Wednesday, 31 October 2012

I fucked up Halloween

I totally screwed up this year. 

Despite the fact that I adore Halloween (eating and decorations without the long-term commitment and family obligations associated with other holidays that shall remain nameless), I really couldn't get on track this year.

Normally, I'm an awesome hallowennie.  I hang pumpkin lights and plastic ghosts and spider webs. 

Not to mention I'm a wicked dresser-upper. 

Last year I was a garden gnome.  (A cute one, because garden gnomes are generally terrifying.) 

The previous year I was Dorothy.  (With the homemade red shoes and everything.)

Before that I was Maryanne from Gilligan's Island.  (I could never pull off Ginger.  In hindsight, I think Gilligan himself might have been a better choice.) 

One year I was a zombie bride.  (Which was great because that was the year before my wedding. Not to mention it was before the whole zombie Apocalypse craze, making me very progressive and intuitive. )

But this year?  This year I had a great costume in mind, and I was really looking forward to it.  So were all my colleagues.  But I couldn't get on track. 

First, I had THE BEST VISITOR EVER this past weekend.  Ms Sarcasm came all the way up to Canada to see little ol' me.  She braved a delayed flight, a surprise angel-like co-passenger, good looking customs officers, a Beavertail, a giant gooey poutine, and cold rainy October days - all just to hang out with ME.  We didn't throw a raucous party or anything, but it was so nice just to have my friend hanging out in my house.

However, this meant that I didn't really prioritize my costume making and decorating.  Although I could have finished things up on my Monday vacation day (the best kind of Monday), I just ended up crying and then I didn't feel all that festive (a story for another day). 

Then, last night I was buying candy and I found all the required props for my costume.  Enter: costume guilt.  Did you know costumes cost a lot of money?  A pretty penny that I simply wasn't willing to spend. 

So I bailed.  I bailed on my favourite holiday. 

And then today, work was a fucking asshole and I just ended up crying anyway.  IN FRONT OF MY COLLEAGUES.  Which was excellent.  

Also, everyone kept asking "where's your costume?!" and I had to tell them that I was dressed as a lazy, depressed bum.  In business attire. 

What a fucking pathetic mess. 

Next year I need to get my shit together. 

Anyone want to dress up tomorrow instead?

Wednesday, 24 October 2012

Texting with Momma is a full time job

Have you heard of the twitter account Texts from last night?

These are texts that people send to their friends, usually while drunk, and then later realize how absurd they were in the clarity of the morning. 

The texts then get tweeted, starting with the area code of the text. 

These tweets are HILARIOUS you guys.

See?  Hilarious. 
Well, tonight Hubby and I were shopping at Walmart when I got what I can only assume was a drunken "text from last night" from my mother. 
Only, it was tonight, not last night.  And she doesn't drink. 

Yes, perhaps we should.   

Friday, 19 October 2012

Mickey Mouse massages are not for me

Yesterday I veered away from my normal massage therapist to a new place that was offering a discount.  And so I have a tip for you. 


This whole operation was the most Mickey Mouse performance I could've ever contemplated.  If it had been any worse, I would've just turned around and walked out.  But it was clean, and the girls were nice, and it was quiet - which is more than I can say for my own house. 

So I gave them the benefit of the doubt and just kept waiting for the situation to improve.  Needless to say, it never did. 

First of all, I left work precisely at 5:00 to be sure I would arrive on time for my 5:45 appointment.  And then I sat there - until 6:05 - reading an old Canadian Living magazine and drinking luke warm water out of a plastic cup. 

Also, I assumed that at some point, as a new client, I would fill out one of those forms.  You know those forms?  The forms with the list of your injuries and problem areas and medications.  (Mine is less of a "form", and more of a "novel" - or a link to this blog.)  But no.  There was no form. 

So then I assumed the massage therapist would just ask me those questions.  I should have known better, of course.  The extent of her conversation with me was telling me where to put my clothes. 

When I crawled onto the massage table I was disappointed at the lack of amenities.  No strategically placed cushions, no fluffy duvet, no fancy bedding, no heated blankets.  This table was just a table - with 2 blue flannel flat sheets and a heating pad placed under my boobs. 


But it was too late.  I was naked, and cold, and clinging to any hint of hope that at least the massage would be worth it. 

Well, as you probably know, a massage is almost always worth it.  But this massage?  This massage was weak.  I like a massage therapist to know every single one of my joints and muscles and beat the shit out of them until they feel better.  Not the case last night. 

By the time the whole thing was done, I was not only naked and cold, I was also covered in oil. 

So do I want to book my next appointment?  I should think not.

