hotel, and do nothing but whatever my little heart desires at any particular moment. 

Today (my vacation day after Thanksgiving but before we leave) I had a whole list of things to accomplish.  Productivity is my middle name, after all. 

So I woke up at 8, and then dozed until after 10.  Then I watched Ellen. Then I made the best possible use of my time and rolled all my coins - successfully adding $57 to my New Orleans slush fund.  I bet you're day wasn't that productive. 

Oh, but it doesn't end there.  I showered, did my nails, and put some laundry in.  Then I actually left the house (which had been becoming less and less likely as the time went on), went to the bank (struggling to carry all my coin rolls), and loaded my wallet with US cash. 

Then I decided that I'd been so uber-productive that I could afford a few minutes for a quick tour of the shopping mall.  But my good mood was effectively destroyed by a douche canoe salesgirl who I very nearly punched directly in the face. 

I walked into a men's clothing store to look at a winter coat for Hubby.  The little bitch approached me almost immediately. 

Salesgirl, in her best obnoxious and whiny salesgirl voice: Let me guess! You're shopping for your... mmm.... boyfriend!

Me, avoiding eye contact and grumbling: HUSBAND.  Thanks.

Salesgirl: Oh wow, I would never have guessed that. Heeehehehee.  How old are you?!

Me, about to LOSE MY SHIT, looking straight at her:  How old are YOU?

Salesgirl, unaffected by my attitude and as annoyingly perky as ever: I'm 25!

Me, quietly, while looking through the coats: Well, I'm 28. (The only time you'll ever catch me adding 4 months to my age, just to make my point.)

Salesgirl: Oh wow! You don't look that old at all! I just can't believe that!

Me, with my nasty-ass attitude:  I don't know if that's a good thing.

Salesgirl, not catching on to my piss-offed-ness: Sure it is! That way, when you're like, 40, you'll only look 25! I wish I had your genes!

Then she proceeded to tell me about their sales promotion and I continued to ignore her, leaving the store with a pissy look on my face and shaking my head. 

What the hell!? Would you ever just ask your customer how old they are?! Would you even bother guessing who your customer is shopping for?  What an idiot.  I hated this girl from the first moment her snotty little 25 year old face starting bee-bopping over toward me. 

I manged to shake off her ignorance, and went to get groceries.  I then made spaghetti for myself, Hubby, and our house guest.  We're leaving for Hubby's concert momentarily.

I have a shit-ton of laundry and packing to do tomorrow morning before we head to the airport, but I'm still super excited. 

I may post from New Orleans, at least maybe some pics, so stay tuned!


Monday, 10 October 2011

My new bugga-boo

My dear friends over at Motherhood Uncovered just launched their new website and I'm lucky enough  to take part. (Yes, I know I'm not a mother, but they say it doesn't matter.) My first Motherhood Uncovered post is republished here, for you to enjoy.

Please hop over there and check it out - it's really remarkable how well they've done.  This is one of my fav posts so far.

BUT BEFORE YOU DO! Please read my post about World Mental Health Day


You may or may not know that I’ve been waging an angry war against nasty-ass Depression.

It’s been ugly, but my friend Mr. Drugs and I are holding our own. Even when we can’t rally against our enemies we just bunker down and avoid the weapons being hurled at our heads.

In a manner of speaking.

In another manner of speaking, my A-hole enemies haunt me every day. I’m constantly on guard. I walk around with one of those medieval shields and a giant lance just waiting for something to pummel me.

Full disclosure? Protecting myself all day is effing exhausting. And on top of it, I spend most of my time feeling ashamed, thinking about how I feel less and less like “myself” with every passing moment – more like a weaker me; a failure, an embarrassment.

I know damn well that I’m not supposed to think that. It’s silly. Laughable even. I’m supposed to tell that little jerk inside my head to shut his dirty mouth. But full, FULL disclosure? It’s remarkably difficult to dig UP out of that hole. Which, in turn, makes me feel like I’m failing at fixing myself – an even heavier hit to the gut.

