Tuesday, 31 May 2011

Maybe I don't give y'all enough credit

WAIT!  Don't leave!  It's still me!

Sorry.  Didn't mean to startle you.  But I didn't want you to think you stumbled across the wrong blog. 

Unless you did, in which case maybe you should stick around. 

But don't read this post.  Read some of the better ones over there ----->

ANYWAY.  I just got bored, which usually turns into some type of computer-related time-killing.  It could be in the form of blog surfing, or twitter stalking.  But in this case it resulted in a new blog design. 

Although "design" is a strong word.  What I should really call it is a new colour scheme based on a very basic Blogger template and extremely limited Word/Publisher/Paint abilities.

In any case, I hope you like it. 

And if you don't like it, I don't want to know. 

Unless you hate it so much that you won't stop by anymore, in which case maybe give me another chance?  I can fix it!  I'll make it better.  I promise!

Wow.  Needy much? 

_

Sunday, 29 May 2011

I heart you all - and a warning from the future

Bloggy Bloggy! 

I love my blogger friends.  Every last one.  Sure, they're fucking crazy, most of them, but I heart them just the same. 

They make me laugh, even when I've forgotten what laughing feels like.  And they help me feel less disastrous and pathetic better when I post about how disastrous and pathetic depressed I've been. 

Basically, they make my day.  Every day.  

And lately they've been kind enough to bestow upon me some lovely blogging awards!  Awards that I certainly do not deserve, but will greedily hoard anyway.   

First came the Versatile Blogger Award.  I got a few of them, and I greatly appreciated it each time.

Then came the dreaded coveted STD.  From the hilarious genius Handflapper.  I don't claim to be talented, but I am DAMN SEXY.

Originated by Miss Lady Estrogen
And now I'm even a Stylish Blogger!  Not really in the least, but I'll take what I can get.  I got one of these generous awards from a more recent friend jacqui at chicktuition, and another from one of my very first blogger friends, Angela at Begging The Answer


You gals are awesome! 

Now.  As you know, accepting awards usually comes with a requirement on my part.  I'd like to think the "random things you don't already know about me" are covered in the Versatility post.  If not, call me on it, and I might do more.  Or not.  Try me.  

But I also have to re-write a movie with myself as a character.  I've been thinking about it for a while now.  I'll get to it.  Don't boss me! 

In the meantime, check out some of my fav posts from my bloggy bloggy friends here.  And in addition, here are two more, just because.  

Fetch My Flying Monkeys - The only thing I like about grammar is that there are not any rules, just suggestions. Right?

Handflapper - Houseguests, housecoats, and hoof and mouth disease. What are you worried about today?


PS

Happy long weekend to my American pals! (Insert waving red, white and blue here.) 

We had a long weekend here last week for Victoria Day - as in Queen Victoria, not Mrs. Beckham. 

So.  As someone speaking to you from the future - the Sunday night the week AFTER the long weekend - I implore you to enjoy your third magical day off to your heart's content.  Have a wine party.  Eat Fountain Funnel Cake.  Experiment sexually. 

Because when it's all said and done you'll be wishing you had.

_

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Evil bastard death bird is killing my buzz

So I've had my two first half-days back at work. 

And I guess I didn't die, or hide under the desk or something (which only a few weeks ago was a very realistic and rational possibility), so that's a plus.

The first day was exhausting.  So I napped all afternoon when I got home.  But then I cut the grass in the evening, so it wasn't a total fail.

This morning I could barely get up, but eventually managed to actually leave the house and do some work.  Mind you, it was gentle work that's not really worth the money I make, but work nonetheless.  And I haven't needed a nap yet this afternoon, which I think is a good sign.  And I even ate lunch today!  Hello, appetite.  Nice to see you again, asshole.

Despite all that, I keep getting a bad omen. 


See that one weird branch sticking out the side?

And remember the effing crows?  Aka Death birds?


Well, there is one motherfucker who just won't lay off.

Evil bastards.



Fucker is haunting me.  Taunting me. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming...

Death Bird: "Ha, ha.  You're a loser.  You spend all your time sitting in your living room with your tv in front of your face and your computer on your lap."

Me: "No!  Be gone, death bird!"

Death Bird: "If you're gonna sit and stare out your living room window all day, I'm going to sit here and remind you of DEATH."

