Wednesday, November 2, 2011

No hunny, you can't go to the exotic massage parlor

I am constantly hearing stories from other women and complete strangers that marriage is the pits, and men are generally the cause.  My husband seems to (so far) be the exception to a lot of rules, and I am truly thankful for that.
There are times though, when he'll say something to make me question how much of (or at least what kind of) an exception he really is. 

For example:

The last two and a half months I've been driving him to work in the mornings and picking him up at the end of the workday.  His work site is located about 200ft away from an ethanol plant with multiple silos the size of large office buildings, each filled with an alarming volume of flammable liquid.  Apparently, this went unnoticed by him until quite recently when on our morning drive he proclaimed "Huh - that is a large ethanol plant right by my work.  If that thing blows up, I'm a goner.".  I was concerned by the alarm in his voice as it indicated this may have been his first time even noticing the giant combustible building we had driven past nearly a hundred times already.  It took me a while, but I eventually realized what may have had his brain so occupied that he was oblivious to his daily proximity to the ethanol plant.  A little further down the street is a strip club, which was no surprise to us at the time.  What was surprising though was the discovery of the "exotic massage parlor" which is located right next door.  What was even more surprising was the fact that he didn't get whip-lash when saying "Yeah??!?!?!" and suddenly craning his neck in an unnatural direction to confirm the existence of the rub-n-tug after we drove by.  I'm secretly wondering if by the time we get to the ethanol plant he's so focused on trying to come up with viable excuses to have the car (and thus freedom to make a stop on the way home) that he's never actually noticed the plant. 
Hunny - if you're reading this?  The answer is no.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Insert Foot In Mouth

Do you ever suffer from foot-in-mouth disease?  What about writer's remorse?  I am plagued by both on a pretty regular basis, and I'm going with that as my excuse for my absence for nearly two months.

I've noticed that lately I just don't know how to keep my mouth shut.  It's not that I blab the secrets of others or participate in gossip...I just honestly can not stop running my mouth.  I will decide that I want to keep something to myself even if just for just a few days, but do you think I can do it?  Not a chance.  It's like my brain decides that hey, maybe not everyone needs to know my business all the time, but that filter between the brain and the mouth is entirely disconnected.  Before I know it, I actually hear myself saying the very words I swore I wouldn't speak out-loud.  My brain is simultaneously shouting at me "YOU IDIOT!  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!  WE WEREN'T GOING TO TALK ABOUT THAT.  EVER!"
Now sometimes I may decide I don't want to nor should I speak because there's risk that my words may come across as insulting.  Sometimes it's because I know I have a habit of saying the first thing that comes to mind and always come up with something better when it's too late.  Mostly it's because I realize that I've had a lot of stressful things going on in my life lately and that when I discuss these things with individuals, it makes me sound either very negative, or a little bit sociopathic.  I haven't decided which.  Either way?  It's not good.

Prime example:
My anxiety has been flaring up a bit recently (something I'm sure I'll elaborate on in a future entry), and I've noticed that one of many themes to this anxiety centralizes around the fear of someone breaking into my house to kidnap/murder me and quite likely the Husband too.   So when Hubby suggests that we go see "Straw Dogs" and I end up asking him to please explain again what the movie is about, I have to gently point out that going to see a movie which involves a young couple battling crazy townies who are breaking into their house to kill them might not be a great idea for me right now.    Upon reflecting why I'm so unnecessarily focused on people breaking in I have a flashback to a point in my childhood where a friend and a cousin and I are having a sleepover on the floor of a bedroom in my aunt's house.  There's a weird shadow being cast on the wall, and I painstakingly spend a great deal of time trying to convince the girls I'm with, that the shadow is of a man with a pointy nose and a hat who is on a ladder outside of our second-floor window waiting for us to fall asleep so that he can break in and steal us.  I had them convinced to the point of tears.  I was about 8 years old.
So when today at work while my colleagues and I were sitting at our respective work stations working quietly and diligently I felt the need to share this story?  I DON'T KNOW.  Why I'm sharing this on the internet?  Well, that brings me to my next affliction....

Writers remorse.

I'm quite confident we've all suffered from this at one point or another.  Remember when you were a kid and how you kept a diary where all you and your boy-obsessed brain could write about was who you had a crush on and how you were destined for wedded bliss and babies with a fast car and a mansion?  No?  Alright, the cheese stands alone.
I remember looking back in that diary or through notes shared with girlfriends and thinking "My God.  If this is part of what being a pre-pubescent girl is about, then I want sons.".

