Nearly lost her shit on her tuffet
When a spider dropped in to say "Hey"
He flopped down beside her, & crawled up her arm
All hairy & deadly & ready to play.
She was on the phone, with an important client
And couldn't really allude to the melee.
And so, the consummate professional, she shrieked:
"I need-to-put-you-on-hold-now-HOLDnow-HOLDNOW-HOLDNOW! If I may?".
And in her fancy shoes, she whipped off her top,
In a mock pornie form of ballet
Lest the spider {and his invisible friends} think
She was on the menu, as the much awaited entree
{k, so rhyming isn't my thing, but I should get points for trying, nay?}
Friday, July 27, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
CWG update
Please keep in mind that I'm easily distracted as is.
In that, Oooooooo, look, shiny! kind of way.
But tonight?
I was not there.
I mean, I was.
Technically.
In a purdy blouse and a pair of pumps that may have hobbled me worse than Kathy Bates.
But my head?
Somewhere else entirely.
I had a meeting with two people and the mechanical wonderment that is zero-tolerance has gone into play.
Bu CWG doesn't know this yet.
And I?
Could feel him in the building all night.
Happily, not in the physical sense.
Because that?
Is grosser than the Q-tip.
Than twenty-thousand Q-tips.
More in the my-spidey-senses-are-a-tingling-&-they-are-screaming-skeeze-alert, kind of feeling.
And sure enough.
Three hours after his shift.
There he is.
In all his pervie glory.
And I kid you not..... I was more distracted than a pedophile in a Barney suit.
{What IS it with me and the imagery? Dear God.}
Perfect Example: I went to Wendy's with a mate on my dinner break. And ordered a baked potato. With broccoli & cheese. And also, a Frosty {high five Lactaid}, with their new happy-topping option of Oreos {I heart Oreos, btw}. At least, that's what I thought I ordered.
And when they went to confirm my Frosty topping, I replied, with absolute certainty:
"Yes, please, I would like broccoli and cheese on my Frosty".
And to give my negotiating skills their proper due, the chick nearly gave me my "special order".
In that, Oooooooo, look, shiny! kind of way.
But tonight?
I was not there.
I mean, I was.
Technically.
In a purdy blouse and a pair of pumps that may have hobbled me worse than Kathy Bates.
But my head?
Somewhere else entirely.
I had a meeting with two people and the mechanical wonderment that is zero-tolerance has gone into play.
Bu CWG doesn't know this yet.
And I?
Could feel him in the building all night.
Happily, not in the physical sense.
Because that?
Is grosser than the Q-tip.
Than twenty-thousand Q-tips.
More in the my-spidey-senses-are-a-tingling-&-they-are-screaming-skeeze-alert, kind of feeling.
And sure enough.
Three hours after his shift.
There he is.
In all his pervie glory.
And I kid you not..... I was more distracted than a pedophile in a Barney suit.
{What IS it with me and the imagery? Dear God.}
Perfect Example: I went to Wendy's with a mate on my dinner break. And ordered a baked potato. With broccoli & cheese. And also, a Frosty {high five Lactaid}, with their new happy-topping option of Oreos {I heart Oreos, btw}. At least, that's what I thought I ordered.
And when they went to confirm my Frosty topping, I replied, with absolute certainty:
"Yes, please, I would like broccoli and cheese on my Frosty".
And to give my negotiating skills their proper due, the chick nearly gave me my "special order".
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
And another thing....
Totally unrelated.
But equally disgusting.
A few days ago?
In the lunchroom, right outside of the classrooms?
On the counter?
Next to a kettle?
And below the slew of microwaves?
Was a Q-tip.
Used.
Barf me a bucketful, why don't ya?
Seriously, who is heating up their Lean Cuisine & thinks, "You know what would be an awesome decision right now? To clean my cacky ears out with this here cotton bud. And whilst I'm at it, let me leave some of my waxy DNA for the next poor soul who needs to nuke their nummies.".
After they empty the contents of their stomach.
Obviously.
But equally disgusting.
A few days ago?
In the lunchroom, right outside of the classrooms?
On the counter?
Next to a kettle?
And below the slew of microwaves?
Was a Q-tip.
Used.
Barf me a bucketful, why don't ya?
Seriously, who is heating up their Lean Cuisine & thinks, "You know what would be an awesome decision right now? To clean my cacky ears out with this here cotton bud. And whilst I'm at it, let me leave some of my waxy DNA for the next poor soul who needs to nuke their nummies.".
After they empty the contents of their stomach.
Obviously.
And I preface this with the statement:
I really do think he would fuck a donkey.
But still.
So......
People.
My Monday night?
Was eventful.
In that, I-feel-the-need-to-shower-extensively-to-wash-the-muck-of-someone-else's-twisted -psyche-off-my-spiritual-skin, kind of eventful.
This is the skinny.
I work in a large environment. Filled with many, many different kinds of people. Most of whom? Add positively to my life in some manner. Some, albeit, more than others. But most? I would not complain about.
Unless I was feeling bitchy.
And also, petty.
Which happens sometimes. Especially when I'm tired. And hungry. And stressed.
But that is neither here, nor there.
To recap: most people, thumbs up.
But there is one guy.
Whom we shall call "creepy white guy".
'Cause that's really what I call him.
You know, the kind of guy whose picture you would not be surprised to see posted in the newspaper, under the heading: "Man! Molester! Children, animals, he knows no bounds!!".
Seriously.
This guy could not fit the stereotype more if he tried.
Hard.
The kind of guy you could imagine {but don't. Please.} masturbating to Reader's Digest and having skinned kittens hanging from his ceiling.
Yeah. I do have a way with the imagery. I apologize in advance.
Back to the story.
So, "creepy white guy" has been making me uncomfortable for some time now, if for no other reason, then he was giving me bad vibes. And then I noticed that he always tried to insert himself {I'm sorry for that one too} into conversations where females were involved and he, simply, should not be.
And also, he looks down shirts.
Blatently.
I first saw him do this a few days ago. To a girl who is lovely and beautiful. And also? Barely legal. And I thought maybe that mine eyes were deceiving me. But I said something to her.
And started paying more attention.
And then tonight. I was dealing with an issue and he strolled on up and gave his opinion. Totally work related. High five. No biggie.
And then says, & I do quote, "You remind me of something".
And because I have an inquisitive mind, and also because I truly did not know where he was going with this, I said "What?".
And he, as he looks directly at my breasts, says ....
"Strawberry Ice Cream".
*ahem*
I was torn. Inside.
What I wanted to do: was say "What the fuck?".
What I did: was give him a look like I had smelled something foul and then walked away.
That is creepy, right?
I mean, I would much rather a guy openly pull his junk out, swing it around and say" Want some of this bad boy?", so that I could honestly reply, "No, thank you" & be done with it.
But this sneeky, intoverted, pervie, "I'll worm {sorry. Penis reference again} my way into your world, and then hump your leg and pretend that it isn't happening" kind of thing just is making my skin crawl.
So I thought about it. I'm a big girl. A grown-up {so I'm told}. And I've dealt with characters who are much more shady than CWG {I've acron-ized him}. But if he wigs me out, and I know that he is doing this to girls who are still in their teens, then God forbid, he should do something to someone who wouldn't say anything.
Cause I?
Would claw his beady eyes out.
But that is not professional.
So I spoke with a co-worker.
And apparently, {big surprise here}.....he has been warned before.
I know. Shock & awe. The perve has been previously pervie. Perfect.
And this means that it goes all the way to head office.
Tomorrow.
Which means tonight, the word went around. And a bunch of us were moved out of the section that he was in, as a "precautionary measure".
I shit you not.
And because, as a group, we are nothing if not mature, we made barely diguised jokes about it for the rest of the evening.
Kind of like the way kids will stand in front of the mirror and say "Bloody Mary" just to prove the elusive boogie man has no real power.
And I have a new nickname.
Just call me Straw. As in berry.
But still.
So......
People.
My Monday night?
Was eventful.
In that, I-feel-the-need-to-shower-extensively-to-wash-the-muck-of-someone-else's-twisted -psyche-off-my-spiritual-skin, kind of eventful.
This is the skinny.
I work in a large environment. Filled with many, many different kinds of people. Most of whom? Add positively to my life in some manner. Some, albeit, more than others. But most? I would not complain about.
Unless I was feeling bitchy.
And also, petty.
Which happens sometimes. Especially when I'm tired. And hungry. And stressed.
But that is neither here, nor there.
To recap: most people, thumbs up.
But there is one guy.
Whom we shall call "creepy white guy".
'Cause that's really what I call him.
You know, the kind of guy whose picture you would not be surprised to see posted in the newspaper, under the heading: "Man! Molester! Children, animals, he knows no bounds!!".
Seriously.
This guy could not fit the stereotype more if he tried.
Hard.
The kind of guy you could imagine {but don't. Please.} masturbating to Reader's Digest and having skinned kittens hanging from his ceiling.
Yeah. I do have a way with the imagery. I apologize in advance.
Back to the story.
So, "creepy white guy" has been making me uncomfortable for some time now, if for no other reason, then he was giving me bad vibes. And then I noticed that he always tried to insert himself {I'm sorry for that one too} into conversations where females were involved and he, simply, should not be.
And also, he looks down shirts.
Blatently.
I first saw him do this a few days ago. To a girl who is lovely and beautiful. And also? Barely legal. And I thought maybe that mine eyes were deceiving me. But I said something to her.
And started paying more attention.
And then tonight. I was dealing with an issue and he strolled on up and gave his opinion. Totally work related. High five. No biggie.
And then says, & I do quote, "You remind me of something".
And because I have an inquisitive mind, and also because I truly did not know where he was going with this, I said "What?".
And he, as he looks directly at my breasts, says ....
"Strawberry Ice Cream".
*ahem*
I was torn. Inside.
What I wanted to do: was say "What the fuck?".
What I did: was give him a look like I had smelled something foul and then walked away.
That is creepy, right?
I mean, I would much rather a guy openly pull his junk out, swing it around and say" Want some of this bad boy?", so that I could honestly reply, "No, thank you" & be done with it.