Me: "Well, that sounds positively marvelous.  ...NOT.  Shew, Death Bird!  Leave me be, I implore!"

Death Bird: "Never!"

Me:  "And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor / Shall be lifted -nevermore."

Ok, so I was less poetic than that, and the crow was less articulate in general, but you get the idea. 




_

Sunday, 22 May 2011

It's Shitionary Sunday again! RESOLVED!

Resolved at the bottom!

Funny how when you fight with Depression and Anxiety for weeks on end, 36 hours incident-free seems like FOREVER. 

Sweet!  I didn't have a breakdown today!  Woohoo!  The meds must be kicking in! 

But I'm always waiting for the other cute fuchsia running shoe to fall.  The one random thing that will set me off into a weird little panic, or a desire to bury my head in the feather duvet. 

I'm never sure what will cause it, or quite what it will feel like - but it usually it feels like someone sneaking up behind me and running their nails down a chalkboard right next to my head.  Or that sense of concern when you think you're eating bad chicken but you eat it anyway even though you're dreading the eventual outcome.   

Anyway, I had to keep it together to host a house full of groupies who were here for Hubby's concert.  (Which was awesome, by the way. Good job Hubby!)  And I stayed relatively sane, considering. 

My weekend inspired a Shitionary post.  So here it is, for your guessing pleasure.  Good luck!


Congrats jacqui!  You win!  You are one intuitive chick.  Not only were you the first responder, but you were the only person to get it right!  Everyone else seems to be pretty distracted by the Rapture...?



_

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Turns out Adidas sucks too

I just thought you may be interested in the next installment of the fuchsia x-trainers saga

I never heard from the friggin postal douches, so I called them Tuesday.  The shoes are definitely lost.  I should check Craigslist and Kijiji - I bet someone's making some money off them.  Assholes. 

So the postal douches said they've contacted Adidas and they're waiting to receive the paperwork.  [Subtext: Now it's Adidas fault.]

The postal douches told me to call Adidas.  Me?!  You call them!  Or they should call me!  I PAID for those shoes you effers!  I want my shoes! 

Whatever. 

So I called Adidas but they weren't open.  Dick pickles.  The voicemail said I could leave a message, so I did.  A very gentle message including all the pertinent information and a request for a return call the following day.  I'm very reasonable and polite.  Believe it. 

Wednesday came and went without a call from Adidas.  WELL KNOCK ME DOWN AND CALL ME CHRISTMAS.  What a surprise. 

So I just called the effers and told them the whole story - about how the postal douches lost my shoes, and how I don't care about a refund - I JUST WANT MY SHOES. 

Me:  "They told me I should call you."

Adidas: "Why should you call us?  They should deal with it."

Me:  "Well, they are dealing with it.  But I don't care that you have to send them 'paperwork', and then they have to send the money to you, and then you have to send the money to me.  I don't need money - I JUST WANT MY SHOES."

Adidas:  "Oh.  Ok.  Well, I'll refund you the money and you can order them again."

Me: *giant sigh* "Why didn't you just do that in the first place?  I have to say, I'm annoyed with you.  When you found out the shoes got lost, shouldn't you call me and fix it?  I know Adidas doesn't care about me or the 100 bucks, but I JUST WANT MY SHOES."

He claimed Adidas does care about me [Subtext: Don't freak out, lady] and he gave me 20 percent off.  Fair enough. 

So I ordered the shoes again and they better effing be on my front step in a few days or I'M GONNA LOSE IT. 



_

Monday, 16 May 2011

It's not Adidas' fault, but CanadaPost can lick my ass

I've needed new kickboxing shoes for a while.  My current shoes don't offer enough flexibility, so my knees hurt.

I'm an old friggin lady.  Leave me alone. 

And to make matters worse, I have miniature feet. 

For those of you who don't know me, I'm kind of a dwarf.  Not a real "little person", but definitely undersized.  Proportionately scaled down by 25 percent.     

Anyway, finding small enough shoes that don't have those curly toes with bells on the tips is tricky. 

I finally found some cute Adidas x-trainers, but I had to order them from the website.  I got an email saying they'd be delivered to my house soon.  Yay!  New shoes!  No more Nana knees! 

