Thursday, 30 June 2011

Canada Day is a MUST

Tomorrow is Canada Day.  And Hubby and I happen live in the national capital, so venturing downtown to witness (and maybe take part) in some festive antics is necessary.  

On top of the regular fun to be had, William and Kate are here, which is expected to result in as many as 400,000 people meandering around town. And in the words of my very pregnant friend, going downtown (despite having TWO  babies busting out of her belly) is, quote: "NON-NEGOTIABLE".   

So Hubby and I will have stories for y'all upon our return.  But in the meantime, here is last year's Canada Day post.  Enjoy!

Oh, and make sure you check out the first picture.  It is undeniably the. best. photo. I. have. EVER. taken. 

* * *
Commuter Chronicles - Canada Day

Where: Downtown in the Nation’s Capital
When: Canada Day
Why: It’s unclear

Riding the bus is the best option for Canada Day celebrations in O-town. Driving is a real pain, and parking isn’t cheap, nor convenient.

The ride downtown was something else. Keep in mind, I’m used to commuting with other commuters – people in suits and dresses, with briefcases and blackberries, who mind their own business with their books and music. I am not used to commuting with high-flying hoot-in-anies wearing bikinis and carrying beers. (Yes, one particular older “lady” was wearing nothing but her red and white barely-underwear bathing suit… glorious.)

We eventually arrived, met up with friends, and had a ball. Music and buskers and beer – oh my! There were even barenaked ladies – the band, as well as topless body-painted women strolling down la promenade, garnering whatever attention they could.

News reports said there were over 100,000 people in attendance. And after the fireworks, there must have been a million people waiting for a goddam bus.

Hoards of people flooded the streets, spilling over from the sidewalks. Hubby tried to follow me as I quickly deeked through the crowds.

And then there was nowhere left to deek.

We were all pathetic cows being herded. Standing on the curb, pissed off and pitying ourselves. Just waiting for a bus – any damn bus – to open its doors. Every single bus that passed was packed beyond capacity.

Hoards of people – Hubby and I included – we so… defenseless.

We finally got on a bus. Not even the right one. We’d have to switch later. But we’d do anything not to have to stand there like idiots one minute longer.

And then it was packed. PACKED. And damn hot. And so rank that I thought I might puke. I buried my face in Hubby’s arm just to avoid smelling the air.

We made our way at a snaaaiilll’s pace through downtown. Every time the driver had to open the doors, people tried to cram in. Mob mentality. Cops were restraining people. Crowds of drunk, tired, and trapped people – all just staring at us through the bus windows with pleading faces. It reminded me of Rose and Jack floating in the North Atlantic in “Titanic” (but with less death/melodrama).

Eventually we got moving. Amen. But that was only moderately more tolerable.

At one point there was a young drunk girl standing behind Hubby. She was texting, and had totally abandoned all concern for holding herself up. Hubby became the brace to fully lean against, and, at one sharp turn, his shirt became her lifeline as she nearly fell to the floor.

We were pretty much laughing by then. It was all so ridiculous.

Next year, I will read this posting and reevaluate, making an informed decision about whether or not to attend. Probably will though. It was still a shit ton of fun.

For your enjoyment, some photos:

First, a clown escorting our friend out of the driver's seat of his little cart. And there, on the right, is Hubby, sitting in the back.  












Second, the red and white view from a high bar balcony.











And the crowds on Rue Rideau. And there, in the middle, my dear friend with her arm raised in a celebratory cheer.











And finally, the fireworks behind the Peace Tower.

_

Tuesday, 28 June 2011

Whisky, pig brains, and car sex


Rapid fire weekend updates!  Go!

Friday night:

We had beers and roasted marshmallows with the neighbours.  Hubby swore that the intense smell of the backyard fire pit would be noticeable on him the next day.  Needless to say, Hubby lost the bet and now owes the neighbour a beer.

Saturday:

We drove to Hometown for my cousin's wedding.  We were running late so we drove way too fast the whole way (which I normally don't condone, but in this case the wedding was on an island, so missing the ferry and shuttle bus wasn't an option). 

This is the ferry. But I'm not on it at this particular time.

The wedding was beautiful - on the lake, with the sun breaking through at the exact right time.  It was a musician's wedding, so all the guests were super cool and casual.  I've never seen so many sandals and shorts at a wedding.  And the groom was playing frisbee in the field.  

