Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Validation for the Crazy

You know how people are supposed to be like snowflakes - no two are ever the same (except for identical twins)? And how within one person's genetic and aesthetic make-up, symmetry is a scarcity among the physical attributes? I'm concerned that I'm one of those people who maybe take that to the next level. I am starting to notice some things about myself that are making me feel a little uneasy. For example, I have this pair of shoes I wear around the office that include a velcro strap (yes, apparently I am a 5 year old). The strap on my left foot consistantly comes undone, while the strap on my right foot stays securely in place. What do I deduce from this? Instead of a rational thought like maybe the velcro straps were uneven, I assume that my left foot is fatter than my right and the shoe just can't contain it. (Incidentally, I need to be very aware of who I share this theory with because I happened to mention it to a coworker when she pointed out the loose strap, and she seemed to not know what to do or say in response. Oops).
I've also noticed that the bottom of my my right pantleg only gets all salty from the snow salt. Instead of chalking that up to the probability that it's due to driving and resting my right foot on the back of its heel and thus transferring the salt from the bottom of my shoe to the pantleg, I assume that it's all because my right leg is shorter than my left. I am also of the belief that the weight of my boobs is going to result in the development of a hunchback (because surely a hunchback won't develop from my piss-poor posture), and so when combined with the gait of having one leg shorter than the other and one foot fatter than the other (of which the eventual weight of said foot might cause one to drag it), I'm going to end up looking like this:

Ryan? Eat your heart out.

Remember when I talked about my bathroom phobias and you all thought I was crazy? This week, my 'crazy' was validated when a coworker was telling a group of us over the lunch hour about her husband's coworker who was recently 'encouraged' to retire after it had been discovered he had a camera set up in his bathroom, where business clients and coworkers were known to be when they paid a visit to his home office. How was this discovered? When a neighbour down the street picked up the feed of the home video on the camera in his truck that's supposed to show the area outside of the vehicle. I can't say for certain, but where do you think he hid that camera? I'm guessing the ceiling fan was a probability. Let me hear you say it; "Loony - you were right."
The unfortunate thing, is that once one crazy is validated, it progresses to the next level. When it comes to my bathroom conspiracy, I am no longer just worried about the living watching me pee...


No shit you guys - I mean, how are you supposed to hide from that? A stall without an overhead grate or built-in floor drain won't protect me from supernatural perverts wanting to catch glimpses of my cha cha. We are all totally screwed.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Intruder Alert

In keeping up with my promise to continue going to the gym, I've decided to start taking advantage of some of the classes that are available...even the ones I thought to be a little hokey. First, there was the Zumba class - a dancey kind of class with latin inspiration that left me feeling like I was in one of Shakira's music video's with a room full of women in their 40's and 50's. It was a hectic day leading up to that class and after having stayed late at work I had little time to effectively prepare for the class and even arrived 2 minutes into it. When participating in a class of the fitness variety, I refuse to be up at the front because something about people behind me makes me nervous. Fortunately, I scored a spot at the far right side of the room, in a poorly lit area (bonus!). I realized almost instantaneously that I had donned the wrong underwear for this particular activity as I could feel it riding with each swivel of my hips. Knowing full well that I had a VPL issue, I was thankful to have secured a spot in the room where this would not be noticed aside from the individual directly behind me. This being my first Zumba class however I was not aware of the fact that the instructor not only makes everyone rotate angles so that each of the three people around me (one beside, one infront and one behind) got a view of the VPL, but the instructor herself also moves around the room. This means that for a period of time I was technically at the front of the room with my VPL for all to see with emphasis on that particular location thanks to the hip-swinging activities I was forced into. I had to make a difficult decision - to allow my fellow Zumbanian's to see the dreaded VPL or to have them see me 'fix it' by subtly removing the underwear from between my cheeks. VPL - you win.