So this is my new bugga-boo. My new pet peeve.

I am going to take everything I have and WIN this war. And then, THEN, I am going to bust through that tall, dark and ugly wall of Stigma that holds me back and throw every busted brick at every douchey person who gets in my way. I do not want to feel like a pathetic loser anymore.

And I’m asking for your help. Help me break the silence around mental illness. Help me kick Stigma’s rotten ass.

Maybe start with a joke.

“I start volunteering as a mentor soon.   Just don’t tell them I was recently suicidal.”

“I told Hubby I could either help him with the dishes or I could go pick up my crazy pills.  It was his decision to make… very. carefully.”

Maybe start mentioning it in conversation. Not with the random guy on the bus, necessarily, but with a friend or a coworker.

“I was late for work this morning (not because I had a headache but) because I’m facing some Depression and it was hard to get going.”

“Sometimes I feel like I can’t deal, but then I [fill in life-saving mantra here] and it gets a little better.”

Finally, talk to loved ones. Even if they don’t get it, they’ll at least listen, and maybe even offer you a book or a meditation CD (which will be infinitely unhelpful, but the sentiment is there).

And the best part? Most everyone you talk to will be able to relate.

“Oh yeah, I took a year off from school because I couldn’t handle it.”

“Oh yeah, my mom took a leave of absence from work when her parents died.”

“Oh yeah, my sister used to cut herself/binge and purge/cry herself to sleep every night.”

This is out there, guys. It’s out there, and the more we’re silent about it the greater chance it has of winning. And I simply cannot live with that.

So today, on World Mental Health Day, tell someone how you’re feeling. Or ask someone how they’re feeling. Or tweet something heartfelt. Or wear a shirt that says “I’m with Crazy -->;” for Christ sakes. 

But whatever you do, please speak up.

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

Day 4 - The Habit Scale (updated)

I'm pleased to welcome you to Day 4 of my 30 (or 100) Day Blog Challenge.  Link up your blog challenge posts at the bottom so I can read them!

I'm supposed to tell you about a habit I wish I didn't have.  There happen to be several habits I actually kinda wish I did have, like smoking crack and robbing banks, because I think I'd seem way more badass.  But that's not what I'm being asked about.

I do have a shit-ton of brutal habits, but I like to think of them as a series - a scale, if you will - that is very effective in eliminating self-judgement. 


First, at the broadest, most forgiving end of the Habit Scale, are the habits that are birthed out of necessity rather than preference.  Things you do because you must in order to maintain a certain stability of mind, but that you nevertheless wish you didn't. 

  • Sleeping in.  Getting up in the morning is a slow and cruel form of torture, when burying my head and ignoring the world would be so. much. fucking. easier. On a bad day it takes hours.  Every morning is s fresh battle with Asshole Depression, and my greatest line of defense is to take my damn time and preserve my energy. Regardless, I wish I didn't sleep in. 
You can't control things like this.  Let it go. 

Second, there are a few stages in the middle range of the Habit Scale, but the lines are blurry.  It's hard to tell what you can get away with in this mid-section.  It's where most of the nasty little habits exist, but where you haven't yet decided if you've crossed the line out of selfishness to where you truly wish you didn't do them.  For these habits, you're still in the "I could quit, I just don't wanna" stage. 

  • Eating junk food.  I love junk food and I see no need to quit eating it.
  • Picking.  There are few things more satisfying than picking a scab, or a hangnail, or a nailpolish chip and I have no intention of trying to stop.
  • Making no effort whatsoever to plan dinner before the time at which I would like to eat it. I like the spontaneity of my meals, and until I have hungry children waiting for food, I will keep doing this.
If you really care about any of these, do something about it.  If not, let it go.

Finally, all your least-defensible habits live on the weaker end of the Habit Scale. What makes them the least defensible?  Well, if they make you a hypocrite, I'd say that's the number one tell-tale sign.  Or, more generally, if you feel like shit about yourself. 