But this sneeky, intoverted, pervie, "I'll worm {sorry. Penis reference again} my way into your world, and then hump your leg and pretend that it isn't happening" kind of thing just is making my skin crawl.
So I thought about it. I'm a big girl. A grown-up {so I'm told}. And I've dealt with characters who are much more shady than CWG {I've acron-ized him}. But if he wigs me out, and I know that he is doing this to girls who are still in their teens, then God forbid, he should do something to someone who wouldn't say anything.
Cause I?
Would claw his beady eyes out.
But that is not professional.
So I spoke with a co-worker.
And apparently, {big surprise here}.....he has been warned before.
I know. Shock & awe. The perve has been previously pervie. Perfect.
And this means that it goes all the way to head office.
Tomorrow.
Which means tonight, the word went around. And a bunch of us were moved out of the section that he was in, as a "precautionary measure".
I shit you not.
And because, as a group, we are nothing if not mature, we made barely diguised jokes about it for the rest of the evening.
Kind of like the way kids will stand in front of the mirror and say "Bloody Mary" just to prove the elusive boogie man has no real power.
And I have a new nickname.
Just call me Straw. As in berry.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
What I have learned so far this week...
1. I am a cynic, and thus my expectations of people were pretty low to begin with. How wrong I have been. They should have been much, much lower.
2. I can make the word "sir" sound like "motherfuckingcocksucker" with very little effort.
3. I have done this extensively in the last few days.
4. MacGyver, I am not. Because, he? Would have been able to escape unscathed from the bathroom stall that imprisoned me at 1 am at work {!!!!} by simply reaching in his purse {he is much more feminine in my world} to fashion a piece of gum and a bottle of lotion into a bomb that simultaneously would break the door down and moisturize the ashy. Me? I kicked at the door 3 times in frustration in The Shoes That Were Meant For Sitting Only and proceeded to sanitarily place toilet paper on the ground as though I were creating a garden path and then crawl on said paper, valiantly trying to levitate. I was unsuccessful, and am currently shooting up antibacterial hand-wash as though it were heroin and I, Kate Moss' boy toy.
5. Wardrobe malfunctions are not just for celebs. Case in point? Monday, when the Boy stopped by my house to surprise me with a hug. Awww, huh? Except. *ahem* I was working later that day. And so? Was still in pj's. Cute, cute pj's. All matchy and shit. Except? The top I chose to wear with the snazzy blue and green pin stripped pants with the darling green ribbon? Was lace. And, also? My nipples showed right through it. Which? I did not notice before. And also? Only noticed after HIS STUDENT {who came in to say "Hey! Nice to meet you Crazy Lady!"} walked back outside to the car and I was all like "He's really sweet and hey it's kind of cold in here...OH MY JESUS, why didn't you tell me you could see MY BOOBS???". Or something.
6. Boys can be really snitty when you accidentally KA-THUNK! them in the testicles. With your purse. Your twenty tonne purse that contains enough supplies to see the world through to the next millennium. Really snitty. Go figure.
7. I can find small joys in mundane places. Names of people that I have actually talked to this week: Bawlhair {and his wife, HarryBushe...k, I made that part up}, Ning Dong {say that fast in your head} & Shaidi Moreles {cross my heart & hope to laugh}.
And it's only Wednesday....
2. I can make the word "sir" sound like "motherfuckingcocksucker" with very little effort.
3. I have done this extensively in the last few days.
4. MacGyver, I am not. Because, he? Would have been able to escape unscathed from the bathroom stall that imprisoned me at 1 am at work {!!!!} by simply reaching in his purse {he is much more feminine in my world} to fashion a piece of gum and a bottle of lotion into a bomb that simultaneously would break the door down and moisturize the ashy. Me? I kicked at the door 3 times in frustration in The Shoes That Were Meant For Sitting Only and proceeded to sanitarily place toilet paper on the ground as though I were creating a garden path and then crawl on said paper, valiantly trying to levitate. I was unsuccessful, and am currently shooting up antibacterial hand-wash as though it were heroin and I, Kate Moss' boy toy.
5. Wardrobe malfunctions are not just for celebs. Case in point? Monday, when the Boy stopped by my house to surprise me with a hug. Awww, huh? Except. *ahem* I was working later that day. And so? Was still in pj's. Cute, cute pj's. All matchy and shit. Except? The top I chose to wear with the snazzy blue and green pin stripped pants with the darling green ribbon? Was lace. And, also? My nipples showed right through it. Which? I did not notice before. And also? Only noticed after HIS STUDENT {who came in to say "Hey! Nice to meet you Crazy Lady!"} walked back outside to the car and I was all like "He's really sweet and hey it's kind of cold in here...OH MY JESUS, why didn't you tell me you could see MY BOOBS???". Or something.
6. Boys can be really snitty when you accidentally KA-THUNK! them in the testicles. With your purse. Your twenty tonne purse that contains enough supplies to see the world through to the next millennium. Really snitty. Go figure.
7. I can find small joys in mundane places. Names of people that I have actually talked to this week: Bawlhair {and his wife, HarryBushe...k, I made that part up}, Ning Dong {say that fast in your head} & Shaidi Moreles {cross my heart & hope to laugh}.
And it's only Wednesday....
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Good Housekeeping
After he cooked us breakfast using every single solitary utensil that he owns....
Boy: The kitchen is full of dirty dishes.
Me: Would you like me to wash them?
Boy: No, not really. I don't feel like doing them either. If only they were self-cleaning...
Me: Well, perhaps if you had a...
Boy: {cutting me off} If only there was a machine. A self-cleaning machine that was specially made for dishes...
Me: You think you are SO funny today, don't you?
Boy: Yes. Yes I do.
Boy: The kitchen is full of dirty dishes.
Me: Would you like me to wash them?
Boy: No, not really. I don't feel like doing them either. If only they were self-cleaning...
Me: Well, perhaps if you had a...
Boy: {cutting me off} If only there was a machine. A self-cleaning machine that was specially made for dishes...
Me: You think you are SO funny today, don't you?
Boy: Yes. Yes I do.
Hello Obvious....
A conversation in futility...
Me: Boy, do you feel like pizza?
Boy: {pats his arm & his face} Nope.
Me: {pausing whilst his silliness sinks in} Dude!
Me: Boy, do you feel like pizza?
Boy: {pats his arm & his face} Nope.
Me: {pausing whilst his silliness sinks in} Dude!
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Me so horny.
After kissing Boy, who had eaten Hot Sauce with his dinner.
Me: You taste like Vietnamese.
Boy: {grinning all gonad-esque} When's the last time you ate a Vietnamese person?
Me: Dude! I meant Vietnamese food!
Boy: Was it Cum-Of-Some-Young-Guy?
Me: {smacking him on the arm} Boy!
Boy: Ouch! I kinda deserved that one, huh?
Me love you long time.
Me: You taste like Vietnamese.
Boy: {grinning all gonad-esque} When's the last time you ate a Vietnamese person?
Me: Dude! I meant Vietnamese food!
Boy: Was it Cum-Of-Some-Young-Guy?
Me: {smacking him on the arm} Boy!
Boy: Ouch! I kinda deserved that one, huh?
Me love you long time.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Talk about red cheeks.....
A dialogue with my mom. If you can consider it a dialogue when one party begins in a coma, & the other ends up there.
Me: {sleepily} Mmmmmelllo?
Mom: Andrea? You will never guess what I saw on the way home tonight!
Me: {going towards the light} Hmmmmm? {fading. fading}
Mom: We have to pass this, well, you know, a, well, a place that, ummm, you know....
Me: {crankily} Mom, what? What did you pass? I'm almost unconsious here.
Mom: Well, T. & I have to pass this, well, an establishment for {she starts to whisper} working girls.
Me: Pardon?
Mom: A cat house.
Me: You passed a strip joint, Mom?
Mom: {all innocent and giggly}. Yes! And you'll never guess what one lady was wearing?!
Me: Ummm, first off, is "lady" really the politically correct term, Mommy? And, let me guess, she was wearing.....ummm, nothing?
Mom: Andrea!
Me: What? You asked!
Mom: Guess again! You'll never guess!
Me: Ok, don't believe in my potential. Tell me then.
Mom: She was wearing {long pause as she musters up the courage to say it aloud}..... pants.....with no BUM!!!!!!
Me: {seeing her blush through the phone} You mean ass-less chaps, Mom?
Mom: Andrea Louise Monica Brennan! You know what those are? You know what they're called?!
Me: {sensing an opportunity too good to pass up} Yup. Got me a pair for those weekends with the Boy in London.
Mom: {hits the floor with a thud as her last fleeting thought is where did I go wrong?}
Wait til I tell her about the nipple tassels I picked up especially for Church...
Me: {sleepily} Mmmmmelllo?
Mom: Andrea? You will never guess what I saw on the way home tonight!
Me: {going towards the light} Hmmmmm? {fading. fading}
Mom: We have to pass this, well, you know, a, well, a place that, ummm, you know....
Me: {crankily} Mom, what? What did you pass? I'm almost unconsious here.
Mom: Well, T. & I have to pass this, well, an establishment for {she starts to whisper} working girls.
Me: Pardon?
Mom: A cat house.
Me: You passed a strip joint, Mom?
Mom: {all innocent and giggly}. Yes! And you'll never guess what one lady was wearing?!
Me: Ummm, first off, is "lady" really the politically correct term, Mommy? And, let me guess, she was wearing.....ummm, nothing?
Mom: Andrea!
Me: What? You asked!
Mom: Guess again! You'll never guess!
Me: Ok, don't believe in my potential. Tell me then.
Mom: She was wearing {long pause as she musters up the courage to say it aloud}..... pants.....with no BUM!!!!!!
Me: {seeing her blush through the phone} You mean ass-less chaps, Mom?
Mom: Andrea Louise Monica Brennan! You know what those are? You know what they're called?!
Me: {sensing an opportunity too good to pass up} Yup. Got me a pair for those weekends with the Boy in London.
Mom: {hits the floor with a thud as her last fleeting thought is where did I go wrong?}
Wait til I tell her about the nipple tassels I picked up especially for Church...
Monday, May 28, 2007
Tuesday needs to be the new Monday...
'Cause really?