About a week passed, but no sign of my shoes.  And I'd know if they'd been delivered.  I never leave the house.   

So I went to the CanadaPost website to track them.  According to those idiots, my shoes were delivered days ago and signed for by me

Now.  Unless my meds make me even crazier, that's a damnable lie

So I called the Bastards.   

Me:  "Hi.  I ordered shoes from Adidas and the tracking number says they were delivered but they never were."
Canada Post Girl:  "Hmmm.  It says they were delivered."
Me: "Well, sorry, but they weren't."
CanadaPost Girl:  "Ok, well, it was more than a week ago, so I'll have to transfer your call." [Subtext: "Why didn't you call sooner?"]

CanadaPost Guy:  "Hello?"
Me: "Hi. I ordered shoes from Adidas and the tracking number says they were delivered but they never were."
Canada Post Guy: "Hmmm.  It says they were delivered."
Me: "Well, sorry, but they weren't."
CanadaPost Guy: "Do you live on Caroline Avenue?"
Me:  "Uh, no.  I don't even know where that is."

It went on like that for a while.  He eventually said they sent the shoes to Caroline Avenue, and even worse, that he had no idea why.   

Awesome. 

He told me he'd "put a trace on them" [Subtext: "I'm a postal cop"] and said I should call back in two to five days.  If they don't find them, I'll have to call Adidas, and Adidas will have to place a claim against CanadaPost. 

Good luck Adidas.

A few days later a postal driver showed up at our front door.  For the longest time I ignored the repeated doorbell rings because I didn't want strangers knowing I sit in my housecoat all day. 

Eventually Hubby ran to the door hoping it was his new very expensive amazing guitar. 

Hubby: "My guitar?!"
Me:  "My shoes?!  Do you have my shoes?"
Postal Driver: "Uh, no... Do YOU have the shoes?"
Me:  ?

Turns out CanadaPost sent the poor fucker to my house, instead of sending him to Caroline Avenue. 

Me:  "Sorry?"
Postal Driver:  *grunt*

So now I have to wait even longer [Subtext: get your act together douchebags] and some asshole is walking around Caroline Avenue in my miniature, bright fuchsia Adidas x-trainers. 

And my Nana knees hurt. 


ADDED LATER:

This is the Canadian version of a "housecoat".  Like a robe.  Frig. 

Except my legs are not this hairy.

_

Saturday, 14 May 2011

Puntuality is not my strong suit - sorry Mom

It was Mothers' Day last week, and I started to write this, but then forgot about it.  My bad. 

For my mama on Mothers' Day, a top ten list of my favourite things about her. 

For the record, there are more than ten things I love about her.  Also, the top ten list would likely to change on any given day, but for today, this is what I came up with. 

In no particular order:

Number 10

That she doesn't really care about Mothers' Day - that she knows I love her and appreciate her and she doesn't need a "special" day to prove it.  And that even though it's her special day, she still treated Hubby and I to a nice dinner. 

Number 9

That she didn't keep any of my stupid childhood arts and crafts.  Ok, so maybe there's the occasional paper project, but a couple of years ago she made me take all my shit out of her house, so if there were any such keepsakes I probably have them buried in my own basement now.   

Number 8

Her laugh.  Hysterical and contagious.  And often accompanied by a devilish grin.

Number 7

That she always has chocolate.  In the form of bars or cake or ice cream sandwiches. 

Number 6

That she's always got my back.  Even when I'm anxious and depressed, and even though it's hard to fathom what I'm going through, she still listens and offers to help - despite the fact that nothing really helps.  Or when we're racing to the car and I slip on the ice, falling ass-over-teakettle onto my back, and she laughs hysterically.  Oh, wait... what?

Number 5

That she's an expert snake sticker.   

Number 4

That she made me promise to tell her if she ever became one of those slow old person drivers.  And that a few weeks ago, when I had to gently point out that she was going 30 km/h in a 50 zone, she just said "Oh!", laughed, and stepped on the gas. 

Number 3

That she predicts the end of every movie.  And that she's almost always right. 

Number 2

That when I was little she would wrap me in dryer-warm towels.  And that when I complained I couldn't sleep because my feet were too hot, she would get a cold wet facecloth and drape it over my little toes sticking out the end of the blankets. 

