It's not a secret what a mess I am

I don't know if you've figured this out about me, but I'm a giant stressball.  Shit stresses me the fuck out.  I get worried, and anxious, and up tight about crap that probably shouldn't matter, but for some reason it totally does.

Although I am not currently in a mental state strong enough to attempt to lessen my crazy, I can at least point it out.

One thing I am trying to improve? I'm trying - really trying - to acknowledge that what stresses me out probably doesn't stress other people out.  Especially Hubby.  And, of course, what stresses him out doesn't bother me in the slightest.  So when Hubby wants to clean the garage or insulate the crawl space, I need to let him - even when I'd rather he mop the floor or cut the grass.  (The grass has been cut about three times since April, just for the record.)

Unfortunately, I've been at home for five months, which means I sit around my house finding things that bother me, and then I add them to my list of things that need fixing.  Because crazy.  However, when I actually get to cross something off the list? True euphoria. Last weekend was a prime example.  

Yeah.  Those are our batteries.  And by "our" batteries, I mean they reside in our house but they really belong to Hubby who seems to have an unnatural and unrequited love for batteries.

Some are rechargeable (no, we're not total monsters who care nothing about the environment), but many are not. Most importantly, there is no way of knowing which ones work because all the dead ones just sit in the house for years and years waiting for me to take them to some sort of green recycling place or something, which I will clearly never do.

Thanks to my weird stress obsession, though, the batteries have now been sorted into three boxes: working; not working; and, probably not working but maybe working and we may never know so let's keep them and maybe we can put them in the tv clicker or something.

That's what you call SUCCESS, people.

Uh oh. Now what?

I can't lie.  Since being home on maternity leave (and advised to stay still for 2 months before that), there is a significant possibility that I am going entirely stir crazy - sick of staring at these walls, tired of trying to find productive things to do, starving for interaction.  And it seems I'll take interaction of any type...

This is Franco.

Earlier this week, Franco appeared at my sliding glass door, put his paws up on the window, and politely requested some peanuts.

I of course obliged because what if Franco is actually my Nana reincarnated?

When I texted Hubby to warn him of my indiscretion he wasn't super impressed, but he also didn't think much of it.

Then, last night, Franco returned! And, to my great astonishment, Hubby encouraged me to feed him.

Hubby: "Get him some peanuts!"

Me: "Really? Ok..."

Hubby: "No, put them close to the door, so he'll come closer."

Me: "Alright... Who are you by the way?"

Hubby: "No.  Closer.  Really close.  CLOSE!"

Me: "Wow, ok, they're nice and close.  What shall we name him?"

Hubby: "Franco."

Tuxedo Cat: "WHOA.  SQUIRREL.  I'mma get it...  SHHHH, you guys.  Quiet.  I'm working here."

As Tuxedo Cat sat at the door stalking poor Franco, Franco simply continued to eat his peanuts with zero interest in the idiot cat staring at him.  I suspect that Franco is a seasoned squirrel - well versed in sliding-glass-door-peanut-eating, even when there are stupid cats nearby full of empty threats.

But then, this morning, I've recognized the error in my ways...

Ooops.  We knew this would happen, didn't we.

When I texted Hubby, he called me a few minutes later.  Uh oh.  This merits a phone call?

Hubby: "What. Have. You. Done."

Me: "ME?! You encouraged me! Put it closer you said!"

Hubby: "Get my BB gun."

Me: "Nooo! That might be Nana!"

Hubby: "...?  Um, I'm not sure where we go from here..."

Me: "Me neither."

You're gonna want my autograph

Just so you guys know, I'm totally famous.

No? You're doubting me?  Well don't.

On Saturday, Hubby, Fraggle and I went on a shopping trip.  We had some time to kill, so we decided to have lunch at a nearby pub.  WITH THE BABY.

Now, you should acknowledge what a monumental accomplishment this is for us - as nervous, pathetic and completely exhausted first-time parents - to leave home for several hours WITH THE BABY.  It's what you call stress.

That's not what made us famous though.  (Although I do think we deserve some international recognition for this achievement.)

While in the pub, I tweeted this:

It was priceless.  They were betting on the game, shouting, cheering, and otherwise raising the roof, all in the name of Tiger wandering around a big green field with a big stick.