Lesson learned. 

Monday, 8 October 2012

I just want the pony treasure


It's Thanksgiving here in Canada, so Hubby and I ventured down to visit the fam.  We first went to my Aunt and Uncle's house in small-town Ontario on Saturday night, and then yesterday we visited with Hubby's family in Hometown. 

Yesterday afternoon we went out walking at my happy place with Ma and Pa in law, Cousin J and her adorable dog, and Uncle D and Aunt K and their two girls.  (I call them "girls" because in my head they're still 2 and 5 years old.  Never mind the fact that it's been 11 years since I met them.)

My Happy Place.
Only, this wasn't just any ol' nature walk.  This was "geocaching." 

Have you heard of this, this geocaching

Here's what I understand:

People all over the world log onto and then they go on a treasure hunt.  The "treasures" are hidden in public places by other people and then marked by map coordinates.  Then hunters use their smartphones and GPS devices to locate the treasures (also known as "caches" to people who actually know what they're talking about).  When you find a cache, you sign your name, take a picture, and then log it on the website. 

It's all very exciting.

So we started off on the treasure hunt that Uncle D had planned out for us.  I was totally on board.  I love walking, I love nature, and I love doing fun things with our family. 

I also love treasure. 

So when Uncle D announced that we'd arrived at the GPS coordinates for the first cache, we went eagerly searching through the woods.  This went on for at least 5 minutes before we gave up.  Sorry, folks, but there was no damn treasure there.  Geocachers are LIARS. 

Despite our initial failure, we carried onward and upward.  We found the second, third, fourth, AND fifth caches.  SUCCESS! 

Although, it's possible that by the time we got to the fourth cache, I was losing interest.  I was far more fascinated by Hubby's poking stick. 

This is Hubby's poking stick. Notice its length, making surprise distance poking possible.

This is Hubby's poking face.  He needs to concentrate very carefully. 

This is Pa in Law, after having been mysteriously poked. 

I might have also been distracted by tiny hungry birds.   

That's a tiny hungry bird on Hubby's hand.  Eating birdseed that Hubby stole found.   

When Uncle D asked me to dig out the fourth little treasure box, I was mostly just annoyed that it wasn't the My Little Pony theme I had been promised, and that the congratulations letter was way too long. 

So it turns out that I'm not a good geocacher.   In any case, I've learned that geocaching is more about the experience of the hunting, rather than the finding of the treasure.  Just like life. 

(Although I may or may not have subsequently downloaded the geocaching app and learned that there are half a dozen treasures caches RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE.  Maybe.)

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

I don't live in Bumtown.

This morning I came downstairs with a babushka towel on my head, wearing my bath robe (aka house coat).  I was serving myself a cute little bowl of yogurt when Hubby pointed out that there was a random guy outside. 

Some ass bucket had backed his pickup truck into our driveway and was digging through our post-party recycling boxes to thieve our discarded bottles and cans. 

Now, in theory, this doesn't bother me.  In theory, if people want to get up early and rummage around through other people's trash, well, all the power to them. 

But in practice?  In practice, people are idiots and they need to stay the fuck away from my house. 

I know, I know.  I should just return the bottles to the store myself.  And if I'm not going to benefit from the bottle money, that someone else probably should. 

But I also know that the 3 measly dollars garnered by 1000 sticky beer bottles is not at all worth the headache of sorting and loading the damn things, let alone driving them around town. 

I also know that people are idiots and they need to stay the fuck away from my house. 

So, I put on my best "don't think I won't punch you" facial expression and boldly marched outside to ask the shithead if he was serious, if this was really necessary, and, of course, could he stop being an idiot and kindly stay the fuck away from my house.

Buddy wandered off, and Hubby started ranting that we were certainly, thanks to me, going to get shot - or robbed - or egged - at some point in the near future.  

But then, not FIVE MINUTES LATER, when Hubby went out to his car and there was ANOTHER wannabe-hobo with his fucking minivan backed up to our driveway... Well, needless to say, Hubby wasn't tolerating it any more than I was.

I'm not sure what Hubby said to Idiot Number 2, but I suspect it was something along the lines of "Stay the fuck away from my house.  Please."  Because Hubby's polite.

You guys.  This CANNOT be an unreasonable expectation.  I don't think it's absurd to want strangers to stay the fuck away from my house.  My quiet little street doesn't need them here, and I certainly don't need them scavenging through my stuff. 

This is a disturbing new trend.  It's unseemly.  It's annoying.  It's unnecessary.  And I will not hesitate to go marching out there every goddam week if I have to until these idiots get the hint.