The next class was a yoga/tai chi infusion which I've been quite honestly fearful of trying due to the degree of bare-footedness that takes place. I decided to buck up and give it a shot, with the promise to myself that I would keep my socks on and do my best to focus on my discomfort with the physical activity as opposed to the discomfort with all the naked feet in my surroundings. Just as class is about to begin, one of my favourite teachers from my high school days comes walking up to me (as I'm all disheveled and grubby) looking fantastic in her yoga garb. We spend a few minutes catching up before the class begins, where naturally, she's at the front of the room and I'm hiding out in the back corner. Things get started and I notice that my balance is well...not existent, while she's doing all the advanced moves. You may be thinking that she was at the front of the room, so it's no big deal - she wouldn't know how bad I sucked, right? Well, the mirrors all over the frickin' room ensured she got to see even the most embarrassing moments, such as when I was trying to do something like this:

Only imagine doing that and leaning forward so your chest is on your thigh. Now take the arm opposite to the leg you're laying on, and put the elbow of that arm on the ground infront of your chin with your fist up by your face. Then take your opposite arm, raise that elbow up to the ceiling and use that hand to cup the fist of your other hand (then sing the alphabet backwards while simultaneously finding a cure for cancer and coming up with the most complex mathematical question known to man). I was just getting into this pose when the instructor said to try and look up towards the ceiling once in position....this resulted in one fluid movement that caused me to not only reach the optimal position, but to keep on rolling until I was right on my back. Of course this was also a time/position when my former music teacher/yoga guru from up front happened to be facing my direction and I'm confident I heard her (among others) stifle a laugh, since no one else seemed to have the troubles I did. (I bet ten million to one that you all will go home tonight or leave your computer right now to try this position...and those of you who have the same problem as me will sympathize, and those of you who master it will judge us. Jerks.)
Incidentally, I left the class uncomfortably sweaty and woke up the next morning feeling like I had been kicked in the ribs. I'll be going back next week.

* * * * *

This week Ryan and I are watching the house, kids and pets (2 of the three dogs and one cat) belonging to my Aunt and Uncle while they're off on vacation. We really kicked it off with a bang so to speak. Saturday afternoon we assumed custody of all that my Aunt and Uncle hold dear out in an isolated little town. The afternoon was pretty standard for a Saturday, and we weren't having any problems - until about 2:30am when Ryan and I awoke to the dogs going insane. He and I both run downstairs to see what they're going so crazy about, when I realize two things:
1. The dog is barking viciously - and aiming his aggression at the door from the garage into the house.
2. This is when I realized that while on the way downstairs I heard a door close after hearing a guys voice saying the dogs name, obviously trying to calm it down (Unfortunately, I was the only one to hear this). I assumed it was the 16 year old sneaking out (or back in), or one of his buddies sneaking out.
As I hear the garage door closing, Ryan sees a figure out on the street infront of the house and he opens up the door and calls out the name of the 16 year old, but the guy says "It's Shane. I closed the door." (FYI - the 16 year old's name is not Shane). Content that it wasn't our guy sneaking out he shuts the door. I watched the guy walk down the street and felt unsure about what to do with the situation since the guy could've been a friend of one of the boys, but both boys slept through the whole incident.
The next morning we ask some questions, and find out that the guy who was IN THE HOUSE at 2:30 in the morning was one of the drunk neighbours, and that the 16 year old had left the garage door open when he went out for a smoke after Ryan and I had gone to bed. Apparently in this subdivision, an open garage means "Please, walk into my house.". I ask you, what does it say about a guy who will walk into a house at 2:30am when the vehicles of the people who live there are not there, and this is barking viciously at you:

Although maybe the guy got off easy. I'm finding that sometimes it's hard to tell what's worse - the threat of a dog (that's mostly Bull Mastiff) wanting to rip out your throat, or the wrath of a 16 year old who's feeling a "little" defensive because you told him to do his homework. I think the teenager will soon find out that the real danger is a PMS'ing woman with little tolerance for academic slacking.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

A Disturbing State of Affairs

Having only started my job a month ago, I've been intentionally a little 'restrained' so as not to scare my coworkers with my perverse unique personality. Basically, my plan was to wait until after my probation period was up so that they would be stuck with me before knowing what they got themselves into. My fears were put at ease however when my coworkers showed me this on Friday morning:

The health unit has taken a more unique approach to sex education, using such characters as (from right to left):

Captain Condom - a scientist devoted to creating the perfect condom, but was caught in a horrible lab explosion and is now spending his days as half man, half condom. His special power? Being able to stretch to any size - and when used correctly is 98% effective.