What I didn't mention in my tweet was that there was also a young good looking gal sitting in the pub by herself, knitting.  Yes, knitting.

Hubby and I laughed, because only in our friendly, boring city would a pub's patrons include a bunch of old guys all worked up for a golf game and, of course, a knitter.  Not to mention the young couple with the newborn baby.

Still not famous eh?

Well this morning Hubby texts me.  "Call me when you're up, I have a funny story."

Hubby's driving to work listening to the radio.  The morning DJs are taking calls about the weirdest thing people have witnessed in a pub.  The conversation continues, and the one DJ tells her story - how last weekend she was hanging out in a pub, getting a total kick out of the group of old guys watching a game of golf as if it were the Superbowl.  Oh, and how meanwhile, SHE WAS KNITTING.

Too funny.

So I of course place a phone call to the radio station and tell the whole story to the gal, who totally remembers us and fully agrees that this is a perfect example of the perfect pub, in the perfect city, in the perfect small world.

Then she plays our conversation on the radio, and BOOM - famous. So you can totally have my autograph if you want.  Only $5, plus shipping and handling.

[For the purpose of this post, "famous" is loosely defined as "heard my voice on the radio, recorded it on my kickass iPhone, and played it later for my friend LB who said I can totally count this as my productive activity for the day. ]

All I wanted was strawberries

At 38 weeks pregnant, I'm into the weekly doctor appointments.  Usually, I end up waiting forever and then some random baby health indicator requires more monitoring or testing.  Two weeks ago I was there for six hours.  SIX.  HOURS.

Don't get me wrong, I want to check on her and I'll wait as long as it takes.  However, I'm not really gonna be happy about it.  Don't you know me at all?

Today I headed to my regular appointment, and amazingly I was only there for 40 minutes.  Sure, parking cost me 7 bucks, but everything looks fine and I didn't even have to wait.  Huh.  Having a lucky day.

So I thought to myself: well, maybe I have time to stop at the bank then.

The bank.  I HATE the bank.  I never go to the bank. I would take cash out of my iPhone if it would dispense it.  I use the internet and maybe an ATM whenever necessary, and I rip Hubby apart every time he makes an actual trip to an actual bank (old man).  I hate banks.

Unfortunately, though, I've had this one cheque for a month that I need to deposit, and it isn't a cheque that I can deposit into the machine.  I actually need to walk into a bank and speak to a human.

Instead of going to my regular branch near my house, I decided to stop on the way home from the doctor so I could also withdraw some cash in order to purchase fresh strawberries at the local fruit farm on the way home.

Strawberries are KEY, and much to my dismay, fruit farms don't accept MasterCard pay-pass.

I used my bank's iPhone app and found a nearby location.  Once I arrived, I stood in a stupid bank line and eventually made my way to the stupid bank teller.  And then it happened.

The fucking POWER WENT OUT. Right at that moment! I'm standing there, in a bank, in front of a human bank teller.  Not even my normal bank, but a bank that I made a special stop to visit.  And the whole place was rendered utterly useless by a lack of electricity.

So no cheque deposit, and worst of all, no fucking strawberries.  Story of my goddam life.

Things that should be available to me in my everyday life

I find my life is not as easy as it could be.  This is a problem because I am lazy.  Here are my demands:

1) My tv remote should sound an alarm when it's missing.  Like, I should push a button on my fridge and then the remote will start beeping and then I just follow the beep and then I change channels at will.

2) My front door should be able to lock and unlock with my car lock clicker.

3) MY CAR SHOULD HAVE AN AUTO STARTER.  WHAT CENTURY IS THIS?

4) My cats should feed themselves.

5) My DVR should have Siri.  "Siri, record every episode of Grey's Anatomy no matter what channel it's on, no matter what time, no matter what. And then play it on my bathroom mirror while I'm in the shower."

6) My bathtub drain should have an automatic "garborate the hair" setting.

7) My cats should scoop their own poop.

8) My couch should convert to a massage table.  And my Hubby should convert to a masseuse.

9) My house should have a laundry chute.  Why don't houses have laundry chutes anymore?