It is for this reason I have been avoiding the blog, facebook, and any social media in which my foot-in-mouth can be formatted online for anyone to see.  We've been experiencing some "issues", one of which will be causing us to go to court in the near future.  The rage and frustration over this situation with a negligent contractor has me nearly bursting at the seams.  Since there is the ever apparent likelihood that we will be moving forward with a court case, I've been hesitant to write for fear that I will say or do something that could come back to bite us in the ass at some point during this process.

So please, forgive my absence these past two months.  Don't hesitate to distract me from my living hell by sharing embarrassing examples of when you've suffered from foot-in-mouth or writers remorse.  We're aiming for a "make Loony feel good by comparison".

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Happy Birthday

They say that with every year you not only get older, you get wiser.  Little did I know that one derives a lot of wisdom on the actual day of her birthday and not just over the twelve months that follow.

Let me preface my birthday tales with this: I don't fear aging.  Maybe I'm too young to fear it, or maybe I'm too intrigued by the later years to be hesitant about their arrival.  Either way, the actual act of turning another year older doesn't make me itch - it's the expectations surrounding a birthday that make me want to claw my skin off.  It feels almost reminiscent of New Years Eve.  Everyone wants to know what you're doing to celebrate the big day, and if you have somewhat ordinary plans you receive that knowing head tilt and "ohhh" that reeks of pity.  It's clear that those who are judging your plans (or lack thereof), believe that you're not wanting to celebrate because you're in denial about turning yet another year older.

Let me tell you something; just because I didn't actively make plans, doesn't mean the plans didn't seek me out.  There were definitely some surprises...

Surprise #1

With my birthday falling on a weekday, of course I went to the office.  I was surprised to find that some coworkers had beautifully decorated my workspace for the occassion and my boss brought in an array of cheesecake flavours to choose from (the super awesome part about this is that they didn't even know that cheesecake is my favourite, but it was chosen because they know that I'm weird with food and textures/texture combination's, so they felt cheesecake would be the safest bet.  Good choice ladies!).  Also, another coworker outside of our department brought in some celebratory timbits to keep it on the "safe side" after learning of my weird food things (maybe I should do a post on the weird food fixations I have???).

An entirely different group of coworkers serenaded me with the "Happy Birthday" song in our building's cafeteria and presented me with a birthday breakfast muffin which included a homemade candle in the middle (made of a yellow post-it, and red pen to symbolize the open flame we're not allowed to have in the office building).

What I learned from surprise #1: 
Sometimes the people you work with are more than just the people you work with.  The unexpected celebration of me by my friends from work was probably the most heartwarming part of my whole day.  Normally, one does not put that kind of expectation on her coworkers, so it truly was a wonderful surprise.

Surprise #2

The Husband picked me up from work since I didn't want to spend my birthday getting sweaty from a walk or a bike ride to-from work (aka: it's my birthday and I'll whine about physical activity if I want to!).  We get home to discover that after having started the process of switching Toby's foods, his digestive tract had turned a little rebellious.  As soon as I walked in the door, I could smell something was amiss.  As soon as the Husband could see that Toby was in his cage facing the "wrong way", he knew something was amiss.  As soon as we both got to the kitchen and saw the dog poop EVERYWHERE, it was pretty evident something was most definitely amiss.  My Darling Husband thought Toby just had the runs and couldn't hold it any longer, however, I knew better.  The patterns of poop splatter told me that Toby had, without a doubt, sharted

The multi-directional splatter indicated that Toby was facing his regular way and farted, but when he felt something come shooting out of his back end like water through a hose, he turned around in a panic as if to say "What the hell was that?!".  That's when it either happened again to a much smaller-scale, or it was an ongoing shart and his turning around was merely providing a sprinkler effect.  (Why do so many of my blog posts contain poop talk?!)  We had poop splatter all over the floor, all over the wall, all over his cage, and worst yet, all over Toby.

Do you have any idea what it's like bathing a 115lb dog (or small horse) who is terrified of the hose?  My greater concern was no longer getting a little sweaty on my birthday. 

What I learned from Surprise #2: 
1.  Having a sick dog is very much like having a sick baby who's the size of, has the same attitude as and produces the same amount of poop as a 13 or 14 year old.
2.  I missed my calling as a crime scene investigator.  No one can read poop splatter quite like I can.