Monday is a spiteful bitch. And to honour that bitch, here's another math problem:
Question:
If a veggie sandwich is eaten on a train going 60 mph at approx. 9 pm, and the mayo that was used on said sandwich was "off" {read: rancid}, and the consumer of said sandwich has no Gravol left, what will happen when her stomach realizes this at approx. 1 am?
Answer:
You seriously do not want to know.
Shakes a weak fist-in-air at the injustice. Damn you, Monday, damn you!
Monday is a spiteful bitch. And to honour that bitch, here's another math problem:
Question:
If a veggie sandwich is eaten on a train going 60 mph at approx. 9 pm, and the mayo that was used on said sandwich was "off" {read: rancid}, and the consumer of said sandwich has no Gravol left, what will happen when her stomach realizes this at approx. 1 am?
Answer:
You seriously do not want to know.
Shakes a weak fist-in-air at the injustice. Damn you, Monday, damn you!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Alive isn't just a movie....
Me: Boy, this rice is delicious. What did you put in it?
Boy: Tomato, onion, garlic, oregano, cumin, cor....
Me: {totally cutting him off} Did you just say human?
Boy: {sighing and looking plaintively at me, with pity. Or something} Yes, yes I did, Andrea. That's what gives it the extra kick.
I ate his liver, with some fava beans & a nice Chianti.
Boy: Tomato, onion, garlic, oregano, cumin, cor....
Me: {totally cutting him off} Did you just say human?
Boy: {sighing and looking plaintively at me, with pity. Or something} Yes, yes I did, Andrea. That's what gives it the extra kick.
I ate his liver, with some fava beans & a nice Chianti.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Big Girls don't cry...
They get even.
Due to the boo-hiss-ness of the "death of the Kia" {cue appropriately sombre music}, I once again availed of the train to London this morning at almost noon o'clock. I had woken up at something ugly like 2:53 am, for no apparent reason, other than Jesus? He clearly doesn't love me. And also? This starting work at 6 am lark is conspiring to alter my internal alarm clock, which is happy to go off sometime around 7 pm. This information actually isn't really pertinent, save for the fact that despite the 2.5 hour journey and the opportunity for sleep that it provided, I was desperately trying to stay conscious. Because? With my luck? I would fall asleep somewhere around Cow-Poo-Ville {which Boy informs me is called Ingersoll} & snooze right through to Windsor.
Anyhow.
I was a-minding my own business, reading a novel, listening to some music & aimlessly gazing out the window at the fields of green. I foolishly ordered a cup of tea {I never learn} & once again, narrowly avoided scalding myself due to all the bumpies that started around St. Mary's. There was a middle-aged couple sitting across from me, & as I'm inclined to do when I'm bored, I decided to people-watch. He was thin & mustached & jokey, content to complete his crossword puzzle and eat a scrumptious looking blueberry muffin that I had to physically restrain myself from snatching out of his fingers. She, on the other hand. Oh, She. If "Unhappy" went missing, her face would be on the milk cartons. She was, ummm, large. In the no-neck, boobs-resting-on-knees, looks-like-she-was-smuggling-a-third-world-nation-in-her-pantaloons, kind of large.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
It was the fact that when I smiled and asked them for the time, & her husband answered me, she glared at me. And kind of snarled. And then! When a very polite small child, sitting in the seat in front of her, exclaimed in delight to his father, "A moo cow, daddy! A moo cow!", she gave him a look that comperatively would have made Cruella da Ville look like a supporter of PETA. She kept blowing her nose, which sounded like an elephant with the trots, & THEN! Dropped the Kleenexes on the floor!!!!!
So, all around, not someone I wanted to give a great big hug to.
Finally, the train pulled into London, as the rain spitooned off the windows and I stood up, with my headphones on {but this is key: the music was OFF as I had been listening out for the conductor's station announcement}, & went to walk down the aisle to collect my overnight bag.
As I proceeded to walk past her, she turned to her husband & said, loudly:
"I don't think her tits are real".
And then stared right at the Girls.
The fucking audacity. And also? A woman my mom's age just said the word "tits". It would have been classier to say "fun-bags".
*sighs*
And so I replied:
"As real as your belly, bitch".
And head up high, walked off the train.
Cause nobody puts Boobies in the corner.
Due to the boo-hiss-ness of the "death of the Kia" {cue appropriately sombre music}, I once again availed of the train to London this morning at almost noon o'clock. I had woken up at something ugly like 2:53 am, for no apparent reason, other than Jesus? He clearly doesn't love me. And also? This starting work at 6 am lark is conspiring to alter my internal alarm clock, which is happy to go off sometime around 7 pm. This information actually isn't really pertinent, save for the fact that despite the 2.5 hour journey and the opportunity for sleep that it provided, I was desperately trying to stay conscious. Because? With my luck? I would fall asleep somewhere around Cow-Poo-Ville {which Boy informs me is called Ingersoll} & snooze right through to Windsor.
Anyhow.
I was a-minding my own business, reading a novel, listening to some music & aimlessly gazing out the window at the fields of green. I foolishly ordered a cup of tea {I never learn} & once again, narrowly avoided scalding myself due to all the bumpies that started around St. Mary's. There was a middle-aged couple sitting across from me, & as I'm inclined to do when I'm bored, I decided to people-watch. He was thin & mustached & jokey, content to complete his crossword puzzle and eat a scrumptious looking blueberry muffin that I had to physically restrain myself from snatching out of his fingers. She, on the other hand. Oh, She. If "Unhappy" went missing, her face would be on the milk cartons. She was, ummm, large. In the no-neck, boobs-resting-on-knees, looks-like-she-was-smuggling-a-third-world-nation-in-her-pantaloons, kind of large.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
It was the fact that when I smiled and asked them for the time, & her husband answered me, she glared at me. And kind of snarled. And then! When a very polite small child, sitting in the seat in front of her, exclaimed in delight to his father, "A moo cow, daddy! A moo cow!", she gave him a look that comperatively would have made Cruella da Ville look like a supporter of PETA. She kept blowing her nose, which sounded like an elephant with the trots, & THEN! Dropped the Kleenexes on the floor!!!!!
So, all around, not someone I wanted to give a great big hug to.
Finally, the train pulled into London, as the rain spitooned off the windows and I stood up, with my headphones on {but this is key: the music was OFF as I had been listening out for the conductor's station announcement}, & went to walk down the aisle to collect my overnight bag.
As I proceeded to walk past her, she turned to her husband & said, loudly:
"I don't think her tits are real".
And then stared right at the Girls.
The fucking audacity. And also? A woman my mom's age just said the word "tits". It would have been classier to say "fun-bags".
*sighs*
And so I replied:
"As real as your belly, bitch".
And head up high, walked off the train.
Cause nobody puts Boobies in the corner.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Biting my tongue.....
What I actually said:
"Sir, the balance of the invoice is in excess of $3000. Kindly make a payment or we cannot continue to service your account".
What I wanted to say:
"Dear Asshat! Pay your damn bill. Love, The Management".
'Cause I'm all about the customer service.
"Sir, the balance of the invoice is in excess of $3000. Kindly make a payment or we cannot continue to service your account".
What I wanted to say:
"Dear Asshat! Pay your damn bill. Love, The Management".
'Cause I'm all about the customer service.
Behold the classy....
A statement emitted from my seat-mate on the train last Sunday night at late o'clock.
As she took her shoes off.
And put her, umm, "fragrantly" odoriferous feet up on the flip-down tray.
As I held my breath.
And glared a hole through her patchouli scented soul.
And reflected on the fact that patchouli and "feet" are smells that make me want to throw up a little in my mouth. Especially when they are combined into a horrific conglomeration of ewwww.
But I digress.
*ahem*
"It sure is a cryin' shame that I can't watch mah stories tonight. Now where did I done put mah Fritos?".
Yup, she said "mah" not "my".
And then launched into an hour long diatribe on the merits of the show "Passions" and how her life has been touched by the "troubles" that the characters go through. As though she knew them. Personally.
As I perfected the smile and nod technique and contemplated the relative merits of poking myself in the ear drums with the stir stick from my tea.
As she took her shoes off.
And put her, umm, "fragrantly" odoriferous feet up on the flip-down tray.
As I held my breath.
And glared a hole through her patchouli scented soul.
And reflected on the fact that patchouli and "feet" are smells that make me want to throw up a little in my mouth. Especially when they are combined into a horrific conglomeration of ewwww.
But I digress.
*ahem*
"It sure is a cryin' shame that I can't watch mah stories tonight. Now where did I done put mah Fritos?".
Yup, she said "mah" not "my".
And then launched into an hour long diatribe on the merits of the show "Passions" and how her life has been touched by the "troubles" that the characters go through. As though she knew them. Personally.
As I perfected the smile and nod technique and contemplated the relative merits of poking myself in the ear drums with the stir stick from my tea.
Monday, May 21, 2007
On why I am not ready to be a parent.
Or own a plant.
It is difficult to maintain that you a self-sufficient, mature adult when the Boy points out, in baffled astonishment, that when you are really, REALLY sleepy, you suck your thumb.
And when you try to deny this, he glances down, and although he says nothing, you know that he is looking at the stuffed animal that you are clutching like a life preserver.
The stuffed animal that you insisted on calling "Tow Truck" to immortalize your adventures on Saturday night.
The stuffed animal that you insist HE refers to as "Tow Truck" as well.
Yeah, I'm totally a grown-up. Now where DID I put my blankie?
It is difficult to maintain that you a self-sufficient, mature adult when the Boy points out, in baffled astonishment, that when you are really, REALLY sleepy, you suck your thumb.
And when you try to deny this, he glances down, and although he says nothing, you know that he is looking at the stuffed animal that you are clutching like a life preserver.
The stuffed animal that you insisted on calling "Tow Truck" to immortalize your adventures on Saturday night.
The stuffed animal that you insist HE refers to as "Tow Truck" as well.
Yeah, I'm totally a grown-up. Now where DID I put my blankie?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
A series of hypothesis statements....
Based upon a day at Canada's Wonderland.
1. If you wish to get your face painted, then you might be forced to contemplate what you will look like with a negative image of flowers burned onto your skin by the sun.
2. If your sunscreen has glitter in it, then chances are, it is a shitty sunscreen and you will end up with a third degree burn.