10) My house should have a chef.  And a butler.  And a maid.  And a masseuse (see above).  If you could pick one of these, which would it be? I'd pick chef.  And butler.  And maid.  And of course masseuse.

Turns out I'm a creepy hoarder

Turns out I'm a creepy hoarder. 

Well, not exactly.  I actually hate "crap" in my house.  I ditch stuff all the time, I sell stuff on the interwebs constantly, and on any given day I have a pile of junk in my trunk that is headed for Value Village. 

But last week I realized I do have at least one weird creepy hoarding habit.  I noticed this because for the last month I've been asking Hubby to gimme his goat soap. 

That may require some explanation... in his Christmas stocking, Ma in Law gave Hubby some fancy goat soap.  It's made of goats, I think.  Or goat products.  Or something.  And from the moment I saw the goat soap, I had my eye on it.  So for a month I've been telling Hubby to hand it over.

Well, he finally coughed up the goods, and that's when I noticed:  I seem to resist throwing out the last remnants of my previous bar of soap.  There is a thin, pathetic little sliver of my former soap siting on the side of my bathtub, and I seem to be incapable of discarding it.  I apparently think I'll use it?  When in reality, my former soap is so dramatically inferior to the new goat soap that I would be stupid to revert to my old ways.  Once you go goat...

So I got to thinking, it isn't just fancy goat soap.  It's all liquids and gels.  Like shampoo, toothpaste, lotion.  I apparently have a freaky obsession with making sure I save EVERY LAST DROP of every liquid or gel in my life. 

When the body wash or dish soap gets low, I add water and shake it up to save the last drop. 

I injure my fingers trying to maneuver the last of the toothpaste out of the tube.

I have at least a couple hundred small bottles of mostly-empty hand sanitizer on my desk. 

And worst of all, when my lotion pump no longer reaches the bottom of the bottle, I buy a new one.  But I don't throw out the old one.  No way.  Because once I use the new for a while, I figure there will be room in the new the bottle for me to add the remnants of the old bottle.  Sometimes you'll walk into my bathroom and there'll be bottles stacked on top of bottles, dripping contents.  Like ketchup bottles in a breakfast diner. 

This is a sickness.  Somebody save me. 

Careful where you pee

At work today, before a meeting, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

I started to put toothpaste on my toothbrush, and then behind me, in the mirror, I saw a colleague come out of one of the stalls. A male colleague.  In the women's washroom. 

I didn't even notice right away.  I said "Oh, hi! How are you?" and then it clicked. 

However, being the kind and compassionate person that I am, I decided not to point it out.

But then the conversation kept going.  How has my week been so far? Have I been on a business trip lately?  Am I going to this meeting too?  Are we late?

I kept chatting, sort of brushing my teeth in between sentences. 

Finally, he made a move for the door. 

And then he stopped.  Stopped dead.  Looked up.  Stared at me.  Stared at the door.  Stared back at me...

"Wait..."

"Yep."

Realization sinking in... slowly.  Surely his brain was taking its time to compute how this whole scenario was even possible.  This conversation should not be occurring in this particular place. The elevator, sure. The cafeteria, of course. But the washroom?  Huh.  Surely she's the one in the wrong bathroom.  But no, this is her floor. They must be co-ed bathrooms.  No, that doesn't make sense.  ...

It took him a while, but he did eventually come to grips with reality. 

"Oh my.  I'm so sorry."

"It's fine.  No harm done."

I just couldn't for the life of me figure out how he didn't notice when he walked in and there were no urinals, and he must have wondered what those little mailbox-type garbage cans in the stalls were for.

I didn't bring it up at the meeting.  I didn't want to embarrass the poor fucker. 

But I did proceed to tell everyone on my team afterward. 

And then I blogged about it. 

I'm no saint. 

Today was a highlight

Today was not an entirely bad day.  Things picked up around lunchtime.  Here's why:

I decided my cubical was lacking a serious amount of cake-related items.  There was not enough of a cake situation surrounding me.  I needed a circumstance in which cake was a prominent player. 

Luckily, I had the means and the wherewithal to rectify this sad misfortune. 

Off to the cafeteria. 