UPDATE:  I failed to mention that I also learned I'm a TERRIBLE mother as I could not help but laugh hysterically when the Husband and I watched from the window as our poor dog was suffering from constipation and would assume "the pose" with no effect.  Again, picture a giant dog, back arched, butt facing down, and tail over 2 ft long jetting straight out as he looks around waiting for something to happen.  When he had no success he'd walk forward two feet and try again.  It looked so goofy and I think if I didn't laugh at the situation I'd cry.

Surprise #3

The progression of social media tools has changed the rules of social etiquette (an argument that has no-doubt been overdone by countless people over the short but eventful lifespan of Facebook, Twitter, etc).  While on the one hand you receive countless messages of well-wishing from people you haven't spoken to or seen (in-person) for years, those who may carry the social expectation to call you or see you determine that sending you an electronic message along with the masses meets their obligation.  Is this an issue of circumstance?  Convenience?  Does it reflect a subtle change in the direction of your relationship with that person - the equivalent of a demotion in relationship status?  Or does it basically all even out in the wash and one should just be happy she got anything?

What I learned from Surprise #3: 
1.  The "me me me" mentality of a birthday can cause one to become slightly hypocritical.  On one hand I complained about the inflated expectations surrounding the celebration of a birthday, and when I felt that what celebration did take place wasn't quite enough I considered it as a reflection of my existential status. 
2.  As a result of point #1, I need drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.

I guess now I know what to ask for for Christmas :)

Sunday, August 28, 2011

The Time I Got Someone Else's Poop In My Eye

My dad's biological mom lives out on the east coast, and has for the majority of my life.  It's pretty routine that she and her husband Ed come to visit every two years.  Generally, they would spend one week or so with Ed's kids, and then a week at my dad's house before starting the trek back home.  During those formative years when living with my dad, I would obviously be present for the visits with Grandma and Ed.  It didn't take long for me to form a negative opinion of Grandma's husband, and being the person that I am, I naturally made it clear that there were things about him I did not approve of.

The first time this happened I was home with Ed and Grandma (who, by the way is the SWEETEST WOMAN EVER), and it was approaching lunchtime.  Ed decides he's hungry.  Ed turns to Grandma and tells her that he wants a sandwich.  Knowing that Grandma is more than ready to promptly get up and make his sandwich for him, I am quick to notify Ed that if he's hungry there's deli meat in the fridge and the bread is in the cupboard.  When Ed gives me a dirty look, Grandma gets up and makes his sandwich.  She puts it on the dining table, we all sit down together and eat (I made my own sandwich thankyouverymuch).  As soon as Ed finishes, he gets up, leaves his dishes at the table for Grandma to put away and proceeds to walk past the dishwasher.  I alert him to the fact that since clearly his legs and arms aren't broken, and since he has to pass the dishwasher anyways, he's certainly capable of taking his own dishes and putting them in the dishwasher since Grandma was kind enough to make his lunch for him.  It worked.  Several similar circumstances have occurred over the years, which have taught Ed that I do not tolerate seeing him treat my Grandma like his servant.  Not once do I ever see him get her a drink or a snack or ask her if she needs anything, but he expects her to be at his beckon call. 

A couple weeks ago, Grandma and Ed came for a visit, and this time, they stayed at our house for a night.  True to form, Ed tried to get Grandma to do everything for him, short of wiping his ass.  To be honest, I'd have preferred if he got her to do that for him, because then maybe I wouldn't have contracted PINK EYE.

Ed got his revenge.  Knowing he was on my turf, he was in prime position to engage in some subtle biological warfare to retaliate against my  modern-day, woman's-lib mentality.  He decided to stop washing his hands after using the facilities, spreading his fecal bacteria on countless surfaces.  I think I can say with confidence that I contracted the conjunctivitis when electing to do my make-up at the dining table so that Grandma could have the bathroom.  After using the facilities myself, I washed my hands, grabbed my makeup bag and headed off to the table where I was touching my eye.  My mistake was not washing my hands again after opening up the bathroom door.

Do you know what it feels like knowing that your eye is discoloured because you have someone else's poop in your eye?  Even worse when you know precisely whose poop it was, and it comes from someone who should not only know better, but was actively trying to get you all worked up the whole time he was in your home?

This is an 82 year old man who found it appropriate to wear nothing but tighty whitey's as pajamas and walk around the house that way with no intentions to cover up.  *Shudder*.

Grandma,  you're welcome back anytime - but next visit?  Let's have you leave Ed and his dirty hands at home, yes?

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Scarred for Life


Some things you just can't unsee.