  • Like being late. I think being late is so rude, and yet I am always running a least a few minutes behind schedule.  Not because I want to, just because I can't seem to help it. I don't even have a good excuse. 
  • Spending money I don't have.  I've gotten really good at this lately, and I assume I'll get even better on our trip to New Orleans next week. 
It's harder to argue that you shouldn't stop doing something if it annoys even you.  These ones, you should try to work on. If you feel like it. Probably.

I hope you've learned something here today.  I've prepared a diagram of the Habit Scale, for future reference.  Please consult it regularly to determine what you actually have to change about yourself.  I think you'll find it's very little. 

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Happy birthday Hubby!

It was Hubby's 27th birthday yesterday.  Yay!  Happy birthday Hubby!  Today he officially entered his 28th year.  Yay! Catching up to me!

More than any other birthday, this one seems to really annoy him.  Which of course makes me smile from ear to ear. 

When I got home last night he was in a pretty pissy mood, which oddly didn't seem to improve when I pointed out how close to 30 he is; that his mother birthed him nearly 30 years ago; that his whole childhood take place more than 20 years ago; that he is most certainly a GROWN UP now. 

Ha! Welcome to Hell, mothafuckah. 

I had a real problem with turning 26, and 27 was even worse, and I expect that when I hit 28 in February I will very likely LOSE MY SHIT.  You see, there is something friggin miserable about these - gulp - late 20s that makes me want to PUKE. 

Hubby and I are on the wrong side of 20, y'all, and I don't like it - proven by the fact that I spent five minutes prancing around last night with Hubby's birthday balloon under my shirt.  #babyenvy 

But Hubby is a better person than me.  By far.  He makes the best of it. 

He spent his entire birthday playing guitar.  The whole day.  For nine hours. Non stop.  Using the new iPod guitar recording device thingie I bought him. 

Now that's how a person should spend a birthday. Doing what you like.  All day. Without any interuption or breaks. For showering or eating or brushing your teeth. Because we should all have one goddam day each year that is entirely amazing and entirely guilt-free.

To make matters even better, he went shopping today with his birthday gift cards and came home with a bunch of household stuff for us.  Because he basically IS is mother.  (His mother who once returned her expensive Chirstmas gift from Pa-in-Law and bought at least a hundred bucks worth of Brita filters instead. Because it made her happy and forget all of us who thought she was nuts.) 

This is the email Hubby sent me this afternoon.

I made some good purchases with my CT gift card that I am proud of. Just a few things to make our lives or my life easier.

- A collapsible strainer – love it and you will too
- Proper coffee filters that don’t collapse and fuck over my morning coffee
- A digital hygrometer to tell humidity level so I know if I need to put my guitar in its case or not
- Another lighter for the bbq/fireplace
- Stovetop scraper – present for me and you J
- Small extension cord for my bedside light/blackberry
- And a block of white printer paper that we’ve needed for years

It took a lot not to buy a sweet cooler with wheels haha.

Oh Hubby, I love you.  Happy birthday darlin. 


Monday, 26 September 2011

Grocery shopping is an asshole

One of the absolute worst fucking things in life is grocery shopping.

I hate everything about it. I hate the aisle-wandering, the cart-pushing, the retard-avoiding, the shelf-searching, the conveyorbelt-loading, the cashier-waiting, the bag-loading, the PAYING, the bag-lifting, the trunk-packing, the pile-as-many-bags-on-my-arms-and-struggle-into-the-house-ing, and of course... the cupboard-stuffing.

The unpacking is the worst because I have to look at everything I just spent all my money on, only to come to the painful conclusion that not. one. thing. is appealing to eat.  Except the chips.

Usually, Hubby and I stop over at the local grocer on a daily basis before dinner.  It's the same routine every night.  (You can read about Men and their meat here.) 