And then.  THEN the absolute bliss resulting from the purchase of a giant chocolate marshmallow s'more score bar cake square. 

Officially one of the best decisions I have ever made. 

I mean, it was surely at least 3,463 calories of pure sugar and lard, and it definitely sat in my stomach like a brick for a couple of hours afterward, but this was by far the most wonderful thing that has happened to me at work in at least 3 months.  Maybe even better than the boardroom wine and cheese party. 

The high that followed this massive caloric intake was entirely well-received and really quite exciting. 

From there, I was motivated to wish my friend and coworker a happy birthday by creating a sexy French character (Jean-Francois-Pierre-Luc) and then drawing his face on a balloon - complete with notes of admiration en français.   Unfortunately, Jean-Francois-Pierre-Luc's girlfriend (Miss Babette) was not pleased, and expressed her distaste via pink balloon a couple of hours later. 

This little rouse paid off, as I later received a slice of homemade chocolate banana bread as a thank you. 

The musical icing atop an already great cake day was the soft-rock radio station that played Faith by George Michael,to which I fully rocked out during my drive home. 

BOOYAW. 

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.

Observe:

 

 

 

 

 

 

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. 

 

Voila:

 



 

 

 

Yes, perhaps we should.   

 





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. 

NEVER VEER AWAY FROM YOUR NORMAL MASSAGE THERAPIST TO A NEW PLACE THAT IS OFFERING A DISCOUNT. 

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. 

Ummmm...

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. 

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.   

My life: the movie.

Life in this house is a matter of several stupid moments strung together into a series of idiocy that must at least merit a low budget short-film with a cast of unknown actors.

==================

Hubby:  I vacuumed the whole basement yesterday. 

Me:  Oh, great. 

Hubby:  And then, once I finished, I noticed that the vacuum hose was detached.  Just the beater was working.  Nothing was getting sucked up.  ...  So I vacuumed the whole thing again. 

Me:  *laughing at Hubby's expense*

==================

 

I was in a deep sleep this morning.  It was 4:38 am.  I was dreaming.  And then I was shockingly and abruptly awakened by a giant anvil falling onto my chest! 

 

Ok, so it was less of an anvil, and more of a Tuxedo Cat who got spooked by Hubby's pillow-flip, ran onto my chest, and pushed off into the air. 

 

But it felt like an anvil.  And I was so dazed and confused that hyperventilation quickly followed, while both Hubby and Tuxedo Cat stared and waited for calm to return and logic to reign. 

 

==================

 

Hubby:  The new IOS6 came out today.  You can update your phone. 

 

Me:  Yeah?  How long does it take?

 

Hubby:  Oh, about 30 or 45 minutes I guess. 

 

Me:  And can I use my phone while it updates?

 

Hubby:  Well, no .

 

Me:  ...

 

Hubby:  You're never going to do it, are you?  You'll just have the old version forever. 

 

Me:  Yeah, that's what I was thinking. 

 

==================

Ever been drunk before? I bet you have.

Have you ever gone to bed at 2:30am totally wham-shammered a little bit tipsy, only to find that you took the sheets off earlier that day and forgot to replace them before drinking several glasses of red wine throughout the evening?

No?

Well, good on ya, because it's tricky making the bed under those circumstances.  Trust me. 

First of all, you have to pick all the matching pillowcases of the right sizes and shapes. Then you have to struggle with that damn fitted sheet, which means you may or may not end up stumbling and falling face-first into the mattress.  Repeatedly. Probably. 

Also?  All those duvet cover buttons are fucking difficult. 

So what led to this disaster, you might be wondering?

Hubby's buddy, known around here as Larry (as in: Larry, Hubby, and Moe), came for a visit with his adorable and hilarious - and very wine-generous - girlfriend.  Let's call her Shemp. 

Shemp brought the red wine, and then when that ran out, Hubby miraculously found a couple more bottles. Before we knew it: I was winning at Taboo; Hubby was throwing Taboo cards across the room; Shemp was suggesting we play Apples to Apples instead; Hubby was spilling red wine on the carpet; Shemp was grinding a salt shaker all over the stain; Larry was showing off the speckled reddish purple spots on his socks; Shemp was vacuuming up the salt; and I was eating stuffed crust pizza. 