3. If you wear a halter top, with a spaghetti tank top underneath, and a long beaded necklace, with matching wrist cuffs, then your tan lines will look as though a pre-school aged child started a "paint-by-numbers" picture with only two colours (a) Albino white & (b) Fire-Engine Red.
4. If someone suggests going on Top Gun at 1pm, then you should say "Hells No", due to the fact that a 3 hour wait for a 3 second ride is ridiculous.
5. If a little fat Chinese kid sharts himself in front of you and his friends are taking a picture at that exact moment, then you will show up in their digital image holding your nose.
6. If a Gino strolls up and tries to cut in the Top Gun line after you have been waiting for an hour and half, and he is decked out like A.C. Slater, then you should, Nay, you must, ask him where Jessie Spano is.
7. If you normally wear heels {or a mini skirt and knee high boots} to something like Sars-a-palooza, or to camp, then your idea of practical shoes may be a little skewed and you will need to buy a new pair of flip flops before you become permanently crippled.
8. If you desperately crave a "Strawberry & Banana {lactose-free....YEAH BABY!} Chill" then it is guarenteed to be the single solitary thing the Park will have run out of. But there are eleventy-seven-hundred Pizza Pizza joints.
9. If you see a 50 year old man, with a grey pony-tail, sporting a pair of ageing purple spandex shorts with a tight T-shirt, then it is mandatory to ask him why he is smuggling grapes into the park.
10. If you are exhusted and ever so ready to be tucked into bed in London with your Boy, then his car will go "thump-ity-thump-ity KAbOOm", just outside of the Guelph service station. At 10:30 pm. On the long weekend. As the rain pours down. Making you have to pee. Again.
11. If the tow-truck driver gives you a funny look when he arrives after 11pm as you finagle your way in the rain, in a pair of flip flops, on the grassy shoulder of the highway, as the transport trailers attempt to play a game of "Run over the unfortunate pedestrain", then you should remember that people your age don't normally have half their face painted like a flower garden.
12. Moreover, if you call the tow-truck driver "Dude!", when he says something colourful, he will laugh his ass off at you.
13. Furthermore, however, he will tell you that you both are the coolest customers he has ever had by the time you stop for a pee/coffee/smoke break in Woodstock, due to the fact that you broke the ice with "Dude!". And you will say, without a glimmer of doubt in your mind, because you are a narcissitic assclown, "I AM the most awesome".
14. If the aforementioned situation with the glitter-y broken spf-y promises occurs and you have yet to actually examine the damage in a mirror, 1 am is probably not the time to do so. Because you are exhusted. And your sobs will wake the neighbours. In the next town over.
14. If all of this has happened in a 12 hour period, then you really should rethink visiting the Park again this season. Or ever.
Now, please pass the aloe vera. Thanks
1. If you wish to get your face painted, then you might be forced to contemplate what you will look like with a negative image of flowers burned onto your skin by the sun.
2. If your sunscreen has glitter in it, then chances are, it is a shitty sunscreen and you will end up with a third degree burn.
3. If you wear a halter top, with a spaghetti tank top underneath, and a long beaded necklace, with matching wrist cuffs, then your tan lines will look as though a pre-school aged child started a "paint-by-numbers" picture with only two colours (a) Albino white & (b) Fire-Engine Red.
4. If someone suggests going on Top Gun at 1pm, then you should say "Hells No", due to the fact that a 3 hour wait for a 3 second ride is ridiculous.
5. If a little fat Chinese kid sharts himself in front of you and his friends are taking a picture at that exact moment, then you will show up in their digital image holding your nose.
6. If a Gino strolls up and tries to cut in the Top Gun line after you have been waiting for an hour and half, and he is decked out like A.C. Slater, then you should, Nay, you must, ask him where Jessie Spano is.
7. If you normally wear heels {or a mini skirt and knee high boots} to something like Sars-a-palooza, or to camp, then your idea of practical shoes may be a little skewed and you will need to buy a new pair of flip flops before you become permanently crippled.
8. If you desperately crave a "Strawberry & Banana {lactose-free....YEAH BABY!} Chill" then it is guarenteed to be the single solitary thing the Park will have run out of. But there are eleventy-seven-hundred Pizza Pizza joints.
9. If you see a 50 year old man, with a grey pony-tail, sporting a pair of ageing purple spandex shorts with a tight T-shirt, then it is mandatory to ask him why he is smuggling grapes into the park.
10. If you are exhusted and ever so ready to be tucked into bed in London with your Boy, then his car will go "thump-ity-thump-ity KAbOOm", just outside of the Guelph service station. At 10:30 pm. On the long weekend. As the rain pours down. Making you have to pee. Again.
11. If the tow-truck driver gives you a funny look when he arrives after 11pm as you finagle your way in the rain, in a pair of flip flops, on the grassy shoulder of the highway, as the transport trailers attempt to play a game of "Run over the unfortunate pedestrain", then you should remember that people your age don't normally have half their face painted like a flower garden.
12. Moreover, if you call the tow-truck driver "Dude!", when he says something colourful, he will laugh his ass off at you.
13. Furthermore, however, he will tell you that you both are the coolest customers he has ever had by the time you stop for a pee/coffee/smoke break in Woodstock, due to the fact that you broke the ice with "Dude!". And you will say, without a glimmer of doubt in your mind, because you are a narcissitic assclown, "I AM the most awesome".
14. If the aforementioned situation with the glitter-y broken spf-y promises occurs and you have yet to actually examine the damage in a mirror, 1 am is probably not the time to do so. Because you are exhusted. And your sobs will wake the neighbours. In the next town over.
14. If all of this has happened in a 12 hour period, then you really should rethink visiting the Park again this season. Or ever.
Now, please pass the aloe vera. Thanks
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Conclusions I have come to...
As I reflect on my week...
1. It is difficult to take someone in authority seriously when you have just witnessed them (not-so) covertly attempt to make sure that their "barn door" is shut.
(a) This is complicated by the fact that whilst they were checking said door, they adjusted the "animals".
(b) And then tried to shake my hand.
2. I am incapable of holding in a giggle.
3. Or of preventing my mind from wandering to uncomfortable places i.e. Pondering whether he washed his hands the last time he peed and then forgot to zip up his barnyard.
4. Thoughts like those make me giggle more.
5. I use the word Dude. A. Lot.
6. The word "dude" is not always the greeting people expect to receive. In a business professional setting. Or ever, from a prissy girl.
7. I have to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at people. And the HR sexual harassment video tells me why I should.
8. When I put socks on, one is always, always inside out.
9. I never fix them. Ever.
10. I heart animals, but hold the threat of making mittens out of my Mom's cat over her {the cat's, not my Mom's} head.
I have also concluded that if tomorrow wasn't Friday, I would be running away to join the circus.
1. It is difficult to take someone in authority seriously when you have just witnessed them (not-so) covertly attempt to make sure that their "barn door" is shut.
(a) This is complicated by the fact that whilst they were checking said door, they adjusted the "animals".
(b) And then tried to shake my hand.
2. I am incapable of holding in a giggle.
3. Or of preventing my mind from wandering to uncomfortable places i.e. Pondering whether he washed his hands the last time he peed and then forgot to zip up his barnyard.
4. Thoughts like those make me giggle more.
5. I use the word Dude. A. Lot.
6. The word "dude" is not always the greeting people expect to receive. In a business professional setting. Or ever, from a prissy girl.
7. I have to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at people. And the HR sexual harassment video tells me why I should.
8. When I put socks on, one is always, always inside out.
9. I never fix them. Ever.
10. I heart animals, but hold the threat of making mittens out of my Mom's cat over her {the cat's, not my Mom's} head.
I have also concluded that if tomorrow wasn't Friday, I would be running away to join the circus.
Casper the Ghost has got nuttin' on me....
Psssst.....
Wanna know a secret?
Do you?
Do you really?
Promise not to tell a soul?
Swear?
Cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die?
Okay, then.
Here goes.....*ahem*
I am too WHITE for words.
{hangs head in shame}
I know, I know. It's shock-and-awing, a little scandalous, even disappointing, but there she blows, folks. So white it hurts.
And not just in the "My God, Vanilla Ice is like a a verifiable homie compared to her" kind of white.
Nope.
Although I regret to inform you that my street cred is hovering somewhere around Rainbow Brite's. I'm just saying.
Nope.
In the, as I was putting on a skirt this morning and contemplating sandals, and thus omitting nylons, my own legs blinded me, kind of way.
Truly.
I had to squint.
They are almost translucent. Albinos have more pigment that I do currently. It is as though the sun itself is so baffled by the alabaster chalk that is my skin tone at present that it's rays are reflected away in horror.
You know it's bad when you look at Nicole Kidman and think, Damn, girl looks like she's been on va-cay someone sunny, compared to me.
Wanna know a secret?
Do you?
Do you really?
Promise not to tell a soul?
Swear?
Cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die?
Okay, then.
Here goes.....*ahem*
I am too WHITE for words.
{hangs head in shame}
I know, I know. It's shock-and-awing, a little scandalous, even disappointing, but there she blows, folks. So white it hurts.
And not just in the "My God, Vanilla Ice is like a a verifiable homie compared to her" kind of white.
Nope.
Although I regret to inform you that my street cred is hovering somewhere around Rainbow Brite's. I'm just saying.
Nope.
In the, as I was putting on a skirt this morning and contemplating sandals, and thus omitting nylons, my own legs blinded me, kind of way.
Truly.
I had to squint.
They are almost translucent. Albinos have more pigment that I do currently. It is as though the sun itself is so baffled by the alabaster chalk that is my skin tone at present that it's rays are reflected away in horror.
You know it's bad when you look at Nicole Kidman and think, Damn, girl looks like she's been on va-cay someone sunny, compared to me.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Remember Sharon, Lois & Bram?
A little ditty that came to mind this morning.
12 little geese came out to play
Be-tw-een Mom and Dad today
They had such enormous fun
Because Daddy Goose chased Andrea, making her run
11 little geese came out today
Shitting and honking and acting gay
They had such enormous fun
As they watched Daddy attempt to fell a human
10 little geese came out to play
Waddling across the people walkway
They had such enormous fun
Contemplating what Andrea will taste like, with saffron
You get the gist.....