All the musicians later took the stage for the rock-out of all rock-outs.  Hubby said he brought his guitar pick just in case they found the band's guitarist locked up and gagged in the closet

Then one of the drunk groomsmen grabbed the giant pig head left on the table from the roast and brought it to the dance floor to join in the fun.  Best. Dance partner. Ever.

BRAIIIINNNNNSSSS...
The only problem with a wedding in a field is that my shoes were problematic.  Eventually I took them off, which if you wear heels, you know makes it impossible to put them back on afterward.  Swollen feet.  Or my body rejecting them.  Tomato/tomoto. 

The result was the dirtiest feet of all time - caked with mud and grass and I think maybe some pig head juice.  And they only got dirtier when we walked through knee-high grass back to the shuttle bus, and then from the bus to the ferry, then around the ferry (which doesn't allow beer on board, by the way), and then from the ferry back to the car.  Classy.

Sunday: 

First an all-you-can-eat sushi lunch with ma-in-law and some friends.  Turns out that even if mango ice cream isn't on the menu it will mysteriously appear if you just ask.  Bonus.

Then we had a lovely visit with Hubby's Poppy in the hospital.  Poppy has, despite everything, maintained his glorious sense of humour.  When we slipped some Jack Daniels into his Pepsi he said "Oh, that'll living me up." 

Hello, old friend.

From there a visit with the other set of grandparents and then a delicious fajita dinner.  (Minus brother-in-law's birthday cake, which was apparently too much food for one night.)  

Finally we stopped at Mom's to drop off my gift for her tiny dog named Ah-choo.  A dog bikini.  Enough said. 

Then we got stuck in traffic on the way home, which was a giant piss-off, so we said we'd only refer to it as the time we stopped on the roadside and got sexy. 

The end.

_

Friday, 24 June 2011

The solution is always cheese

In case you didn't already know, I'm a tad nuts.  Not in the fun "wow, she's bonkers!" kind of way - rather in the "totally certifiable mad hatter" kind of way. 

I went off the deep end a couple months ago.  It started with severe denial, and then progressed to the bold realization that getting out of bed is KEY to functioning during the day.  Asshole Depression kicked the shit out of me, and then the accompanying Bastard Anxiety took a stab at me too. 

When you're hyperventilating in the shower every morning, a state of happy ignorance is significantly more difficult to preserve. 

All that is beside the point, however.  There are some other posts about those dark days, and my path to the relief that meds - and then more meds - have provided. 

The point here is that I'm getting a bit better.  The A&D shit-kickings are fewer and farther between.  And although fatigue is still an issue, I tend to be of the belief that lazy and tired are preferred to utterly crippled.

So here's the thing.   

Turns out I'm a type-Aer.  One of these super controling, hyper-active, over-achieving types that expects way too much of herself. 

Now.  In and of itself, there's no real problem with achieving many things.  Necessarily.  I've always had a high capacity, and even though I'm currently operating at about 42.3% of that capacity, I probably will get back to "normal."  Even if it is thanks to popping pills. 

The issue is not high capacity - it is taking all that effort and energy that I have in my body and mind, and then investing it into only ONE thing.  Unlike having several classes, and fitness instructing, and a boyfriend, and then wedding planning, and house-buying, and city moving.  All of that extra stuff went away, and then my brain had room to breathe.  And A&D had a placeto grow and expand and take over.  Because I wasn't distracting it.

Meanwhile I was putting all my heart and soul into one damn thing.  One giant work project (here and here).  I worked long days and nights and was consumed with what was to be a high-profile, career-advancing, attention-getting, learning-experience. 

Except then it went to shit.

In hindsight, I should have known that'd happen. 

But that's not even the problem.  The problem is that I invested EVERYTHING I HAD into this ONE thing.  All my eggs in one basket. 

And then the bottom fell out.  And I went with it. 



So.  This is the solution. 

DIVERSIFY.  Spread my energy into different things.  Volunteer.  Get a bike.  And ride it.  Plan a blogger conference!  And nourish the parts of me that I skipped in childhood when I had to be so damn responsible all the time. 

Generally speaking:  Redefine, very carefully and with A LOT of effort, my very definition of "success".  Broaden my base.  Stop being the delicate and vulnerable but very TALL house of cards, and instead be the strong and balanced card castle that is artfully carved into the carpet. 

And above all, LIGHTEN UP.  Replenish my resources so I can spread them further. 