Power Pap - Our first heroine who had a close call with an STI and now advocates pap smears for one and all! Her x-ray vision allows her to spot your crabs and gonorrhea from a mile away!

Willy the Kid - who reminds us that size doesn't matter as long as you are have rock hard strength.

Wonder Vag - who promotes abstinence and can readily spot the skeevy horndogs with her lie-detecting abilities.

Together they combat: The Sperminator

Seriously, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. You can fight penis-hands Sperminator here, but lord help you if you answer incorrectly as you'll get hit in the face with a wad of STI-loaded sperm.

And for your viewing pleasure: (not appropriate for viewing on your work computer...under most circumstances)


My in-laws always joke that my sister-in-law is really the product of an afternoon with her mom and the milkman. That joke will forever make me think of this video - at which point I will realize I don't need to know that much about my mother-in-law.

And finally, because you never know....

On a regular basis I'd say I'm pretty oblivious to things in my environment unless I am intentionally focused on them. Despite what you may or may not think, I chalk it up to the fact that I've got too much going on mentally to allow myself to be sidetracked with trivial things that might get picked up in my peripheral vision. Occassionally however, something will break through my concentration barrier. Sometimes these things are real, and sometimes they are not. For example, this is real:

But instead of seeing it for what it was, I saw it as what I wanted it to be, which was this:

Everyday for the past month I have been driving past this sign fantasizing about what this Crap Mask could possibly look like. Let's note shall we, that not once did I question whether or not a "Crap Mask" was a real thing or question what it would be used for (by sane individuals), but I suspect it would be something like this:

Remember in school when you learned that in the days of war when chemical bombs would be utilized, soldiers were encouraged to pee on a rag and put it up to their face to protect themselves from gas? This is the next level.

No word of a lie, this was what I envisioned every day, until the one time I was driving past this sign in the car with Ryan. When I excitedly pointed out this sign I had told him so much about, my crap-mask dreams were shattered when I realized it wasn't referring to poop at all. I suppose it would be hard to keep the poop in a cohesive coil against your face for it to be effective as a mask. *Sigh* I guess the urine will have to do. Or, you know...maybe a gas mask that doesn't involve use of excretory waste?

Ultimately it was my decision to join the gym, and when Ryan and I had a conversation one day about his role in my fitness endeavours he was ready to take on the task. Ryan's job is to encourage me to continue actually going to the gym. I don't think he knew what he was up against.

My Top 25 Reasons for NOT Going to the Gym (note, some are reasonable, and the rest? Well...)

1. It's too hot.
2. It's too cold.
3. It's the perfect temperature - why waste my time in the gym when I could be* outdoors?
(* could be, but probably won't be)
4. I just washed my hair - I don't want to get it sweaty.
5. I didn't drink enough water today OR I drank too much water today and thus will have to leave my machine every 10 minutes to pee.
6. I ate really well today and thus don't feel the need to work out.
7. I ate like crap today, and thus will feel nautious if I exert myself too hard.
8. There's too many people at the gym.
9. There's not enough people at the gym, and thus people are likely to watch me more since their alternatives for people-watching are limited.
10. I left early because the guy beside me smelled like B.O. I mean really bad.
11. I had chili for lunch today and I might smell really bad.
12. I went to the gym yesterday, and thus don't need to go today.
13. I went to the gym yesterday, and thus I can't move today.
14. It's Saturday.
15. It's Sunday.
16. It's a holiday.
17. Well, I want to do a spin class but it doesn't start until 5:30 and I'm not going to work out for an hour before spin class and then do the class, but once I come home I'm not going to head back out to spin class later.
18. I feel too fat for the gym today.
19. I forgot socks, shoes, the "right" bra, shirt, pants, deodorant, ipod, headphones, entire gym bag, sweat towel, water bottle, etc
20. I have no way to put my hair up.
21. I'm having too good a hair day today to ruin it at the gym.
22. I'm cramping.
23. I've got my period.
24. I just finished my period.
25. I just don't feel like going, and I don't care if you're disappointed. (often my mindset when reason #23 is a factor.)