12 little geese came out to play
Be-tw-een Mom and Dad today
They had such enormous fun
Because Daddy Goose chased Andrea, making her run
11 little geese came out today
Shitting and honking and acting gay
They had such enormous fun
As they watched Daddy attempt to fell a human
10 little geese came out to play
Waddling across the people walkway
They had such enormous fun
Contemplating what Andrea will taste like, with saffron
You get the gist.....
Prozzak will have to re-name the song....
Overheard in a classroom this morning....
Person A: "Where would you like to go on vacation this summer, Person B?"?
Person B: "Why Person A, I would really like to travel to Thailand".
Person A: "Person B, that is really interesting. But dangerous; be sure not to travel there during a samosa.
Person B: *............................................*
Person A: "Because they are really dangerous".
Person B: *............................................................*
Person A: "You know, what with all the water"
Person B: "Dude, a samosa is a South Asian pastry, with potato, peas and onions. I think you mean a Tsunami..."
Person A: *.........................................*
It's an easy mistake to make.... *ahem*
Person A: "Where would you like to go on vacation this summer, Person B?"?
Person B: "Why Person A, I would really like to travel to Thailand".
Person A: "Person B, that is really interesting. But dangerous; be sure not to travel there during a samosa.
Person B: *............................................*
Person A: "Because they are really dangerous".
Person B: *............................................................*
Person A: "You know, what with all the water"
Person B: "Dude, a samosa is a South Asian pastry, with potato, peas and onions. I think you mean a Tsunami..."
Person A: *.........................................*
It's an easy mistake to make.... *ahem*
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Smartarded? You decide....
The genius that is me.....
I remembered to bring Tiger Balm Ultra to work. I remembered to bring said balm to the bathroom in order to apply it to my aching, cranky back. I rejoiced in the fact that I was sooooo awesome in the realm of the most awesomely awesome.
Mmmmmm... minty burning that distracts from the oowie.
You know what you should NOT do after you apply the blissful balm?
As you walk towards the sink to wash the balm-y-ness from your hands?
*ahem*
rub. your. eyes.
It actually says that on the back of the tin.
And perhaps I could have read that, if the burning tears of shame-pain weren't streaming down my face.
I remembered to bring Tiger Balm Ultra to work. I remembered to bring said balm to the bathroom in order to apply it to my aching, cranky back. I rejoiced in the fact that I was sooooo awesome in the realm of the most awesomely awesome.
Mmmmmm... minty burning that distracts from the oowie.
You know what you should NOT do after you apply the blissful balm?
As you walk towards the sink to wash the balm-y-ness from your hands?
*ahem*
rub. your. eyes.
It actually says that on the back of the tin.
And perhaps I could have read that, if the burning tears of shame-pain weren't streaming down my face.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Why Mondays should be abolished officially...
Or just in my world.
{a} It was 4 degrees when I sauntered out the door. In a skirt. Sans hose. My goose-bumps had goose-bumps by the time I reached the end of the drive. Reason #312 why I should occasionally check the weather channel. I'm just saying.
{b} It is now 20 plus degrees and I am stuck inside, pressed up against the window, rather like a errant child, grounded for some mis-deed. Or that crazy uncle that your family keeps locked up in the attic. Or something
{c} I wore a long skirt today. Pretty. Flowy. I dipped the back of said skirt into the toilet on my lunch. Luckily, it was pre-pee. Have you ever tried to covertly use the hand-dryer to dry your hem? Just me then? Yeah, thought so.
{d} Leaving your lunch to chance means that the vending machine will be guaranteed to contain only inedible crap. And your tummy will be growling in tune to the "Dueling Banjos". And only when it is utterly silent. Like during a test.
{e} It is as far from Friday as one can possibly be after the weekend.
{f} Because my brain was such a muddled mess due to the inherent Monday-ness of the early o'clock that was my morning, I forgot half the paperwork I meant to bring to the office. But did remember to bring 4 kinds of hand-lotion, 3 novels from my weekend in London and a yogurt that I'm sure I packed last Wednesday. So, high five me.
{g} It is Monday. Nuff said.
{h} I have a headache that cannot be linked to alcohol. WTF? That's just wrong. Maybe I'll have a drink to contemplate the unfairness of that. Or eleventy-seven. Cause then I'd be unconscious until Friday. Or 2009. Whatever. Just pass the daiquiris. Stat.
{i} Have I mentioned the skirt?
{a} It was 4 degrees when I sauntered out the door. In a skirt. Sans hose. My goose-bumps had goose-bumps by the time I reached the end of the drive. Reason #312 why I should occasionally check the weather channel. I'm just saying.
{b} It is now 20 plus degrees and I am stuck inside, pressed up against the window, rather like a errant child, grounded for some mis-deed. Or that crazy uncle that your family keeps locked up in the attic. Or something
{c} I wore a long skirt today. Pretty. Flowy. I dipped the back of said skirt into the toilet on my lunch. Luckily, it was pre-pee. Have you ever tried to covertly use the hand-dryer to dry your hem? Just me then? Yeah, thought so.
{d} Leaving your lunch to chance means that the vending machine will be guaranteed to contain only inedible crap. And your tummy will be growling in tune to the "Dueling Banjos". And only when it is utterly silent. Like during a test.
{e} It is as far from Friday as one can possibly be after the weekend.
{f} Because my brain was such a muddled mess due to the inherent Monday-ness of the early o'clock that was my morning, I forgot half the paperwork I meant to bring to the office. But did remember to bring 4 kinds of hand-lotion, 3 novels from my weekend in London and a yogurt that I'm sure I packed last Wednesday. So, high five me.
{g} It is Monday. Nuff said.
{h} I have a headache that cannot be linked to alcohol. WTF? That's just wrong. Maybe I'll have a drink to contemplate the unfairness of that. Or eleventy-seven. Cause then I'd be unconscious until Friday. Or 2009. Whatever. Just pass the daiquiris. Stat.
{i} Have I mentioned the skirt?
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Crouching Goose, Hidden Devil
I heart Mondays. Also, sarcasm. *sighs*
Yesterday, I had to be at the office by early o'clock. The sun was barely conscious and God only knows I wasn't. The wind stole my breath and my dignity {yes, I was wearing pink panties and yes, half the morning commuters can verify this}. My boots clicked rhythmically to the beat of The Fratellis and I was already mentally consuming copious amounts of caffeine. I rounded the circular entrance-way and reached into my purse for my handy-dandy swipe card only to find that, lo and behold, it was nowhere to be found.
{cover your ears if obscenities offend your sensibilities}
After a brief girlie-stamp-feet-in-dismay-hissyfit-of-epic-proportions, I gathered my composure and began the jaunt {read: hike} around to the other security entrance. This is where my morning took a fateful twist.
I decided to go the scenic route, past a small pond and following a meandering path over a bridge and through a wooded area. Pretty.
Oh, did I mention the geese?
*ahem*
There are geese.
So, off I go, with my boots-a-made-for-walkin', and about 3 minutes into my journey, I am regretting my choice. Because, geese? They shit. Everywhere. But I am nothing if not stubborn, and I'm not about to let some loose bowel-ed goose make me late.
So, step-ity, step-ity, skip. Step-ity, step-ity, swerve. Etc.
And then.
Honk.
I pause.
HONK!
I look to my left and right.
And THEY look back.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Shit-shit-shit-shit. Literally and figuratively.
Two angry shitty geese are glaring at me. With furrowed brows. Yes, geese have eyebrows. Shut up! They do!
HONK!
I am now faced with a dilemma. Do I wait for them to move on or do I make a run for it? Because although I have never seen a goose fell a human on National Geographic, they don't look like they are in the mood to cuddle. Also, the lateness.
HONK! HONK!
I start to run.
HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!
They think I've challenged them to a race.
HONK! HONK!
I run faster.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
They follow suit.
HONK!
I am still hop-scotching over goose-poopies.
HONK! HONK!
They are still hungry for human-flesh.
HONK-HONK-HONK!
Sweet Jesus in heaven, the end of the path is in sight!
Blessed pavement. Sans goose-shit.
*attempts-to-catch-breath*
The geese circle angrily on the perimeter, flapping their feathers in warning lest I think they will forget me anytime soon.
And then I see it.
A sign.
Knocked down by the aforementioned wind gusts of skirt raising proportions.
Geese nesting. Please avoid at all costs.
Duck, duck, goose. Run!
Yesterday, I had to be at the office by early o'clock. The sun was barely conscious and God only knows I wasn't. The wind stole my breath and my dignity {yes, I was wearing pink panties and yes, half the morning commuters can verify this}. My boots clicked rhythmically to the beat of The Fratellis and I was already mentally consuming copious amounts of caffeine. I rounded the circular entrance-way and reached into my purse for my handy-dandy swipe card only to find that, lo and behold, it was nowhere to be found.
{cover your ears if obscenities offend your sensibilities}
After a brief girlie-stamp-feet-in-dismay-hissyfit-of-epic-proportions, I gathered my composure and began the jaunt {read: hike} around to the other security entrance. This is where my morning took a fateful twist.
I decided to go the scenic route, past a small pond and following a meandering path over a bridge and through a wooded area. Pretty.
Oh, did I mention the geese?
*ahem*
There are geese.
So, off I go, with my boots-a-made-for-walkin', and about 3 minutes into my journey, I am regretting my choice. Because, geese? They shit. Everywhere. But I am nothing if not stubborn, and I'm not about to let some loose bowel-ed goose make me late.
So, step-ity, step-ity, skip. Step-ity, step-ity, swerve. Etc.
And then.
Honk.
I pause.
HONK!
I look to my left and right.
And THEY look back.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
Shit-shit-shit-shit. Literally and figuratively.
Two angry shitty geese are glaring at me. With furrowed brows. Yes, geese have eyebrows. Shut up! They do!
HONK!
I am now faced with a dilemma. Do I wait for them to move on or do I make a run for it? Because although I have never seen a goose fell a human on National Geographic, they don't look like they are in the mood to cuddle. Also, the lateness.
HONK! HONK!
I start to run.
HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK-HONK!
They think I've challenged them to a race.
HONK! HONK!