And eat more cheese.  

_

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

And the saga continues. Seriously.

Since I FINALLY received my new bright fuchsia x-trainers in the mail (and was able to conduct an exceptional photo shoot of several self-portraits), I thought the whole damn saga was over.

I was wrong.

Yesterday I checked my credit card statement, and do you know what I found?  I found that Adidas is a dill hole.

As I expected, there were FOUR payments for the shoes:
  • First: $112 for the original shoe order that they lost in the mail.
  • Second: $99 for the discounted replacement shoe order that ended up being the wrong stupid size.
  • Third: another $99 for the re-discounted correct size (of which I ended up accidentally clicking on the wrong size again, so had to cancel).
  • And Fourth: $99 for the re-re-discounted final perfect pair.
All of that is nuts, of course, but I had been in constant contact with my buddy at customer service, so I assumed it was all worked out.

As I said… WRONG.

According to my credit card statement, I have only been refunded for TWO of those FOUR purchases. You know what means, don’t you?

IT MEANS I PAID $198 FOR ONE PAIR OF BRIGHT FUCHSIA X-TRAINERS. They are adorable, but really?  200 bucks?

So I emailed my customer service buddy at Adidas, and attached a copy of my credit card statement to the email, highlighting the FOUR purchases with only TWO refunds.  And this is the email I got back:


Hi Marianna,
Yes i do remember you!!!
After revewing the status of your credit i can confirm that you were credited on May 20th, 2011 in the amount of $112.99.
If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to contact me again.
Your pal,
Adidas Dude on behalf of Adidas Dill Hole
Oh my god.

Yes, I was refunded for $112.  THAT WAS FOR THE FIRST ORDER THAT YOU LOST IN THE MAIL.  There were THREE subsequent orders, pal – one of which you reimbursed, and another of which I STILL WANT MY MONEY FOR.

So I replied to the fart snatcher my friend and told him to actually look at the credit statement I sent him in the first place.  No response yet, but I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

In the meantime, if you each send me one dollar, I’ll be refunded in no time.  Except if you’re American.  If you're American you’ll have to send me a dollar and, like, five cents to make up the exchange rate.  Thanks bunches.

_

Sunday, 19 June 2011

Not all dads are jackoffs

I heard it's Fathers Day today.  I don't have a father so I wouldn't know. 

Well, I guess I do technically have one - I wasn't a test-tube baby - but he was/is a creepy asshole and I have nothing to do with him.  Jackoff. 

I never, throughout the first 17 years of my life, spent any energy whatsoever thinking about Fathers Day.  I never had to.  Until Hubby and I started dating, and I had to pay some attention - mostly so I could remind him to call his dad. 

But the fact is, I have some great dads in my life.  Even if they aren't mine.  Two dads in particular have become a pseudo dad-type-figures to me. 

For starters, Pops-in-law is adorable.  He's easygoing and goofy and genuine. 

Once we got a postcard from Ma-in-law when they were on vacation.  She said the flight attendant tried to give Pops a little warm towel and he thought it was an appetizer and tried to eat it.  Best. Postcard. Ever. 

He doesn't know how to put his contacts into his cell, so he carries around a list of phone numbers in his wallet. 

He taught Hubby how to play guitar - starting with Hotel California, which we all sing nearly every time we're there. 



He washes my car.  Voluntarily.  And not even because I'm such a pig, but simply because he wants to.

He loves to play games.  Cribbage, Backgammon, or Scrabble.  And he loves a good crossword.  AND he lets me help him with it. 


My other favourite dad (in no particular order, of course) is my mom's partner, Quasi-Stepdad, as he is affectionately known.  He's another good guy to have in your corner.

He has three great kids of his own, but plenty of room for Hubby and I too.  He says if he won the lottery, he's share his winnings with us.  I'd better start buying him some tickets.

He shares our love of music, and jams with Hubby at every opportunity.  He's the biggest Beatles fan in Canada, and he even sang "I Will" at our wedding.  Expertly.



He gets all my stupid Seinfeld and Simpsons references and appreciates my love of making fun of others. 

He sees all the similarities between Mom and I, and he doesn't even hold it against me.  In fact, I think he likes that I understand better than anyone how crazy she is.  Because so am I. 


These two dads are some of the best out there.  And I'm glad I get to share them. 

Happy fathers Day to all the dads out there. 

Except Mine.  Mine's a jackoff. 