I'm pretty sure I just brushed the top three layers off of my tongue to make sure it doesn't look like this.  Maybe you should too.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Kill the zombie turkeys by masturbating with the stolen used-underwear

Those who know me in the real-world understand that I choose to live in a "bubble" that consequently leaves me oblivious to current issues.  I find the news to be too depressing, and I get quite rageful when the news anchor goes from talking about some gruesome and tragic death to a light-hearted story about a water-skiing squirrel.  When I'm eventually murdered or die in some sort of freak-news-worthy accident, please kill the news anchor who reports on it then follows up with a weather report where they complain that it's too hot, too cold, too wet, etc.  Unless it's armaggedon, that asshole has nothing to complain about compared to the tragic-loss of yours-truly.

When it comes to newsprint, I generally stay away from my city's paper because (according to what I heard from other well-informed individuals), our local journalists are about as talented and insightful as a drug addict in withdrawl (no offence to any addicts reading this...).

One day this week though, I went to the local newspaper's website to discover the following hot-topics deemed news-worthy (aka, front page) for my area:

First, let me please say that I live in a CITY.  We don't generally have free-range turkeys running about.  What concerns me is the follow-up which states that a turkey flew into a pickup truck and caused damage.  What the hell kind of fucked up turkeys are these?!?!  I'm thinking that they are in fact ZOMBIE TURKEYS, and thus the title should read "Zombie Turkeys Coming to 'Gobble Gobble' Your Brains"
Way to fail us all, local journalists.

More interestingly, and hopefully much less fatal is the front-page story about the stolen underwear.  Why does this make the news????  Unless it's been discovered that used underwear doubles as a suitable weapon against the zombie-turkey apocalypse, then I don't want to know about the panty-fetish of one of my fellow citizens.

I think we know who stole the underwear...
Can we please note that story #1 is about a tragic death, followed by a story about masturbating.  I believe I'll call this a case-in-point. 

Back to the bubble I go...

Friday, July 1, 2011

**UPDATED: And this is why I don't play sports.

As indicated by my last post, I may not be much in the kitchen, but I try to be a good wife where it counts...the golf course.  To celebrate Canada's birthday, the husband asked if I would like to join him in a round of golf to which I agreed, thinking this is the perfect opportunity to work on my tan.

He comes from a family of obsessed avid golfers, and I?  Well, I'm trying to adjust as best I can.  The thing is?  I don't like things I'm not good at - and when you're playing with people who kick-ass, you feel like someone should take one of your irons and beat you with it to put you out of your misery, and to simultaneously give the club the best action it's seen all day.

Today however I didn't really care how poorly I was playing because,well....

This is your heel.

This is your heel on golf.
What the fuck?!

The worst part about this is that I didn't even get to pop it myself.  Popping and peeling is the only respectable thing about bubble blisters - especially one that size.  The stupid thing popped and peeled itself with the support of my sock and golf shoe, who were also the culprits of said blister.  I feel like I've been robbed.

This kind of shit?  This is why I don't play sports, my friends.


This has become the blister 2 days later.  This?  Is not attractive.

Undomestic Goddess

I will never be considered a Stepford wife, possibly much to my husband's dismay.

Last week a woman at work brought in some banana bread and brownies for the rest of us to gorge ourselves on.  She almost instantly started identifying the 'flaws' of her baking, pointing out that it's too dry (which it wasn' was delicious, and quite frankly? Beggars can't be choosers).  At one point she even mentioned that her hubby commented on the dryness of the baked goods.  When I almost choked on brownie upon hearing this she explained that it was because he has gotten used to a certain standard when it comes to her baking, and can now readily identify anything that doesn't make the grade.  This?  Is her first mistake.  Her second mistake is baking anything from scratch.  If it doesn't come from a box, I don't know what to do with it.

It seems as though subconsciously my approach has been to bake as little as possible so that husband appreciates the few times that baking does take place, regardless of how bad said baking might be.

 Unfortunately for him, the same approach applies to cooking.  Every week I generate a meal plan that outlines what our dinners will be.  Sometimes the execution of this meal plan is a little lacking and it takes little to no effort to support a plan for ordering in or dining out.   For the most part, the meals cooked at home are simple - partially to accommodate my equivalent 5-year old palate, and partially to accommodate my/our laziness.  Once in a while I will take on a 'big' meal - a vat of chili, a cauldron of spaghetti...but even these satiate my rebellion against domesticity as I know that this one-time commitment to preparation will provide enough excess to feed us for a week or two.  And indeed it does.