All I can say is I feel sorry for the poor guy having to go up against that, because really? You just can't win. I do love him for trying though.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

You win some, You lose some

You Win Some:

Previous posts from my previous blog, and I'm sure future posts on this blog, will highlight the fact that I don't have many "traditional" fears. My fears stem from things like people watching me pee from cameras in either the floor drain or ceiling fan in public washrooms. More recently I have been focused on my fear of elevators. Ryan and I recently moved into an apartment building where taking the elevator is often a requirement for us since hauling a 10 year old dog or arms loaded with groceries up to the sixth floor is not always an option. In the past when visiting friends who lived on the 9th or 10th floor of their buildings, I would opt to take the stairs, even if I was in heels in the dead of summer, traipsing through an unconditioned stairwell. The elevators in our new building caught my eye from day one. We were moving into the apartment on December 29th, and the licenses for the elevators were set to expire on January 15th. Utilizing elevators that were so close to their "expiration" was alarming for me. I'm not good with expiration dates. I seem to take them a little too literally in the sense that days before the expiration date, I'll treat the item like it's coated in the bubonic plague (yes, another non-tradtional fear. See?)
Not only that, but the licenses were a little suspect. Normally elevator licenses will have the logo/emblem of the Technical Standards Safety Association (sorry - here's the 'Safety' in me just comin' out!)- the organization who sets the standards for what makes an elevator 'ok'. These licenses did not have any such thing, and in fact looked like something the Superintendent had typed up on his home computer on January 14th 2009. (Although in discussions with other passengers where I spread my elevator paranoia by telling them about how an average of SIX people per year die due to elevator malfunctions, and how we could be 3 of those 6 in this elevator, right now, I discovered that these cheapo licenses didn't even go up until late March, which tells me that these were certainly impostor licenses.)
Something had to be done. Immediately.
The next day I contacted my dear TSSA and totally ratted my Superintendent out with an e-mail that read something like this:

"Dear TSSA Administrator,
I would like to bring to your attention the fact that my Superintendent is trying to kill me, or rather, trying to kill us all by posting phony-bologna licenses in the elevators. Even worse, he can't even fake it right, as the existing phony licenses are also expired. I strongly advise you to pay a visit to all buildings owned by this company, but please come to my location first. All those stairs might be great for my ass, but my husband likes my curves so I can't take these stairs forever you know. Also, please do not impose a serious fine on the building as I don't want to see the rental rates go up next year. If you must, impose a jail term in lieu of a monetary fine. Can you guys do that?
Best Regards,
Tight-Ass Tenant

I was starting to get a little concerned when I never received a response to my eloquent e-mail. Then I started to get pissed. I mentioned DEATH in the e-mail - if that doesn't warrant a response from these people, I'm not sure what will.
On the verge of writing another notice to them about the ongoing neglect and compromise of lives and sanity in my building, I walked in the elevator last week to find this:

I'd call that a win.

You Lose Some:

At the end of January I caved in and joined the gym, which as my post from that time will tell you, it wasn't something that was wholeheartedly planned. Being a new location and all, it only opened for business at the end of last week, and they wasted no time with me, no time. Friday was the first day open for workouts and they had me in there right after work Friday afternoon meeting with a trainer for the dreaded assessment. This time was a different experience though. Last year they tried to tell me about the benefits of training, but of course only after breaking down my spirit and making me feel equivalent to that big fat thing from Star Wars.
This year however, they brought out the big guns. I met with Christa at 4:30 and for about 2 hours she totally led me on. At first it seemed like she was genuine when she said that I seem to know what I'm doing (or rather, what I should be doing) - and I was optimistic that when I told her training was not going to be for me, she'd be more accepting of it knowing that I have the knowledge to handle things on my own. She was merely playing along and trying to manipulate me into believing she was an actual empathetic human and not a sales-obsessed leech. I was unaware of this when the physical assessment took place. She stood by me talking to me like she wanted to be friends while I pedaled away on the little bike with the mounted TV on it. She laughed when I complained about how the guys hovering around the mats were just trying to get a good show when I was doing push-ups and planks and my shirt hung down to the ground. She even spoke with a lot of "if's" when going through what she would do for me as my trainer "IF" I were to decide I wanted one. She told me she'd be very excited about working with me. Then she stabbed me in the heart. She brought out the big guns. Christa? Is evil. This little doozy eliminated the need for Christa to break my spirit, as this was easily completed when it provided me with a print out of my stats (BMI, Body Fat %, etc) - it was essentially a souvenir of my fat. After seeing my numbers I thought to myself "Shit, I need a whole team of trainers!", and so we talked her numbers. Her numbers were higher. Apparently, our dear Christa has some pretty high standards, and the price tag to match. She required a minimum of 48 sessions with me, at a cost of a mere $3000. Then, she told me that realistically she would need to see me 152 times in a one year period - for the door crashing price of $7500.
Sorry Christa. I may hate my fat, but I hate giving you my money even more. You lose.

Christa's Replacement:

According to the reviews, this is designed to keep one motivated and offer guidance during weight loss endeavours, blah blah blah. Sorry Christa, I have replaced the need for you with a $30 book.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Welcome to my New Home

Welcome welcome one and all! As you can see I have transferred my blog from the diaryland site to well...here. Diaryland is another 3rd party service provider where I started my blogging, but honestly, the relationship just wasn't working out for me. Diaryland couldn't give me what I wanted, what I needed. I'd say 'c'mon baby...you know how I like it", and diaryland would say "uh, no I don't." and roll over and fall asleep. Basically, Diaryland was a proverbial cock tease and so I've moved on to a service provider that appears to put out more. The first few posts will undoubtedly be representative of a first date where we're just starting to get to know each other...and so essentially, awkward. But please bare with me.

Similar to when I started my site at diaryland, I feel as though I need to clear something up for anyone who stumbles across this page. My name is "LoonyBin"...but I must assure you all that I'm not certifiably loony, nor have I ever been. (although some people who know me may choose to debate this last statement). Mental institutions are a foreign environment for me, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this fact holds true until I'm at least 45 indefinitely. The name actually stems from a childhood nickname with a monetary meaning (loonie - the Canadian dollar), but turned into a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy as admittedly, sometimes my thoughts and throught processes are a little questionable. I believe what I write here will be sufficient proof of that over time, but I'll try to not let it all out at once.

So last night at a house party we got a little too wild and broke out the Loaded Questions which quickly turned into "give the most perverse and distrubing answer you could think of". Unsurprisingly, it appears as though the most disturbing answer of the night award went to yours truly, but I'm hesitant to post what it was on here because I'm sure the Feds would totally have me flagged for it. Seriously. In a separate question altogether that asked something animal related, my response was "Tapir - because of it's freaky long, jointed penis". Nobody knew what the hell I was talking about. And so, because of this, I am going to educate you all on the Tapir - and by educate, I mean show you pictures of the greatly-endowed beast that has received next to no attention for his 'gift'.

An image of the Tapir before being turned
on. Nothing too special, right?

No shit you guys - that thing is touching
the ground.

I am petitioning that we change the term from "hung like a horse" to "hung like a tapir", because honestly, this is not too impressive anymore. Who's with me? Please feel free to leave comments about other well-endowed animals that we should all be familiar with and idolizing.

One of the questions asked last night was something to the effect of what reward would you offer employees to motivate them to do a good job. Answers included, motorboating, paying for prostitutes, sex with the boss, etc. My husband's employer? Not on the same page...

This was Ryan's reward for kickin' ass and taking names. Seriously, the guy rocks at his job and this was his reward. His Christmas bonus this year? Was a revised commission rate so he still had to work his ass off for that. I think I know what a certain someone will be getting for Christmas this year!

NOTE: Opinions expressed in this post are a true representation of reality solely those of the blogger and not of the blogger's husband.