_

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

I need a chauffeur. And maybe a gun.

I HATE driving.  It pisses me off and I'd rather let someone else take care of it for me.  Like putting out the garbage and unloading the dishwasher.  It's a pesky effing chore that I could very easily do without.  

Except I could not actually do without it.  I need to drive places.  Not only do I live in a  suburb, but I am DAMN lazy - so walking is OUT.  

Now.  Let me just say this.  We have only lived in this city for two and a half years a short time.  And it's possible that I don't know my way around very well.  Probably. 

I mean, I generally know where I am, but finding a particular highway on-ramp, just for argument's sake, might be slightly challenging.  Maybe

So when I left Hubby's concert at midnight last night I guess it's a possibility that I drove back and forth underneath the highway, criss-crossing the city at least half-way home before I found an on-ramp. 

Which, had that happened, may have pissed me RIGHT OFF.  Which would not bode well for the douche bag that almost killed me in our traffic circle. 



Beyond all that, what should have been a 20 minute drive to work this morning took over an hour because the highway (that I was, in fact, able to locate, thankyouverymuch) was reduced to ONE. EFFING. LANE. 

So then I blew that popsicle stand to take a main road into town.  But of course everyone else had that same damn thought.  So then I switched roads again and got stuck behind some asshole GOING THE EFFING SPEED LIMIT. 

My only redemption was when I drove through downtown.  (Get ready to be jealous.) 

I, in driving past our country's federal buildings, glanced up and got a peak at my adorable crush, the famous dreamboat Parliamentarian Mr Justin Trudeau himself

Oh so cute.
And even better, I got to see him casually jogging to catch the Parliament Hill House of Commons mini bus.

I need one of these to drive me to work.

And THEN at work I got the best. email. ever. from Hubby, which made me laugh so hard that people thought I had really lost my marbles.  For sure this time. 

(Don't get all sensitive though.  He means well.)

Whats wrong with Americans

Family feud question was, Name something you would give a nickname.

Some answers were spouse, dog, teddy bear, and the last one i was thinking was maybe an instrument but i doubted it.

It turned out that it was a gun. They give their guns a nickname.

Wtf

Seriously guys. What's up with that?

_

Monday, 13 June 2011

Pass me my peanut butter. Now.

How was your weekend?

Mine pretty much sucked ass. 

I think the low point occurred when I was sitting alone on the couch surfing the interwebs, with my jar of peanut butter in one hand and a knife in the other. 

Despite the deliciousness of peanut butter, that was not what one would call the highlight of my life. 

I had spent all day Saturday sleeping in the living room in my pajamas.  Not as awesome as it sounds, let me tell you.  But sometimes I'm just too damn exhausted to put any effort into anything but that.  And yes, even sleeping in the living room is effort, because it isn't the bedroom

I ended up sending Hubby over to the neighbour's backyard party - so he could have some fun, and so I could have some time to eat my peanut butter in peace.

So I watched Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman in a cute chick flick, and then whined to my twitter/blogger friends jacqui and Ang.

(Angela and I have decided that I can call her Ang since we're such good friends.  Or because everyone does.  Whatever.)

Sunday wasn't so bad I guess.  Hubby had a little show at a charity bike ride, but the Park Cop was strongly opposed to a band mate's Chiwawa in a bag, so that fell through. 

From there Starbucks was probably the highlight.  Or maybe the sushi I ate for dinner. 

Until I BIT MY ENTIRE LOWER LIP OFF. 

And then Handflapper and Steph said I'd be a terrible cannibal, and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I decided it didn't matter because I didn't actually EAT my lip, I just bit it off and spat it out. 

So I worked from home today to nurse my bruised ego and missing lip.  And eat peanut butter.  Just with my finger this time. No need for the knife. 

I think my lip might grow back, but I'm not sure the ego meds can be mixed with the lip-replacement meds, so we'll see.  If I had to pick, I might pick the ego meds.  Even though one seems fairly reliant on the other. 

_

Saturday, 11 June 2011

An open letter to my neighbour

To the old guy a few doors down:

I get that you're chatty. 

I get that you're starving for attention and conversation because clearly your wife cannot stand you anymore. 

But I don't need to hear about your new 6-foot satellite dish that you're having installed next to your other 5 satellite dishes.  Especially when Hubby already spent an hour - yes and HOUR - hearing about them last winter when you cornered him at the end of our driveway. 