I honestly and truly can not wait for the day that we bring in enough income to justify paying people to clean up after us.  Don't get me wrong - we don't live in filth or thrive in squalor, but when I have time to be at home, I can most likely be found curled up on the love seat reading young-adult-pornography.  Mind you when that glorious day comes and the cleaning staff are on their way to our doorstep, I will most likely be found cleaning because I couldn't possibly have the cleaning-people thinking that we keep a dirty house.

Not every Stepford wife will be top of the charts in the looks department, but it certainly isn't for lack of trying.  The dedication to grooming, accessorizing and keeping up appearances seems exhausting.  If I'm not going to or coming from somewhere, darling husband is most likely looking at a wife who looks like she just got electrocuted thanks to the frizzy hair and yesterdays make-up relocating about an inch lower than where I initially put it on.  It may also be a few days before I remember what that razor and tall slim aerosol can in the bathroom caddy is to be used for.  I wouldn't say that I'm an Amazon, but "smooth as a baby's bottom" would rarely be a term used to describe me.

Despite these things, husband stays by my side.  We just celebrated our 2 year wedding anniversary (9 years together) in a last week at the all-romantic zoo (a place where a teacher-friend of mine recently said "Oh!  I just took my grade 2's there last week!").  Stay tuned for a re-enactment of the zoo festivities using "grow-your-own-safari-animals".

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Quit Forcing Your Committment On Me, Blogger.

I have recently discovered that the domain host for my blog is forcing me into commitment with other blogs that share the domain.  What does this mean?  If I read your blog and I like what I see, and I think I'd like to see more, then I decide I want to "follow" you.  I will now receive an update anytime you post a new blog entry.  The concept of following is eerily beautiful as it satisfies my addiction to stalk people have an endless supply of entertaining reads that I can conquer with a minimal time commitment.  I feel I need to explain to concept of "following" to you dear readers, since only 8 of you follow me, but I know there are more of you.  Remember...I can see you.
(*Sidenote:  I feel that last sentence reaked of the desperation one would expect from a woman who writes to men in prison on a life-sentence, looking for love.  Or, perhaps more appropriately, someone who goes on "The Bachelor".  BURN!)

Where was I?  Oh yes...being raped by commitment.  I was always under the impression that when you choose to "follow" a fellow blogger there is not the expectation that this is a lifetime commitment, but apparently I was mistaken.  As a prime example, a few months back I read "The Happiness Project".  Going into it, I thought it seemed like a wonderful idea to follow the author's blog to compliment what I was going to be reading in the book.  By the time I got to the second chapter, I knew that the book and the blog were not for my taste.  Gretchen and her 'Happiness Project' needed to go (How can anyone buy into a mentality that reads:  husband doesn't clean, wife nags husband to get him to help out around house, husband and wife not happy about the nagging, solution is for wife to just do all of the things she would've otherwise nagged husband about, husband now not expected to help out and blissfully happy nagging has stopped, wife's new chores involve whatever the warden dictates after she's imprisoned for killing husband). 

So the damage had been done - I had already chosen to be a follower.  Unfortunately, this little sheep has not found a way to stray from the rest of the flock.  Blogger seems to taunt me with the option to Manage the blogs that I follow, but does not want to give me the option to delete or "un-follow" anyone who I mistakenly and perhaps blindly followed for even the shortest period of time.  Quite possibly the worst part is that blogger claims to give you the option to delete.  I follow the instructions to the letter (there I am, following again), and it turns out Blogger is just a big fat phony...the steps lead me to a dead end.

Now, everytime I log into my account I find Gretchen's blog titles that plague me with bad advice.  
Suffer for fifteen Minutes? Only if I read that post!
Cultivate a Shrine? Leads me to believe she's trying to start a cult.  A Happiness cult - a name that is very misleading...not unlike Fellowship of the Sun, those murderous son-of-a-bitches.
7 Tips To Arrive on Time?  Tell that to my period. Just Kidding! 
Do You Fall Into the Trap of Overthinking?  I think this post is proof enough of that.   
Re-Evaluate Your Mantra?  How about re-evaluate my 'following' criteria?

Damn you, Blogger!

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Should I be alarmed that the porn sites came to me?

For those of you unfamiliar with the "behind the scenes" of the blogging world, there are sites or features of certain blog sites that let you see how people came across your blog.  I can learn what "searches" people have done on their search engine when they found themselves at my blog (ie: "being watched in the shower"), I can see what site they're coming from (i.e. the people coming over from Bloggess's website - I see you...), and I can even learn what country people are checking in from (I'm increasing in popularity in Russia!).