And then, THEN, is when things took a turn for the better.  Because that's when, my dear friends, my favourite activity of all time took place.

Late night living room dance party, y'all. 

Which if you've ever read my bio, you know is truly the best thing that could ever happen.

Now.  You'd think that all that jumping and hopping and singing and running and moon-walking and sock-sliding would somehow reduce the effects of the red wine... but I think it has the opposite effect.  Like, somehow, it gets your blood pumping rapidly so all the alcohol goes coursing through your veins even faster than it normally would.  Or something. 

So by the time 2:30 came around, and the last song had been played (Beyoncé, If I Were a Boy - DUH), finding the bed unmade was a matter worth shouting and complaining about.  I nearly stole Larry and Shemp's guest bed. 

That said, it's been a while since I've laughed so hard at Hubby, so at least there's that. 

Long weekend movie mayhem

I've watched a couple of movies this weekend.  Ok, like, several movies. 

I think movies were specifically designed for long weekends - because with one extra day, it's easier to justify two-hour increments of sitting in front of a screen. 

As we speak, I'm watching Inception.  It hurts my brain to follow the detailed plot of dreams, within dreams, within dreams... but the cast is pretty awesome.  And Leo is so delicious that I barely care about the plot.

I'm actually a very skilled dreamer.  Or a bad sleeper.  I'm not sure which.  In any case, I seem to be able to direct my dreams like they were movies.  Sometimes they have elaborate characters and story lines.  I think I'm some sort of supernatural dream wizard.  Or I'm psychotic.  It isn't clear.  Of course, if I were a dream wizard, I think Leo would appear more often. 

Speaking of Leo, last night's movie choice was a good one.  Hubby and I watched The Departed.

I like this movie.  It's damn violent, but Jack Nicholson, Martin Sheen, and Alec Baldwin are pretty excellent. I don't love Matt Damon's performance, but that's ok. He's still cute. And his Boston accent reminds me of Good Will Hunting, which can never be a bad thing.  But I dare say, Marky Mark is the highlight:  "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fuck yourself."






Yesterday was also a day for love stories. 

First I watched Cold Mountain.  This is certainly one of the most beautiful movies ever made.  I've loved it for years.  Since before Jude Law became a bit of a wiener. 

I also watched The Lucky One.

Although I generally dislike Nicholas Sparks, I have read a few of his books (hoping for something romantic). Sadly, they're all mediocre. I've since decided to stick to his movies, because the books are not only a bit blah, but they're lacking certain gorgeous men such as my boyfriend Ryan Gosling, the handsome Channing Tatum, and the surprisingly yummy adult Zac Efron.

The last on my list of recently watched is Jurassic Park. 

Now.  Please do me a favour and acknowledge that this film represents one of the most terrifying concepts of all time.  I mean, LARGE, SCARY LIZARDS ARE CHASING AND BITING PEOPLE.  A circumstance of which I'm quite certain none of you can deny the sheer terror.   


Naturally, when it ended, I was happy to see that Jurassic Park 2 The Lost World was set to follow.  Which I watched in full, despite the fact that I think Jeff Goldblum puts on a pretty rough performance.  I have to admit though, his whole style is pretty hilarious.  I'll always like his appearance in Friends the best. 

Mothers are like robots. Really smart robots.

I was walking through the mall tonight, on my way to my car after my bus ride home, and I came to the elevator.

Don't judge me. I was wearing a narrow skirt, so taking the stairs would have meant certain death.

And awkward walking.

And I'm a lazy bum.

Anyway... walking to car, waiting for elevator.

And then a mom approached with her cute toddler son.

She reached across and took some hand sanitizer from a dispenser hanging next to the elevator. She wiped her hands and then wiped her son's hands.

And then I stared and stared.

I pass that elevator on a daily friggin' basis and never, not once, have I ever noticed that damn hand sanitizer dispenser thingie hanging on the wall.

Which made me think that mothers can probably spot those things a mile away. Like tunnel vision, zeroing in on it. They probably have their eyes trained to pick out every possible opportunity to clean their child.

Either that or I'm a sick pig who never washes her hands.

But I'm hoping it's the mother thing.