I run faster.
HONK! HONK! HONK!
They follow suit.
HONK!
I am still hop-scotching over goose-poopies.
HONK! HONK!
They are still hungry for human-flesh.
HONK-HONK-HONK!
Sweet Jesus in heaven, the end of the path is in sight!
Blessed pavement. Sans goose-shit.
*attempts-to-catch-breath*
The geese circle angrily on the perimeter, flapping their feathers in warning lest I think they will forget me anytime soon.
And then I see it.
A sign.
Knocked down by the aforementioned wind gusts of skirt raising proportions.
Geese nesting. Please avoid at all costs.
Duck, duck, goose. Run!
Monday, April 16, 2007
Oh Monday.....why do you mock me so?
A math equation.
Severe wind warning
+
Flimsy skirt
-
The common sense God gave cheese
=
My Marilyn Monroe Moment
I see London, I see France....
Severe wind warning
+
Flimsy skirt
-
The common sense God gave cheese
=
My Marilyn Monroe Moment
I see London, I see France....
Friday, April 13, 2007
Why Karaoke is Prolly Not My Calling....
Everytime I hear that song by Fergie...you know that one with Ludacris? I think it's called "Glamorous"? Anyhow, everytime I hear that song...... and this line comes around:
Skippin'
Reminicing
On days when I had a.....
I think that she's going to say "Mustache" instead of "Mustang".
Every. Single. Time.
Which I'm sure partially explains the looks I got on the train the last time I was singing along to my MP3 player....
Skippin'
Reminicing
On days when I had a.....
I think that she's going to say "Mustache" instead of "Mustang".
Every. Single. Time.
Which I'm sure partially explains the looks I got on the train the last time I was singing along to my MP3 player....
I would like Romance for starters, with some Chivallry on the side...
There are so many options, it's hard to choose. Perhaps an entree of Loving Support? But wait....the HotMonkeyKinkySex looks good, too. The Chef recommends what? The Selfless-Wife-&-Mother? Hmm, that sounds fattening. Also, hard to chew. Decisions, decisions.... I'm liking the looks of Partner a la Crime, with a light dressing of Laughter, and maybe a side order of Understanding? You know, that sounds good. I'll wash that all down with a glass of Independence, hold the ice. And, why not? An Orgasm for dessert.
As a result of several conversations with girlfriends in the last few days, I have been pondering the multitude of roles that we juggle in today's dog-eat-dog-but-still-nurture-puppies world. We are expected to seamlessly flow from one position to the next, much like a character from "Chitty Chitty Gang Bang". Breadwinner? No problem. Oh and by the way, when you get home, could you maybe make me a sandwich with that? And while you're at it, could you cut the crusts off for the little ones? And pout whilst you do it all , 'cause that's bringingsexyback, baby.
*sighs*
It's funny to me how desires change. I remember when Destiny's Child came out with the Independence song from the Charlie's Angels movie. To the dismay of my more musically sensitive friends, I hearted the whole I-don't-need-no man-I'll-buy-my-own-Jewels lyrical mess. This was at a time when I was but a poor student, and my ex was the main financial contributor to the household.
The Irony...oh, how she burns.
Much has happened since then. Obviously, the ex is now an ex. I earn my own living, and do so happily. But in a reflective sense, the further I come, the longer the road to fulfillment seems. I want a career, to find my calling and to answer it with all that I have to give. I want to find out what defines me as a person, and to do all that I can to flourish in that regard.
And yet....
I want more.
{Greedy, I know}
This may well set Gloria Steinham's teeth-a-clenchin', but I think I was born to be called out of my name. The word "Mommy" alone makes my ovaries do the rumba. And if my biological clock is ticking, I can only imagine what it must be like for someone who learned to tell time before the 4th Grade {the words you are looking for right now are Idiot Savant. Really.}. Not that I'm ready to answer that particular call. N. told me that she was going to get a plant first and see how that worked into her life. I have killed cacti. Yup, plural. It might behoove me to jump the stop right to CrazyTown and stick a Cabbage Patch doll in a stroller.
But I digress.
Now-a-days, I find myself in a betwixt state of mind, whereby I want to be able to buy my own diamonds, and yet, have them show up in a pretty little box with a card that says "Just because". I know, I know. It's not politically correct, but it's the truth. And I want to be at peace with what I see currently as the conflicting Faces of Me. I'm going to try and quiet the roaring and listen to the embers.
In the meantime.....
I want to be able to make the dinner {sans kitchen fire} and have someone acknowledge the effort. I also want them to do the dishes afterwards, because really? Grey's Anatomy is on, and I'm not your Mother.
Oh, and can I take HotMonkeyKinkySex home in a doggy bag?
As a result of several conversations with girlfriends in the last few days, I have been pondering the multitude of roles that we juggle in today's dog-eat-dog-but-still-nurture-puppies world. We are expected to seamlessly flow from one position to the next, much like a character from "Chitty Chitty Gang Bang". Breadwinner? No problem. Oh and by the way, when you get home, could you maybe make me a sandwich with that? And while you're at it, could you cut the crusts off for the little ones? And pout whilst you do it all , 'cause that's bringingsexyback, baby.
*sighs*
It's funny to me how desires change. I remember when Destiny's Child came out with the Independence song from the Charlie's Angels movie. To the dismay of my more musically sensitive friends, I hearted the whole I-don't-need-no man-I'll-buy-my-own-Jewels lyrical mess. This was at a time when I was but a poor student, and my ex was the main financial contributor to the household.
The Irony...oh, how she burns.
Much has happened since then. Obviously, the ex is now an ex. I earn my own living, and do so happily. But in a reflective sense, the further I come, the longer the road to fulfillment seems. I want a career, to find my calling and to answer it with all that I have to give. I want to find out what defines me as a person, and to do all that I can to flourish in that regard.
And yet....
I want more.
{Greedy, I know}
This may well set Gloria Steinham's teeth-a-clenchin', but I think I was born to be called out of my name. The word "Mommy" alone makes my ovaries do the rumba. And if my biological clock is ticking, I can only imagine what it must be like for someone who learned to tell time before the 4th Grade {the words you are looking for right now are Idiot Savant. Really.}. Not that I'm ready to answer that particular call. N. told me that she was going to get a plant first and see how that worked into her life. I have killed cacti. Yup, plural. It might behoove me to jump the stop right to CrazyTown and stick a Cabbage Patch doll in a stroller.
But I digress.
Now-a-days, I find myself in a betwixt state of mind, whereby I want to be able to buy my own diamonds, and yet, have them show up in a pretty little box with a card that says "Just because". I know, I know. It's not politically correct, but it's the truth. And I want to be at peace with what I see currently as the conflicting Faces of Me. I'm going to try and quiet the roaring and listen to the embers.
In the meantime.....
I want to be able to make the dinner {sans kitchen fire} and have someone acknowledge the effort. I also want them to do the dishes afterwards, because really? Grey's Anatomy is on, and I'm not your Mother.
Oh, and can I take HotMonkeyKinkySex home in a doggy bag?
Thursday, April 12, 2007
A random D-ism...
On wearing a slutty top:
"Cleavage is a must when one is going to the bar. How will the boys know the house is on the market if you don't put a For Sale sign on the front lawn?".
Makes me wonder what showing your ass crack is saying about the "property"...
"Cleavage is a must when one is going to the bar. How will the boys know the house is on the market if you don't put a For Sale sign on the front lawn?".
Makes me wonder what showing your ass crack is saying about the "property"...
Monday, April 9, 2007
Get down off the cross..... we need the wood for the fire.
{Note: Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved}
The Date: Easter Sunday. Yes, that is correct; the day that Jesus miraculously walked out of the Cave of Death {doesn't that sound like a super-villain's lair?} after having died for our sins to rise again.
The Place: A living room, which may or may not {confidentially speaking} be located in my parents home.
The Scene: Night-time. The TV is blaring {possibly due to the fact that the man we'll call "The Cranky Buddha" is defiantly ignoring the fact that his hearing has All Gone Pete Tong} and a woman, whom we shall call "He said F" and whose name might very well rhyme with "calm" is watching "Extreme Makeover: The Home Edition".
The Show: Ty Pennington is comforting a portly single mother of two as she parades him around the shabby cardboard box that her family have been forced to inhabit after a nasty divorce. Her lips are blue and her teeth chatter as she points out the cling-wrap covered wall that was Wizard-of-Oz-ed over a year ago. Her heart is visibly heavy as she leads the crew into the Bathroom-That-Plumbing-Forgot and explains that the toilet doesn't flush and that her children are too embarrassed to have friends over lest they witness the shame. The camera shakes as it's handler is overcome with emotion.
The Point: It's tragic. Your heart bleeds for this woman. You think "Goodness, there but by the grace of God go I". You want to scoop up the whole family and kiss their boo-boo's. At least, that's what I was thinking.
The Comment: "He said F" {who in all fairness is one of the most giving, loving people one could be blessed to know} watches this unfold and turns to me, as I wipe the tears from my eyes and says "Well, they certainly aren't hungry. If I were her, I would cut the grocery bill in half, and get a plumber in".
The Response: After I choked on the disillusionment that comes when you realize that the person who may or may not be your "rhymes-with-calm" is actually a heartless Harpie, I laughed until my cheeks hurt from the effort. Because you have to respect that kind of logic. Even if it is Easter and you are an Irish Catholic.
What would Jesus do?
The Date: Easter Sunday. Yes, that is correct; the day that Jesus miraculously walked out of the Cave of Death {doesn't that sound like a super-villain's lair?} after having died for our sins to rise again.
The Place: A living room, which may or may not {confidentially speaking} be located in my parents home.
The Scene: Night-time. The TV is blaring {possibly due to the fact that the man we'll call "The Cranky Buddha" is defiantly ignoring the fact that his hearing has All Gone Pete Tong} and a woman, whom we shall call "He said F" and whose name might very well rhyme with "calm" is watching "Extreme Makeover: The Home Edition".