Now, I'm sure you can imagine that aside from some of the searches (ie: again, "being watched in the shower"), you would expect that all the other pieces of information I could get from this sort of resource would be pretty wholesome and harmless, right?  Well, if you read the title of this post, then you'd know this is entirely wrong.

A new site came up on my "Referring Sites" (which means someone linked over to my blog from this site).  DO NOT GO TO THIS LINK:  (There, I didn't even link it up...but I bet you copied it and pasted it into your url bar didn't you, you naughty minx?!)  For those of you that went to the link (because I know most of you did), I have to ask if you were aware that the arrow of morality is apparently a penis?  Because I sure didn't.

I like to think that despite some of my risque drawings of the "boobiscope" or the  drawings of naked me and my naked hubby hiding behind curtains, my blog is relatively SFW, and thus should not really be associated with "arrow of morality" - unless of course they're wanting to get some Tapir's in on the action and came to my blog for a little research.  So what's up with the porn site seeking me out??  I feel a little violated.

For the other bloggers out there reading this, have you had something similar happen to you?  Is this like the new "spam"?  Are computers now being programed to make hits on unsuspected blogs where the sweet, naive blogger will visit the site to learn more about their newest reader, only to discover close ups of crotches?

Sunday, April 3, 2011

I Always Felt Like I Was Being Watched In The Shower. Now I Know Why.

In February 2010 I quietly referenced my fear of being watched while using the bathroom - more specifically, public bathrooms.  I had theories that perverts had so stealthily installed spy-cams in the floor drains or ceiling-mounted air vents to watch unsuspecting women wipe their asses.  For this reason, I would strictly observe the floor drain/ceiling vent situation in any public bathroom before choosing a stall to use.  Some people laughed at me for this - that is until my theory was validated from a woman at work who's husband's coworker was fired for installing a camera in his bathroom.  He had a home office and clients would come to his house and ultimately use his bathroom during their visit, unknowingly giving him a taped performance.  A nearby neighbour had a truck with video technology in it to show the driver what was behind the truck when backing up.  One morning, the driver of this truck was looking at the screen expecting to see images of the road, when what he got was images of his neighbour's wife taking a deuce in her bathroom.

So back to my fears.  They focus not only on using the toilet, but also bathing, and understandably so.  I've never been one to use the showers at the gym, and call me extreme, but I am uncomfortable showering in other people's homes.  I never suspected though that I would have this kind of problem in my own house.
Everytime I shower I feel like I'm in this episode of The Simpsons, only without so many donuts:

The first face I see in the showers every morning?

I think I'm a little insulted that he always looks so startled at my nakedness.  This is basically the expression I carry on my face whenever looking at those "People of Walmart" e-mails.  Especially the one where the lady in the shorts has her catheter bag strapped to her calf.  *shudder*

About a foot and a half to the right of Homer is this guy:

This guy is a little terrifying.  I can't tell if he's pleased to see what he sees or if he's trying to stifle laughter.  Either way, it gives me the heebie jeebies.

Finally, I see a number of faces that look like this:

I refer to these faces as the "Lost Souls". 
I'm quite confident that between the faces of Homer and the Devil on the shower curtain, and these "Lost Souls" in the shower tiles, my shower is actually hell-on-earth despite its spacious beauty. 

Ryan doesn't see them.  This concerns me because I suspect they only surface when I'm showering.  I have a hard time dealing with the fact that souls are potentially punished by being forced to watch me shower.  *sigh*

Monday, March 21, 2011

And this is why I don't take you anywhere.

A few days ago in a major department store:

Me: Okay, we've got your deodorant, we've got my face wash.  Is that all we need?

Ryan:  Hmmm...Oh!  Douche gel!

*awkward looks from people in the immediate vacinity*

What he was referring to was this:

What I'm pretty sure they thought he was referring to?

Thanks hunny - now these people think I have problems down there.

A real entry coming soon....I promise.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

How I Discovered My Boob Is A Periscope For My Bladder

For most married couples, the honeymoon is a wonderful time in which you celebrate the life-long commitment you've just made to one another.  Having taken our honeymoon in Rome during the hottest time of the year, our honeymoon was a true learning experience for us Ryan .  It didn't take long for him to piece together that heat + cobblestone + hunger = a dramatic and savage version of the women he thought he married. What he also didn't know was that when none of the above elements were satisfied within a reasonable time frame, I turned into a brilliantly creative soul who could formulate theories on a scale comparable to Einstein himself.