UPDATED: My Jesus Bird Cherry

So this week has been a tough one.  Although not one of my worst weeks (by a long shot), this week has been busy, and annoying, and generally a lot to deal with. 

I took on too much. 

SHOCKER.  THAT'S SO UNLIKE ME. 

But then yesterday I received a good sign from the powers above. 

BEHOLD:

My Jesus Bird Cherry.  Winston. 

That's a cherry.  I was eating cherries ('tis the season), and I came across this little guy.  Not just any cherry.  A BIRD cherry. 

And then I paraded him around the office spreading good cheer. 

Which made me realize that this is not just any ol' bird cherry.  This bird cherry is very obviously possessed by Jesus.  Because only Jesus spreads cheer as much as this bird cherry.  Or is that Santa?  Whichever.  Either way, this Jesus Bird Cherry is my new best friend.  I call him Winston. 

So I placed him strategically up against my banana - for scale -  so I could show him off to all of you. 

And spread more cheer. 

Because if my Jesus Bird Cherry is good for anything, it's spreading cheer.

Which is why he's still sitting on my desk. Staring at me. 

Until he rots. 

In Hell. 

*Hubby contributed that last line and then we laughed for five minutes.


UPDATED

We were at Ma In Laws's last week and she had THIS to show me.

Meet my late friend, and Winston's distant cousin, PENIS BIRD TOMATO.

Gangstas who read

To help offset the bitch-fest that was my last post, here's something less ranty. 

On Friday afternoon I was genuinely grinning from ear to ear when I overheard a conversation between these two young dudes on the bus:

Gangstas who read. 

Maybe you can't tell, but the white dude has a few tattoos - one on his neck, and some others on his forearms.  His jeans are also hanging around his ass.  The black dude has a chain around his neck and he's clearly wearing a muscle shirt.  And both have oversized backwards hats.  (Although neither of them was wearing sunglasses, and the beard is my doing too.)

They seemed like decent kids.  When I say "gangstas" I don't mean murderous drug dealers - just young goofballs who are perhaps a little too caught up in pop culture.

But then I overheard them talking:

White gangsta:  I, uh, started reading a book yesterday. 

Black gangsta:  Really?

White gangsta:  Yeah. I was at my buddy's house and he had a lot of books.  This one looked interesting, so I borrowed it.  So far, it's really good.

Black gangsta:  That's cool, man. 

White gangsta:  So I'm just gonna read, now, K?

Black gangsta:  Yeah, ok.   

And then I smiled ALL THE WAY HOME. 

Just peachy thanks, how the fuck are you?

Good god I just took the longest hiatus from this blog I've ever taken.  And I picked a ripe ol' day to return, too.

Christ I'm cranky today.  You know that feeling?  That if I have to deal with these idiots I share the planet with for one more fucking SECOND I think I might throw a kicking and screaming temper tantrum right here in this cubical feeling?

I was fine this morning.  I had some fun tweeting with the hilariously adorable Miss Pish Posh and I was quite happy to celebrate 'Merica Day with a high calorie snack and some sort of fancy mocha hot shaken not stirred full fat hubba bubba latte.  Or something.   

But then a guy at work came over to talk to me about something incredibly stupid* that I fundamentally disagreed with and the poor sap took the brunt of whatever was pent up inside me. 

And then, then... CAN OPEN, WORMS EVERYWHERE. 

Once I let that beast out of my dark soul I could not bury her back down there for all the cheese in Wisconsin. 

I was bitchy, and argumentative, and a damn misery to be around. 

Sure, I still made jokes, and handed out freezies, and didn't necessarily hate on everyone that crossed my path, but I was on the brink of an erratic, neurotic freak-out for the entire afternoon.

Maid of Honour duties?  Bah. 

Some political garbage?  Screw them. 

Stupid work meeting?  FORGET THAT. 

Therapist says stop doing something?  No!  I don't wanna! You can't make me!

Apple store can't fix my iPod?  FUCK YOU, APPLE STORE.  FUCK.  YOU. 

Yeah, I was a real peach today. 

And the solution?  Same as always:  Hot shower.  Cheesy pasta.  Blogging.  Grey's Anatomy.  And a Hubby hug.  Because what else are all those things good for, if not to make me feel better?