The Show: Ty Pennington is comforting a portly single mother of two as she parades him around the shabby cardboard box that her family have been forced to inhabit after a nasty divorce. Her lips are blue and her teeth chatter as she points out the cling-wrap covered wall that was Wizard-of-Oz-ed over a year ago. Her heart is visibly heavy as she leads the crew into the Bathroom-That-Plumbing-Forgot and explains that the toilet doesn't flush and that her children are too embarrassed to have friends over lest they witness the shame. The camera shakes as it's handler is overcome with emotion.
The Point: It's tragic. Your heart bleeds for this woman. You think "Goodness, there but by the grace of God go I". You want to scoop up the whole family and kiss their boo-boo's. At least, that's what I was thinking.
The Comment: "He said F" {who in all fairness is one of the most giving, loving people one could be blessed to know} watches this unfold and turns to me, as I wipe the tears from my eyes and says "Well, they certainly aren't hungry. If I were her, I would cut the grocery bill in half, and get a plumber in".
The Response: After I choked on the disillusionment that comes when you realize that the person who may or may not be your "rhymes-with-calm" is actually a heartless Harpie, I laughed until my cheeks hurt from the effort. Because you have to respect that kind of logic. Even if it is Easter and you are an Irish Catholic.
What would Jesus do?
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Pee-Pee versus Va-jay-jay
N: What do you think of P.'s motives?
Me: It all boils down to three ultimate goals for men. Money. Sex. Superiority.
N: OK, I get the first two. What do you mean by superiority?
Me: The quest to see whose pee-pee is larger, metaphorically speaking. Actually, literally as well..
N: Well, seeing as I don't have a pee-pee, I guess he wins that one.
Me: I guess.
N: But my existential pee-pee is much bigger than his.
Me: Existentially, you are most definately the better man.
Score
Va-jay-jay: 1
Pee-Pee: 0
Me: It all boils down to three ultimate goals for men. Money. Sex. Superiority.
N: OK, I get the first two. What do you mean by superiority?
Me: The quest to see whose pee-pee is larger, metaphorically speaking. Actually, literally as well..
N: Well, seeing as I don't have a pee-pee, I guess he wins that one.
Me: I guess.
N: But my existential pee-pee is much bigger than his.
Me: Existentially, you are most definately the better man.
Score
Va-jay-jay: 1
Pee-Pee: 0
Friday, April 6, 2007
3 minutes later....
Me: Are all strippers beautiful?
Boy: {drifting back into the Land of Nod}
Me: Well?
Boy: {musters up the verbal ability to cuss me under his breath}
Me: I'm waiting.
Boy: They are like stage hookers. Are hookers beautiful?
Me: I'm sure they are on the inside.
'Cause strippers are people too......
Boy: {drifting back into the Land of Nod}
Me: Well?
Boy: {musters up the verbal ability to cuss me under his breath}
Me: I'm waiting.
Boy: They are like stage hookers. Are hookers beautiful?
Me: I'm sure they are on the inside.
'Cause strippers are people too......
Pillow Talk....
{The darkness abounds at 5:15 am on the Good Friday no-work-cause-Jesus-is-dead-Holiday}
Boy: My body is telling me it's time to get up.
Me: mwafffk?
Boy: Yup, yup it is.
Me: Well, tell it to shutitsmouth...
And do it quietly, some of us are trying to sleep.
Boy: My body is telling me it's time to get up.
Me: mwafffk?
Boy: Yup, yup it is.
Me: Well, tell it to shutitsmouth...
And do it quietly, some of us are trying to sleep.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Wide awake at 2 am...
Things that scare me:
- spiders
- leggings
- sharks
- mispronounced words
- zombies
- driving
A terrifying scenario:
Me driving, whilst wearing leggings, and a zombie walking out onto the road, humming the theme song from "Jaws", as I scream "Please...someone help me...I can't find my niTch in life" as I feel the beady stare of 8 eyeballs.
Oh, Freud. I hurt your coke-addled head, don't I?
Because socially. I. am adept?
Break-up lines I have actually thought about using:
It's not me. It's so you. Seriously.
Ummm, yeah, I like don't even want to be your friend.
Leave me the fuck alone.
You smell.
911?
Thanks-for-the-drink-go-fuck-yourself. love, me.
You know, something kind....
It's not me. It's so you. Seriously.
Ummm, yeah, I like don't even want to be your friend.
Leave me the fuck alone.
You smell.
911?
Thanks-for-the-drink-go-fuck-yourself. love, me.
You know, something kind....
What emotionally damaged sounds like...
This is a perfect example of how someone who lives for words can be utterly inadequate at expressing herself when emotions are involved. I have a fine history of open-mouth-insert-foot syndrome and sadly, it continues to this day. I'm sure it prolly has a little something to do with my, ummm, spectacular relationship track record {married "special", dated "special", have the t-shirt} but seriously? This borders on the ridiculous.
Picture it:
Awhile ago. My place. The Couch. With Random boy. Not Boy. A crappy horror movie is playing on the DVD, & I am watching it from behind a pillow {because I am cool like that...}
Me: OMG! WTF. That's just not necessary to the plot line. K, that's just grody.
Him: Did you really just say grody?
Me: Wanna make something of it?
Him: Maybe.
Me: You feeling lucky punk?
Him: You look nothing like Clint Eastwood, dork.
Me: Ya, well, nerd.
Him: Why are you calling me a nerd?
Me: Because.
Him: Because?
Me: Just because.
Him: OK.
Me: OK, then.
Him: Andrea?
Me: Random boy?
Him: I love you.
Me: *splutters* and then FUCKING LAUGHS.
Him: Umm, why are you laughing?
Me: *.....................* {crickets can be heard}
Him: Andrea?
Me: *.......................*{chirp}
Him: Did I say something wrong?
Me: *coughs*. No, no, it's OK. But ummmm, really? Maybe not.
Him: Ummmm, so....
Me: {looking back at the TV} Now THAT is also grody.
Him: *..........................*
Jiminy Cricket is so my wing man....
Picture it:
Awhile ago. My place. The Couch. With Random boy. Not Boy. A crappy horror movie is playing on the DVD, & I am watching it from behind a pillow {because I am cool like that...}
Me: OMG! WTF. That's just not necessary to the plot line. K, that's just grody.
Him: Did you really just say grody?
Me: Wanna make something of it?
Him: Maybe.
Me: You feeling lucky punk?
Him: You look nothing like Clint Eastwood, dork.
Me: Ya, well, nerd.
Him: Why are you calling me a nerd?
Me: Because.
Him: Because?
Me: Just because.
Him: OK.
Me: OK, then.
Him: Andrea?
Me: Random boy?
Him: I love you.
Me: *splutters* and then FUCKING LAUGHS.
Him: Umm, why are you laughing?
Me: *.....................* {crickets can be heard}
Him: Andrea?
Me: *.......................*{chirp}
Him: Did I say something wrong?
Me: *coughs*. No, no, it's OK. But ummmm, really? Maybe not.
Him: Ummmm, so....
Me: {looking back at the TV} Now THAT is also grody.
Him: *..........................*
Jiminy Cricket is so my wing man....
Monday, March 26, 2007
The Adult Crush.
That's today's quandary. And yes, it needs to be Capitalized. For in today's global climate of political chaos, preventable diseases and untold human suffering, it is often difficult to establish just where your priorities lie. Obviously, I am a shallow, narcissistic asshat. Or something. But this issue has reared its LA-Gear-wearing, Tiffany-listening, side-pony-tail-sporting, NKOTB-obsessed-head lately, and I thought that I might explore it here for a moment. Remember when it was simple to establish if someone liked you or not? A boy would pull your hair and ask you to marry him in one fell swoop. The girls would gaggle together in a seething mass of giggles and coyly glance at the "stud" with the rats-tail and the kicky Nike Pumps and you'd be "going out" by the end of recess. *sighs*
Oh the me of yester-year.... If I had the chance, would I tell the Me of Then what lies in the imminent future? Would I kill the innocence that lay in the belief that the boy you love at 15 might not be who you would still love at 20-something? That the big bad "D" word might not be such a sucktastic thing? That you might be dating again in your late 20's after having been so far out of the game for so long that not only do you not remember the rules, but you're kind of hazy on the concept as a whole?
Which brings me back {finally} to the original query: the A.C.
What happens when you like a boy and you are sort of beyond the stage where it's kosher to send your bestest friend over with a note asking him
"Do you like me or like like me? Check yes or no.".
And by beyond that stage, I mean that people your age have kids who are actually AT that stage. *sighs* And what happens if this person is not so much in your current social circle, but rather someone who is a throwback to days gone by?
Do you:
(a) Covet him from afar, secretly holding on to hope that he will embody the concept of osmosis and figure it out for himself?
(b) Cyber stalk him on Facebook, Classmates or some other such venue? {more to come on this topic, people}
(c) Try and figure out a way to finagle an accidental-on-purpose meeting in order to test your theory that kismet has you and him k-i-s-s-i-n-g-ing in a tree?
(d) Create a diversion, and pretend that it's all a dream? A sordid, slutty dream. {*ahem, N*}
(e) Act like the grown-up you are not and pick up the telephone like a functioning member of society?
Oh the me of yester-year.... If I had the chance, would I tell the Me of Then what lies in the imminent future? Would I kill the innocence that lay in the belief that the boy you love at 15 might not be who you would still love at 20-something? That the big bad "D" word might not be such a sucktastic thing? That you might be dating again in your late 20's after having been so far out of the game for so long that not only do you not remember the rules, but you're kind of hazy on the concept as a whole?
Which brings me back {finally} to the original query: the A.C.
What happens when you like a boy and you are sort of beyond the stage where it's kosher to send your bestest friend over with a note asking him
"Do you like me or like like me? Check yes or no.".
And by beyond that stage, I mean that people your age have kids who are actually AT that stage. *sighs* And what happens if this person is not so much in your current social circle, but rather someone who is a throwback to days gone by?
Do you:
(a) Covet him from afar, secretly holding on to hope that he will embody the concept of osmosis and figure it out for himself?
(b) Cyber stalk him on Facebook, Classmates or some other such venue? {more to come on this topic, people}
(c) Try and figure out a way to finagle an accidental-on-purpose meeting in order to test your theory that kismet has you and him k-i-s-s-i-n-g-ing in a tree?
(d) Create a diversion, and pretend that it's all a dream? A sordid, slutty dream. {*ahem, N*}
(e) Act like the grown-up you are not and pick up the telephone like a functioning member of society?