My most notable postulate while on our honeymoon came to me one night as we were returning to our hotel room after a day of touring the city (please refer to the equation noted above for an accurate idea as to what this would look like).
We came to the start of a street which ended right outside our hotel - a direct and straight path to our hotel's doorstep.  We had been out and about for some time, and throughout the day I had made the decision to subject myself to the "self-cleaning" bathrooms in the metro's grungy underground.  The bathrooms that are perpetually wet and generate a need to simultaneously hover over the toilet seat, hold your pants up so they don't make contact with the diluted pee-puddle at your feet, while also balancing your purse.  Imagine then performing the above mentioned tasks while wiping yourself.  Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I really had to go.

It was only half an hour after using this pee-trap that we came to the street leading right to our hotel.  There it was, 500 meters into the horizon.  I knew I was looking forward to a nice cold shower before we trekked back out in search of dinner.  What I wasn't expecting however was the sudden burning desire to use the toilet.  How could this be, I wondered. 

It was only half an hour before that I had attained sweet (albeit acrobatic) relief in the bathroom after getting off the subway.  In my hot and hungry haze, it came to me.  Like my life flashing before my eyes, I saw images of all the times I arrived home, regardless of where I had been or how long I had been gone.  Whenever I 'm within sight of the place I consider 'home' I  feel a sudden and urgent need to pee so strong I have to gallop to the bathroom like a lame horse with my knees crossed. 

When I stated this observation to my new and slightly concerned* husband (*see image above), he claimed it was the result of temperature fluctuation between the extreme heat outside and the air-conditioned refrigerator we called our hotel room.   Since my urgent-urination was not a concern when going into stores or to other people's homes, I blew his theory out of the water.  The answer was obvious -  my left boob is a periscope for my bladder. 

If you can believe it, Ryan wasn't eager to believe this theory.  It's taken a little convincing, and to be honest, I think he's just humoring me with the smile-and-nod response I seem to get whenever I mention the boobiscope.  How else is one to explain that her bladder activates only when returning to home (or the temporary home as it may be), but not upon the arrival to any other building which offers the same general environment that could trigger the urinary response?

The boobiscope explains more than just my urinary habits.  The first bend of the scoping mechanism explains the protrusion below our lower back - also known as our butt.  As one approaches the top of the scope we see the need for the boob since the heart, the lungs, etc need to fit within the chest cavity as well - so the scope has to extend out past the natural line of our body, and hence the development of the boob.  My theory is, the bigger the boobs and the more junk in the trunk, the more sensitive your bladder is when you return home because your scope is larger and therefore more powerful.  Also?  The boobiscope is made of materials not yet identifiable by man or science which would explain how it has xray vision and can see through layers of clothes (to be able recognize the approach home), but does not come out clearly in MRI's or anything of the sort.  Flawless explanation.

At this point you're probably wondering "why the left boob specifically?".  My answer for you is simple:  the right boob is the audio device.  But that's another story. 

Sunday, January 30, 2011

I was just emotionally raped over the internet.

I was going to write about my theory that my left boob is a periscope for my bladder, but I'm going to have to save that for another time, since I was totally just emotionally raped over the internet.  To add insult to injury, it was during a game of euchre on the yahoo games website.

I was playing my little online game while simultaneously trying to defend myself against Toby who was mauling me with his chew toy.  For those of you who are familiar with the game of Euchre, my partner had called trump (clubs), but because of my canine distraction I missed an opportunity early in the hand to lead with trump.  The following conversation ensued in the chat area beneath the playing area:  (NOTE: My partner's name was 'goddess_yahell", and the other hellion at the table was our opponent "haveapepsionme".)