We get it. You're a freak. 

I'm also not really interested in the fact that you're one of the few "originals" on our street.  That you know how many times each of the 12 houses has changed hands.  One by one. 

Or that you were here 30 years ago when the builder made a little mistake and you complained to the city because it just HAD to be fixed, and you made every neighbour pay a couple hundred bucks to have their back yards dug up, all so the pipe UNDER THE GROUND would be in the "correct" place 3 feet further north. 

No, I don't really care about that.  

And as friendly as you are, I don't need to hear "just one more thing" before I manage to escape inside.  Even if it is that you're inviting us to your cottage this summer. 

Will you be there?  'Cause I'd be glad to go, but only if you won't be there. 

Oh, you WILL be there?  And if I want to come, there are some rules?  Well, let's here 'em. 

Rule number one: No one shows up unannounced.  It's not THAT kind of cottage. 

Fair enough.  I can't picture myself just showing up voluntarily anyway.  No worries there.

Rule number two: If we call you, we have to let the phone ring a dozen times first.  Like a test of commitment. 

Oh, don't even start with me old man.  I can out-ring you any. day. of. the. week.  I was once the queen of radio call-in contests - I can ring with the best of them.

Rule number three:  It's an island, so we can't be afraid of water.  If we're afraid of water, than this cottage is NOT for us.

Oh! You got me there.  The first two rules I could deal with, but that third one?  That third one is a DOUZY. 

I'll let you know if I ever recover from my terror, and we'll be there!  (Announced ahead of time. Via a 12-ring telephone call.)

See you then!

Sincerely,
Marianna Annadanna
_

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Unmitigated randomness

The other night I got up in the dark and SMASHED the top of my foot into my open bottom drawer.  And I now have a bruise, cut, and sore spot on the top of my left foot.  This afternoon I put on my cute little thong sandals to walk home from the bus stop and the top of my sandal was JAMMING into my injured foot.  EFFER.  So I took it off.  And I marched my ass home with one shoe on my right foot, and the other shoe in my left hand.  Classy.

I actually managed to get the eff out of bed this morning.  I tried something new.  For weeks (since I went back to work - part time, but still!) it takes me a good two hours to get up.  If not more.  Call me crazy.  Seriously, you can call me that, 'cause it's true.  Anyway, this morning I out-smarted myself (it isn't hard) and I took my damn time.  I sat on the deck with my friends Twitter, Toast, and Tea.  I still delayed work until the last. possible. moment.  But I embraced my denial about that fact, which overall I felt better about. 

My friend and I watched Gnomeo and Juliet last night.  Stupid little cartoon about gnomes.  I guess it had some cute parts, and I laughed a few times, but there is something DAMN CREEPY about gnomes.  DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON GNOMES. In high school we used to steal them and place them on our friends' front porches with threatening notes attached.  Creepy. And when gnomes are sacrificing themselves in the name of Shakespearean love?  Even creepier.  

A young guy got on the bus today and sat next to me.  He looked like a construction worker or landscaper or something.  Dirty and sweaty and lacking sleeves.  I ignored him like I do everyone else.  But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him do something so awful that I just HAD to share it with y'all.  He slid his fingers into his armpit, and then, yes, he SMELLED THEM. He tried to be all stealth about it... FAIL.  For chrissakes I thought that was a bit on SNL. 



_

Sunday, 5 June 2011

Shitionary Sunday Yet Again (aka Shitionary-Gate)

UPDATED BELOW

Ok, it's Shitionary Sunday!  Go!



And the answer is...

Body Check. 

That's a hockey player.  And I circled his body.  And then there's a check next to him (or "cheque", for me.) 

See?  Body + Check = Body Check

I don't watch hockey.  Or any sport, actually.  Unless So You Think You Can Dance is a sport. 

But I have been watching some of the Stanley Cup Final because our beloved Canucks are playing! I don't really know much about the Canucks, either, but I do love Luongo.  Luuuuuuuuu!

The hilarious genius Handflapper won!  Yay!  And on her birthday too!  YAY YAY!  Congrats, Doll.  Sorry.  I didn't get you anything else for you birthday.  Cherish this. 



And my friend Elle P was pretty close with "penalty check".  I'm not sure what a penalty check is, but I figure she was on the right track.  And for that I bestow this lovely button upon her:


And the whole thing was all happy-go-lucky, until...