I'm torn between (a) & (b). You?
Friday, March 9, 2007
Boo & Hiss...
Did you know that it was March Break?
Did you?
Because if you did and you thought it would be all snickery not to tell me that "outside" would be virtually infested with sniffling, flu-ridden, sticky-handed, bad-attituded un-accompanied minors, I will hunt you down and play you my epic tape collection {think Colour Me Bad and Dino and commence the crying now}.
Did I mention that those minors gobbled up all the Via Rail tickets to Kitchener? Now, you might say something moronic like, perhaps Andrea, it would have behooved you to look into the ticket thing before today. But then, as I believe I have mentioned, you would be le moron, because when do I ever do anything before the very lastest minute? The answer: never, Alex, never.
I do not work well until the pressure is at a lava-flowing-and-eclipsing-Pompeii-in-a-fireball kind of level.
*sighs*
I have to go....I smell burning.....
Did you?
Because if you did and you thought it would be all snickery not to tell me that "outside" would be virtually infested with sniffling, flu-ridden, sticky-handed, bad-attituded un-accompanied minors, I will hunt you down and play you my epic tape collection {think Colour Me Bad and Dino and commence the crying now}.
Did I mention that those minors gobbled up all the Via Rail tickets to Kitchener? Now, you might say something moronic like, perhaps Andrea, it would have behooved you to look into the ticket thing before today. But then, as I believe I have mentioned, you would be le moron, because when do I ever do anything before the very lastest minute? The answer: never, Alex, never.
I do not work well until the pressure is at a lava-flowing-and-eclipsing-Pompeii-in-a-fireball kind of level.
*sighs*
I have to go....I smell burning.....
Missing: one internal compass......
Oh and btw, if you should find it, please pick it up and put it in your pocket and hand it to me directly, because God only knows that I will not be able to understand your directions. Now, I firmly believe that we all have talents, some more than others {and to be generous, I count simply breathing some days}, but understanding the whole "Directionality" concept is not one of mine. And although I am fond of the giggle, love me my funny, I am so not joking here. Note the distinct lack of jest in my tone. When I say that I am geographically challenged, people, I really mean that I should be confined to the short bus. With a harness.
Last night, I was attempting to give Boy directions to D.'s house so that we can go to London from there. And because she has known me for longer that the requisite minute, she knew that this was a challenge that I was incapable of rising to. As I was perusing the e-mail that she forwarded on, I was struck by just how ignorant I actually am when it comes to having a clue where things are. Now, I lived in KW for years {years, people...}, & except for that unfortunate hermit-esque phase, I went out. Did things. In places, even. And yet, I have NO idea where anything is.
These are actual conversations that I have had in the past week or so. Behold, it is I, Dumbass...
Boy: What road are we on?
Me: Ummm {gives him a condescending look}, this one. *sighs*
Boy: Where is the sushi place that you wanted to go to?
Me: It's on, well, near the road that goes to Square One {bonus points for location}, in a strip mall {high five me!}, near a grocery store with green in the sign {this is going downhill...}
Boy: Green, you say? Any idea what the restaurant is called?
Me: Something Japanese-y?
Boy: *beats head off dashboard in abject horror*
Me: Are you coming down to B-dot?
Boy: You mean up, asshat. {he may or may not have actually used that "term of endearment" but we all know that's what he was thinking}
Me: {all confused and doe-eyed} No, down.
Boy: *sighs* Oh, Andrea. B-dot is up from London. Actually, it is North and slightly ...{I begin to hear show-tunes in my head as a defence mechanism to protect my brain from the impending hemorrhage}
Me: So you are up-down from me?
Boy: {looks around for the shot-gun to put "me" out of his misery}. Oh Andrea
Oh, Andrea, indeed....
Last night, I was attempting to give Boy directions to D.'s house so that we can go to London from there. And because she has known me for longer that the requisite minute, she knew that this was a challenge that I was incapable of rising to. As I was perusing the e-mail that she forwarded on, I was struck by just how ignorant I actually am when it comes to having a clue where things are. Now, I lived in KW for years {years, people...}, & except for that unfortunate hermit-esque phase, I went out. Did things. In places, even. And yet, I have NO idea where anything is.
These are actual conversations that I have had in the past week or so. Behold, it is I, Dumbass...
Boy: What road are we on?
Me: Ummm {gives him a condescending look}, this one. *sighs*
Boy: Where is the sushi place that you wanted to go to?
Me: It's on, well, near the road that goes to Square One {bonus points for location}, in a strip mall {high five me!}, near a grocery store with green in the sign {this is going downhill...}
Boy: Green, you say? Any idea what the restaurant is called?
Me: Something Japanese-y?
Boy: *beats head off dashboard in abject horror*
Me: Are you coming down to B-dot?
Boy: You mean up, asshat. {he may or may not have actually used that "term of endearment" but we all know that's what he was thinking}
Me: {all confused and doe-eyed} No, down.
Boy: *sighs* Oh, Andrea. B-dot is up from London. Actually, it is North and slightly ...{I begin to hear show-tunes in my head as a defence mechanism to protect my brain from the impending hemorrhage}
Me: So you are up-down from me?
Boy: {looks around for the shot-gun to put "me" out of his misery}. Oh Andrea
Oh, Andrea, indeed....
Thursday, March 8, 2007
To break the proverbial ice....
And so, this quest begins. I'm wicked late to this game, which wouldn't surprise anyone who knows me, as I am capable of bringing the concept of time to it's knees. I have toyed around with the idea of keeping some sort of a written journal since I was about ten, and am going to give this another shot. I was a little prejudiced against the whole "compy" concept thing for a long time but as I am a convenience whore, this appeals to me more and more. So, I guess we shall see.
The following is going to make me sound, ummmm, slightly cynical {in the same way George Bush sounds slightly in need of a helmet and a drool guard} but in truth, the concept of love is not sullied for me. I'm at the point in my life where I believe that love exists but it's a far cry from the roses-and-candy-hearts-i-love-you-no-i-love-you-more kind of shit that naively was once my mantra.
From: N.
To: A. & W. & G & L.
Subject: From the WTF files
"Wishing you ever-lasting love and all the magic it brings"
a co-worker wrote this in a card to another co-worker who's getting married.
From: W
To: N. & A. & G. & L
Subject: From the WTF files
…Yak
From: N.
To: W & A & G. & L.
....i know. i'm feeling fairly queasy myself..
From:A.
To: N. & W. & G. & L.
That's like an "I just vomited a little in my mouth at your over-indulgent Hallmark-happy delusional verbal nonsense" kind of a moment, no? Magic? Not quite the word I would have used.
How about: I wish you patience and tolerance and all the ulcers that marriage will bring.
Or this gem: I wish you deafness and all the peace that it will bring.
Or even: I wish you sarcasm and the ability to wield a knife, and all the pleasure that might bring.
I am such a shining example of positivity today. Am almost glowing with the spirit of unity. *ahem*
Grins.
Andrea xoxox
From: N.
To: A.
I like your best-wishes sentiments better - truer to life than little miss fairy-dust over there...
From: A.
To: N.
I'm just hoping it was written by a single person or a newlywed, otherwise that shit isn't fairy dust... it's crack.
From: N.
To: A.
possibly a crack snorting single person or newlywed...
From: A
To: N
It's not only possible...it's probable.
It is truly a disgrace that we pump unsuspecting wedding happy people up with crack induced advice like this.
How about something helpful like:
You may still love them, but liking them? It comes and goes.
You will sit across the breakfast table from them and wonder: is it possible to gauge their eyes out with a mini-wheat?
And forget about running to them, arms out-stretched in a field of sunflowers to the tune of some cheesy 80's love ballad. After attempting to move furniture in a shared space, it's more like running, screaming, through a parking lot filled with broken glass to the tune of Marilyn Manson.
I certainly would have found that helpful at 18. Magic, my ass.
Love,
Andrea
Me, jaded? Never.....
The following is going to make me sound, ummmm, slightly cynical {in the same way George Bush sounds slightly in need of a helmet and a drool guard} but in truth, the concept of love is not sullied for me. I'm at the point in my life where I believe that love exists but it's a far cry from the roses-and-candy-hearts-i-love-you-no-i-love-you-more kind of shit that naively was once my mantra.
From: N.
To: A. & W. & G & L.
Subject: From the WTF files
"Wishing you ever-lasting love and all the magic it brings"
a co-worker wrote this in a card to another co-worker who's getting married.
From: W
To: N. & A. & G. & L
Subject: From the WTF files
…Yak
From: N.
To: W & A & G. & L.
....i know. i'm feeling fairly queasy myself..
From:A.
To: N. & W. & G. & L.
That's like an "I just vomited a little in my mouth at your over-indulgent Hallmark-happy delusional verbal nonsense" kind of a moment, no? Magic? Not quite the word I would have used.
How about: I wish you patience and tolerance and all the ulcers that marriage will bring.
Or this gem: I wish you deafness and all the peace that it will bring.
Or even: I wish you sarcasm and the ability to wield a knife, and all the pleasure that might bring.
I am such a shining example of positivity today. Am almost glowing with the spirit of unity. *ahem*
Grins.
Andrea xoxox
From: N.
To: A.
I like your best-wishes sentiments better - truer to life than little miss fairy-dust over there...
From: A.
To: N.
I'm just hoping it was written by a single person or a newlywed, otherwise that shit isn't fairy dust... it's crack.
From: N.
To: A.
possibly a crack snorting single person or newlywed...
From: A
To: N
It's not only possible...it's probable.
It is truly a disgrace that we pump unsuspecting wedding happy people up with crack induced advice like this.
How about something helpful like:
You may still love them, but liking them? It comes and goes.
You will sit across the breakfast table from them and wonder: is it possible to gauge their eyes out with a mini-wheat?
And forget about running to them, arms out-stretched in a field of sunflowers to the tune of some cheesy 80's love ballad. After attempting to move furniture in a shared space, it's more like running, screaming, through a parking lot filled with broken glass to the tune of Marilyn Manson.
I certainly would have found that helpful at 18. Magic, my ass.
Love,
Andrea
Me, jaded? Never.....
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