Number 1

That on my wedding day (and every other day, for that matter) she took care of everything.  And that when I was freaking out, she was cool as a friggin cucumber, walking me down the aisle with one hand holding mine, and one hand in the pocket of her black mini dress.   

Très chic.
_

Monday, 9 May 2011

I miss girlie sleepovers

In case you didn't already know, Anxiety Disorders often make it very difficult to sleep.  SHOCKER. 

To make matters worse, I awake at 6:11 this morning to the sound of bastard squawking crows outside my goddam window.  Effers.  (Maybe I need to reintroduce the Annadanna Scarecrow...)

I don't really care if I am off work for mental rehabilitation... 6:11 still effing sucks

So I'm laying there, trying to ignore the hideous Cah-CAW! CAW! and it suddenly occurs to me...  Random thought out of nowhere... We can't go to Hometown this Friday!  Hubby as a concert this Friday!

So that sudden realization stresses me right out, and makes the possibility of falling back to sleep unlikely.  So I just lay there, pretending. 

Until I hear Hubby reach over to check his phone.  I sleepily look at him, and he smiles...

Hubby:  "Oh, hi Honey."
Me:  *mumbling* "We can't go to Hometown this Friday.  Your show is Friday."
Hubby:  *grunt*
Me:  *trying to go back to sleep*
Hubby:  *leaning over to check his phone - again*
Me:  "You dummy.  Quit it."

I know what he's stressing about.  He's waiting for a message from his guitar guy, confirming the order of his new very expensive amazing guitar. 

So now we're both wide awake, and the most ridiculous mood strikes.

No, not that.  Mind out of the gutter please.   

We can't believe it's so early.  It's like high school on the morning of the annual Canada's Wonderland amusement park field trip. 

Or like we're two giddy teenage girls (?) at a sleepover when the sun is coming up, and you know you should go to sleep but you're way too hopped up on Fuzzy Peaches and Jolt Cola for any hope in hell of passing out. 

Well that's how I feel anyway - laughing childishly and marveling at the sunrise, and wishing it was that easy to wake up every Monday morning. 

Hubby, on the other hand, is mostly concerned with:
  • his phone
  • getting a drink of water
  • complaining that the water cups smell funny
  • finding Tuxedo, and 
  • sitting up, leaning over the headboard, and looking out the window in an attempt to identify whichever stupid neighbour kid is dribbling a basketball, and whichever noisy car is blaring the radio. 

Eventually I drift back to sleep, but Hubby is having nothing of it. 

Hubby: "I have to get up.  I'm starving!"

And so our day began at 6:11 today.  *giant yawn*

_

Sunday, 8 May 2011

I love the smell of rotting hair

"Girls are disgusting."

Hubby said that.  And he wasn't even 7 years old at the time. 

He said it this afternoon when he was hunched over my bathtub with his plumbing snake trying to unclog my drain. 

It's been getting worse for a while.  Every time I shower, the soapy water starts to collect up to my ankles.  So I've been asking him to deal with it for weeks.  He always vows he'll never do it, but I always know I can talk him into it.  I'm convincing like that. 

Well, he ended up pulling THE most repulsive wad of goopy smelly hair out of the depths of my tub, and proceeded to hastily exit the room while gagging/cursing. 

It was pretty gross. 

And while the first snaking process pulled out what one would think was the problem (the giant slimy hairball), the clog only seemed to get worse

So Hubby tried to snake the drain again and again, splattering vomit-inducing slop all over the bathroom. 

He wasn't happy.  And even though I opened the window for him - you know, to disperse the stench of rotting hair - his mood didn't seem to improve.  Go figure. 

Who can blame him, really?  With years and years of soap, and bubblebath, and shampoo, and conditioner, and every other female body product known to humanity, trapped in the pipe?  Yummy

So out came the plunger.  But the gross tub water still didn't drain.  So we poured a shit-ton of vinegar down there (trying to avoid cancer chemicals like Draino) and we're letting it stew for the day. 

Which meant I had to shower in Hubby's bathroom. 

(Yes, we have separate bathrooms.  It's what I call a "marriage saver", like a King-size bed, or oversize blankets, or an automatic pet feeder, or living in different countries.  It means that we don't argue about bathroom cleanliness, or shower-shelf space, or stubble in the sink.  And it works like a charm.)