Until I was unceremoniously accused of CHEATING!

And then it all got REALLY out of hand.  Governments fell, someone sent a text to Jesus, and I think someone else was grounded.  I'm not sure what happened...

You can try to follow the shit-show on twitter, if you like.  But I might not advise it.  Twitter is dirty.

It all started when I felt bad for my poor friend Steph who NEVER wins Shitionary.

(To be fair, she doesn't really guess realistic possibilities.  But I think if she ever actually KNEW the answer, she'd guess it.)

So I told Steph that next time I'd draw something cheese-related and then she'd be sure to get it. 


But then my "friend" Jacqui got all up in our bid-nas.


So that turned into what we're calling The Great Shitionary Scandal of 2011.  Or Shitionary-Gate


Eventually I think we worked it out.   

 
But I won't be sure until the next round.  We'll see if a cop shows up at my door or something. 

Or Jesus.  If Jesus shows up here, man, I'm gonna SHIT MY PANTS. 

_

Friday, 3 June 2011

Holy shit, I'm gonna THUMP someone

Brace yourself for this one.  It's what you call a shit-show

It all started with Hubby wanting to go to the grocery store to get some meat.  Except he'd already had a few beers, so he begged me to drive him.  I eventually agreed, and told him to grab his credit card. 

Then he asked if we could pick up new BBQ burner thingies too.  We apparently need them.  So I said fine, we could go to Canadian Tire.  We decided to take Hubby's pick-up truck so I could get a new lawn chair.  No way that would fit in my Civic. 

So we left, me driving the truck, and him being a drunk backseat driver. 

He paced around Crappy Tire before deciding he needed to go to Home Depot instead. 

Me: "Weren't you hungry?"
Hubby: "Yeah."
...
Me: "Well, maybe we should just go to that burger place."
Hubby: "Yay!  I love spontanuity!"
Me: "I think it's spontanEIty."
Hubby: "No.  Really?"
Me: "Yes Honey.  SpontAneous.  SpontanEIty."

So we stopped at Home Depot, and he didn't even buy the damn BBQ burner thingies.  SHOCKER.  But I did get my lawn chair.  

So Hubby paid, with his credit card, but fucked up the damn chip-card PIN code.  So they messed around with it for a bit until they got it to go through without the PIN. 

Me: "Do we need to go home and get another card to pay for dinner?"
Hubby: "No, it'll be fine. It worked."

This is where I should have known better.  Always trust your instincts. 

So I drove the truck, and Hubby backseat drove drunk, with a bright green plastic lawn chair in the back.

Dinner was fine, blah blah blah. 

And then when it came time to pay... well, you know what happened, don't you? 

DECLINED. 

So Hubby was even drunker, and I had to leave to get money. 

Hubby, calling from the restaurant window: "Wait! I'll just call Mastercard!"

His phone was almost dead, but we called, and the customer service guy was NO. HELP. AT. ALL. 

Apparently we had to go to the bank ATM to re-set the PIN.  Assholes. 

Me: "Give me the phone."
Bank Shithead: "Hello."
Me: "It's my credit account, I'm right here, and I don't want to get stranded in this restaurant."
Shithead: "blah blah blah... nothing we can do... blah blah blah"
Me: "Can you see how long I've had that credit card?"
Shithead: "Yes, I can see it right here."
Me: "Well, how long?"
Shithead: "How long do YOU think you've had it?"
Me: "Since 2001. That's a lot of purchases and a lot of interest payments."
Shithead: "Are you telling me that you're going to cancel your accounts because I can't fix your PIN?"
Me: "Well, c'mon.  There's a customer service number on the back of the card, and you're not being helpful."
Him: "Well, irregardless---
Me: "IRREGARDLESS IS NOT A WORD."
Him: "blah blah blah... nothing we can do.  You have to go to the bank ATM to re-set it."
Me: "Thanks for NOTHING." *hangs up*

But when I got to the bank ATM, the PIN didn't fucking work - because MY LIFE SUCKS.  And probably because I hung up on Shithead.  

So I drove home, and I should've taken the Civic back (gas ain't cheap), but I just fucking love plowing through the streets in that monster truck - especially when I'm pissed. 

So I sped back to the burger joint, and then I thought:

Wait.  Why the fuck am I rushing around for my drunk-ass idiot of a husband who didn't bring his own damn wallet, assured me it would be fine, and is probably just making conversation with his table neighbours and having another goddam BEER?