But once in a while we head over to Wal-fart for the big'un.  The giant "let's get every little thing we might ever need if the world ever ends - and every other little thing we can think of while we're at it" shopping trip. 

Making the whole thing worse? Hubby's starting a new job in which packing a lunch will become a necessary evil.  So this particular shopping trip was spent with me reminding him once or twice in each aisle that he needs to buy things he can eat during the day.  Snacks, drinks, treats, meals. 

And of course each one of his decisions is a huge deal. 

Me: "You like pitas, Honey."
Hubby: "Yeah..."
Me: "Well how about some pitas then?"
Hubby: "Well, they always get stale really fast."
Me: "True.  Ok, wraps instead."
Hubby: *squeezes the pita bag*
Me: "Ok, well make a decision."
Hubby: *stands pondering*
Me: *walks away*

So we continue to make it through this giant disgusting supercentre (which basically represents everything that is wrong with the world), piling at least one of everything in sight into our cart. 

Hubby: "I need some decent bathroom cleaner."
Me: "So get some."
Hubby: *stands and stares at the wall of cleaning products*
Me: "Yeah, that Greenworks one is decent. Less cancer."

So when we get home, what do I unpack?  The Scrub-Free bathroom cleaner.  The carcinogen.  With BLEACH. 

Hubby: "That's the one you said!"
Me: "Noooo, I was referring to the green one.  Less cancer, remember?  This is the most cancer possible in one gigantic jug. Cancer in a jug is what this is."

Hubby waves me away me while he tries to jam about 10% more almonds into the almond jar than could ever logically fit, spilling them all over our counter. 

And then he plops down next to me on the couch eating - what else but chips - and crunches on them like a camel with lock-jaw. 

And then he paces the kitchen opening the fridge and asking me what I'm having for dinner. 

Yep. Grocery shopping is an asshole.

Now.  If you can guess how much I spent on this particular shopping trip, you'll win something. I don't know what, but at the very least it will be bragging rights, as well as the pleasure of knowing that you have never EVER spent this much on groceries. 

PS - Now he's making me a cucumber snack, so I guess he's not all bad. 


Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Day 3 - My Zombie Survival Kit

Welcome to Day 3 of my 100-day Blog Challenge!  I'm so glad so many of you are doing this with me.  I added a link-up to the bottom of my Blogger Challenge posts so I can read all your awesome stuff.  So link up!

Day 3 requires me to share a picture of something I cannot live without.  Well, if you know me at all, you know I'm way too selfish to pick only one thing.  So here are a few. 

K, so this picture represents CHOCOLATE. And although I normally like better quality chocolate, I'll stuff my face with eat whatever cocoa-inspired product is placed in front of me. Check HERE for the whole story.

My darling Hubby, of course - who makes me laugh, and rubs my back, and holds me up when I think I might not make it.  And who finally threw out 5 pairs of DISGUSTING underwear today. For the whole story on this pic, click HERE.

Mama!  Basically me, just 32 years sooner.  For some great Mama stories, your positively must click HERE and HERE.

Obviously. These are my children. Patches is fat, but clever. Tuxedo is also getting large, but is, it seems, a total moron. You can read all the adorable stories by selecting their label, but my fav is HERE.

There are so many more things I can't live without!  I'm a spoiled Canadian girl!  Gernally, anything I'd need to have even if zombies took over the world is an un-live-without-able item.  My zombie survival kit, if you will...

In no particular order:

My family, my friends, my computer, my MEDS, my blogs, my blogger girls, my fuchsia x-trainers, my ability to curse like a dirty trucker, my Tetley Bold tea, my backyard, my WINE, my massage therapist, my brain therapist, my many pj pants, my peanut butter, my wedding band, Monica (my GPS device), my books, my mp3 player, my body lotion, my lip conditioner, my toothpaste, my shampoo, and likely my cable tv recorder. 

There's probably more but I need to go to sleep, and worrying about the Zombie Apocalypse is friggin exhausting.