* Stupid is a relative term. .  Some days everything is stupid in my opinion.   

I caught a fever

I caught a fever.  I woke up this morning feeling pretty normal, but then, when I was watching the Today Show, something funny started to happen inside me.  I felt kinda tingly and giddy... off kilter. 

And that's when I realized. 

I caught it. 

I caught Bieber Fever. 

Godammit. 

I was minding my own business!  I wasn't exposing myself to dangerous contagions!  I was clean!

But then Matt Lauer was interviewing The Biebs and everything got a bit goofy.  It turns out that Matt just joined the twitter, and he made the mistake of asking The Biebs to help him with his first tweet. 

True to form, the little dude genius took Matt's phone, and tweeted this:

HAHAHAHahahahahahahaha!

What a sucker.  He totally handed over his phone - and his first ever tweet - to an 18 year old pop star with 25 million twitter followers.  GOOD IDEA MATT. 

And then I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. 

But afterward, I began to get sucked in...  Not only is he an 18 year old genius, but that Boyfriend song is actually really catchy.  And he's a good little dancer, isn't he?  And Canadian.  We can't forget Canadian.  Be still my heart. 

There's no hope for me.  I'm lost.  This fever will consume me and I will forever be wandering the wasteland of what was once my adult life, wondering where all my responsible friends and family members have gone...

Sure, Hubby may stick by me for a while, but for how long?  How long can he deal with a tragically and hopelessly ill Wifey?  Not long.  He may have stood by me through Asshole Depression and Bastard Anxiety, but not this.  This is too much.  Now he knows I've truly gone insane. 

There's no going back. Farewell, cruel world.  Farewell. 

Baby, baby, baby, Ohhhhhhh...

Some people are so awkward

I have one of those photo security passes to get into my office.  Like I work for the CIA or something. (Or the equally renowned and distinguished Canadian version, CSIS.  Pronounced See-Sis.  Because it's cool.)

My security pass is a plastic card with a very attractive convict photo on the front and a magical probably carcinogenic magnetic insert that somehow allows me to pass through the automated sliding glass partitions without setting off a series of alarms/sirens/flashing lights.   

And although I could, in theory, just hop over said glass partitions, it is highly frowned upon. 

Now.  I have, in some rare instances, been known to lose my security pass.  It's possible that I may have - once or twice - walked into the office, and unceremoniously crashed into the plexiglass before I knew what hit me.  Maybe.

Well, on Monday when I tried to swipe my card it failed.  Cue the sirens. 

Turns out, the fucking thing was totally split in half.  How I didn't notice this is entirely unclear, but whatever. 

The security guard let me in (I basically could've been a bomber for all he knew) and told me to go to the Security Office to get a new card. 

Problem is, I work in an office.  A big office.  With a very large and oppressive bureaucracy.  Like 1984.  So I knew I wouldn't just be able to show up at the Security Office for a new card.  That would be too easy.

No.  I'd have to ask Admin Support to contact Security, so Security could contact me, and then (and only then) could I go to the Security Office. 

When I went to Admin Support, she said it should be fine.  I should just go straight to the Security Office. 

So I did. 

And they of course told me to go talk to Admin Support. 

Fuck. 

So I did. 

Christ. 

Once I finally received the coveted invitation to the secret Security Office, I travelled down to get  my new card. 

And then I sat.  And waited.  In a tiny, smelly, dark office dungeon.  For more minutes than I care to admit.  And I watched the security video on tv that was kind enough to inform me that "passwords are like socks."  I don't know why.  I stopped watching. 

Because that's when it happened.

The tall dorky guy in line ahead of me was called up to take his photo. 

He stood in front of the camera screen, and smiled. 

And the camera attendant (aka Security Officer) told him to look into the lower camera. 

I kid you not.  That poor tall dorky guy looked at the camera, looked at the attendant, and then CROUCHED DOWN. 

He very awkwardly bent his knees and lowered his face to be level with the camera.  And then he smiled. 

The attendant snorted, told him to stand up straight, and then took the picture. 

Meanwhile, I stifled outbursts of laughter. 

And then the whole ordeal was worth it.