I got back and found exactly that.  Of course.  (Minus the additional beer - at least he knows better than that.)

And he proceeded to tell me about all the fun he had with the dudes at the next table - BEFORE HE EVEN GAVE ME A CHANCE TO YELL AT HIM.

Actually, I wasn't that mad at him.  Turns out that if every time I was pissed at Hubby he just deflected by using someone else (such as  a Bank Shithead) as a shield, he'd be in the clear. 

Irregardless, the night turned out ok, I guess.   

_

Thursday, 2 June 2011

Laughter is the best medicine. And Xanex.

If you follow me on twitter, you know I've had a painful day.  Asshole Depression and Bitch Anxiety strike again.  When will this let up?  Never, apparently. 

But I have an amazing doctor who has graciously upped my meds, a supportive workplace that lets me work from home occasionally, and numerous wonderful friends (real life, twitter, and/or blogger) that helped me through. 

Not to mention that a twitter fight over Aged Canadian White Cheddar always lifts my spirits, even if I am a Cheese Nazi.  (Thanks Steph and Jacqui#cheesegreed)

So, despite my breakdown this afternoon (after yet again facing the fact that I suck giant monkey balls), I'm back on track. 

Know why?

Well, for one, my mom listened to me cry.  (Because what are moms for?)  And because I got some encouraging words.  And because Hubby got home from work. 

But ALSO because the aforementioned Steph, Miss SarcasminAction herself, is a GODDAM GENIUS. 

She came up with a hilarious idea to create a Blogger Face-Off.  She sought participants, and then sent out a set of questions (related to, for example, jelly shoes, Viagra, and laundry, just to name a few), and she'll now pair up respondents two at a time. 

Today she paired herself against (although she swears it's not a competition) yours truly, and it turned out great! YOU HAVE TO CHECK IT OUT! 

Thanks darlin!  You exponentially improved my très shitty day.  (Another French word for Steph, which means "very".  I'm Canadian, but she doesn't hold it against me.)

_

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Ok. So I'm not so clever either.

Wow.  The fuchsia x-trainers saga continues.

I did get my shoes last week.  Yay!  And I loved them.  They were perfect. 

Or so I thought. 

But Hubby had to fuck me over and point out that they were too small. 

"What do you mean too small? I'm wearing them aren't I?'
"Your toes are too close to the end."
"No they aren't."
"Yes they are."
"No."
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"How can you tell?"

Hubby plays squash, so apparently this makes him some sort of athletic shoe expert.  Don't make the same mistake I did by asking why or how this is true.  According to Hubby, it just IS.

So I had to send the goddam things back.  And after I'd already fallen in love with them, too.  Another mistake you should avoid?  Liking your shoes before your spouse has time to inspect them.  I know.  This makes sense in terms of female-male, but not vice versa.  Whatever.  The things you learn through marriage, I guess.  

At least Adidas offers free returns.  So I packaged my little shoes up and the postman picked them up at my house.  Farewell fuchsia friends...

So all that was left was to re-re-order the shoes in a slightly larger size.  No problemo, right?

WRONG.  

All because everybody else screwed up in the first place, Adidas gave me 20% off.  Remember?  But my discount was subject to a one-time use online promo code.  ONE-TIME USE.  

So I had to call the customer service guy AGAIN and ask for ANOTHER discount for the purchase of the now THIRD pair of shoes. 

He was nice enough, and he emailed me a new promo code. 

Problem solved. 

Until I got the confirmation email that somehow indicated that I had ordered the size 5 again.  What?!  Nooooo! I want 5 and a half!  What the eff?

No, I don't know how that happened.  I'm just awesome.  We already know that.  

And I guess you know what I had to do next.  Yeah.  Call the Adidas customer service dude for the 50th time and ask for a THIRD promo code, for the FOURTH pair of shoes. 

I told him I would understand if he wanted to kick me in the shins, but he was surprisingly chipper about the whole shit-show. 

So Monday the shoes got re-re-re-ordered. 

And then I waited. 

UNTIL TODAY!!!

You're probably sick of reading this, so here is a photo journal of the conclusion to the fuchsia x-trainers saga.  Enjoy!


Sweet redemption...

Hubby wasn't home yet, so I took all the pics by myself.

And the big reveal!!!


And then I *may* have gotten carried away with the camera.  Sorry.

Lounging.

Yeah.

<3
_