So, sure, he had to endure my disgusting hair wad.  But I had to endure his slimy shower curtain hanging loose off all but 5 shower hooks. 

Call it even. 

_

Friday, 6 May 2011

Tina Fey may save your life

So.  In the wake of the last few days' pathetic little reality check, I feel a bit better today. 

It truly is #HappyISuckLessThanYesterdayDay (Thank you Miss Jenny, The Bloggess and master of all things interwebs.) 

I even woke up on my own accord, and yes, I even got out of bed. 

Then I went to one of my most favourite happy places - my back deck in the morning - and sat in the sun for a couple of hours.  I soaked up the rays (sprayed with sunscreen thankyouverymuch) and listened to a squirrel scream weird noises in what I can only assume was part of a freaky deaky mating dance.  (Either that or he was mad that I ate his peanuts.)

Then I ate a kiwi and four two slices of cinnamon toast.  And I rolled up my pajama pants too far up my thighs until they cut of the circulation to my lower legs, and parked myself in the patio chair, leaning back until my ass went numb.   

And then I finished my book.  Not a book I wrote, a book I read. 

Bossypants, by Tina Fey. 


Tiny Fey's new biography-style collection that every single one of you should read.

My friend lent it to me.  She said I HAVE to read it - it will save my life.  Then she said she may have over-sold it. 

Turns out, she was nearly spot-on.  I'm not sure if Tina Fey saved my life, but she certainly did improve it. 

She writes in a similar style to all the great blogs I read.  Short and clever, funny and sarcastic, light but meaningful.  Pure gold. 

Tina highlgihted all her best stories... From being a quirky drama-kid during childhood, to doing improv with Amy Poehler (and other geniuses) at Chicago's Second City, to becoming head writer and star of Saturday Night Live, and then producing, writing, and lead acting in her show 30 Rock. 

"I can see Russia from my how-se"

Not to mention, offering several words of wisdom for attempting motherhood, working in a Dick Pickle-dominated universe, and generally surviving day-to-day life. 

I've always loved Tina Fey.  Hhilarious and smart and one of those self-made women we all wish we could be.  Impressive.  And even though I hate Lindsey Lohan, Mean Girls was genius.  And Baby Mama was an effing riot. 



So, thanks Tina.  You are my newest hero. 

PS - I wish you were on Twitter. 

_

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Like Jackie Chan or Chuck Norris or something

I'm at home right now. 

At 11:36 on a Wednesday. 

I know what you're thinking.  "Score!"

But no.  I'm not home for a good reason.  Not because I took a vacation, or because I'm sick (necessarily), or because I'm playing hookie.  But because I just couldn't go.  I couldn't do it.

Which is not the same as didn't want to.  Although it's true, I certainly didn't want to.  But ultimately I guess I did want to - if the thought of it didn't induce vomiting. 

And it's not the same as wouldn't go either.  Because I would have.  If I could have.  It wasn't a refusal, really.  It was more of an inability.  

And it's not even the same as shouldn't go.  Even though for sure you shouldn't go to your office and interact with your colleagues if you're doing it with a scrunched up crying face and clutching your chest.  It scares people. 

So that leaves me with couldn't.  Couldn't go. 

I tried to get up.  I really did.  But I was paralyzed by... by... what?  Fear?  Yeah.  Anxiety I guess.  I got dizzy and my heart picked up speed and my chest started to hurt.  

I know what you're thinking again.  "Oh my god! Go to the hospital! You're having a heart attack!"  It isn't a heart attack.  I'm 27 for godsake.  If I was having a heart attack at age 27 I would have bigger problems than this. 

But I don't have bigger problems than this.  This is my biggest problem. 

An unidentifiable, indefinable, seemingly insurmountable Anxiety and Depression that kicks my ass whenever I think I might have beaten it. 

Me:  Well, I've been feeling ok. 
A&D:  Yeah, you got me... I'm done for. 
Me:  I know you're there, but I can work around you.  You're not so tough. 
A&D:  GOTCHA! *unexpectedly hits me with a giant roundhouse kick to the head*
Me:  F-ck.  Ow.  That f-cking hurt, you asshole.  
A&D:  Don't call me names.  You're the crazy one.

So here I am, on my couch, nursing my roundhouse kick wound. 



_