goodess_yahell:  lead with trump!  We could've had two points instead of one!
goodess_yahell:  what the hell is wrong with you?!
me:  seriously?  are you being serious right now?  It's just a game.
goodess_yahell: well, some people play to win. 
haveapepsionme:  report her!  I just did.
haveapepsionme:  it's in the rules that you're supposed to play your best game.  She isn't.
me:  uhh, it was an honest mistake.
goodess_yahell:  Bullshit,  You're throwing points and trying to lose the game. (NOTE:  I'm a pretty competitive person, so this is sooooo not something that I would ever do.)
goodess_yahell:  I just reported you.
me:  are you two for real?  You're insane!
haveapepsionme:  I just reported her again for name calling.
goddess_yahell:  me too.  I'm taking a print screen.
haveapepsionme: send it to Bob at the e-mail address I'm sending you.
haveapepsionme: he's the one who handles abuse.
**During this time my partner had started throwing the game intentionally by calling suits that she had none of, so that the other team would win.
me:  What happened to playing your best game?  You just threw the last two hands!
goodness_yahell:  leave the table.  NOW. (she had the power to kick me out of the table if she really wanted to)
me: I'll be happy to after this game. 
haveapepsionme: I've got her ip address!  I'm going to send it in so that they won't allow her to play under any other names either.
Other guy at the table:  PLAY!!
haveapepsionme:  I'm not playing until she leaves the table.
me:  well I'm not leaving.  If you stop playing the game will time you out and it will forfeit you.  Your call.
haveapepsionme:  You are such a bitch! 
haveapepsionme:  look at her rating  (NOTE:  I had a higher rating than two of the four people at the table)
haveapepsionme:  she's a loser! 
goddess_yahell:  by the time I'm done telling everyone about her, she's going to be running from the tables and will never want to play again!

By this point, my prediction came true.  The "haveapepsionme" guy stopped playing long enough that the game assumed he forfeit and it called the game quits.  He left the game table pretty quick, and I was soon to follow.  I notice in the general game area, my former partner, goddess_yahell started posting comments about me and how abusive I am, and that the people at the table couldn't stand to play with me anymore.

My original intent for tonight's blog was actually funny (albeit true) - and there isn't anything actually funny about this, only the knowledge that there are people out there so crazy they will pair up and attack you over a game in which they don't even get to win any money.  I'm pretty sure if money were involved, they'd have sent someone my way to break my thumbs...and maybe my knees.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

I'm Pretty Sure I'm Being Haunted By A Ghost Who Wants To Steal My Identity

Remember when I said that I was disappointed our house wasn't haunted because I wanted to be the fatter, less fashionable version of Jennifer Love Hewitt?   I think I may have misjudged that one....

Toby was viciously barking at this one area of our ceiling all night.  Upon closer inspection there was nothing on the ceiling or the wall (aside from the claw marks he just left behind.  Awesome.) how is one not to deduce that what he was seeing was a ghost?  I strongly suspect that I have a ghost attached to me - not solely haunting the house, but haunting yours truly.  Let's discuss further evidentiary support for this theory, shall we?

According to, the following are the top 7 signs that you have a ghost:
1.  Unexplained noises.  I often ask Ryan if the dog just farted because I hear these little noises that sound quite airy.  If it's not non-existent farts I hear, it's running water.  Many a time have I been laying in bed trying to get to sleep only to have to get up and go into the kitchen to ensure the faucet's not on.  It never is.  Also, on a regular basis I hear these war-cries from the basement.  This one, as it turns out, is the cat downstairs talking to herself.  I don't think that last one counts.

2.  Objects moving of their own accord.  Overall I have what can best be described as a shitty memory.  Ryan can attest to the fact that on many occasions I have completely forgotten about entire conversations we've supposedly had, and yet if he were to ask me where something is in the house, my pictographic memory (the only kind of memory I have left) kicks in and I can tell him down to the smallest detail where the item is located.  "What's that dear?  You're looking for that random spice we use once a year?  That would be in the upper cupboard to the left of the range, second shelf, in the blue basket, behind the paprika, wedged in amongst the Club House seasoning packets - 3rd one in from the left between the greek dressing mix and the shepherd's pie mix that we'll never eat because mixing potatoes, corn and beef is just wrong."
However, there have been many a time where something important goes missing.  Important things are typically kept in one of three areas in my house.  A prime example is my birth certificate.  I have checked all the "important" areas time and again, and even resorted to the "meh, we should probably keep this, but I'm not overly concerned about it" spots - all to no avail.     This baffles me.  The ghost theory though would explain a lot.  I suspect the ghost doesn't realize it's a ghost and is pretty pissed that she can't find any of her own ID, so she's trying to steal mine.  That thieving bitch.

3.  Smell unusual or unexplained fragrances.  Going back to the fart conversation from point one - more often than asking about farts because of my ability to hear, I'm asking on a daily basis if someone in the area has farted because of my sense of smell (and no, it's not because of my ability to fart, smartass).  Also, I think my coworkers can attest to the fact that I'm constantly smelling things that no one else can smell.  Today alone I caught a strong whiff of burnt toast (no, it was not pre-seizure), followed a couple hours later by the smell of honey-glazed ham.  Last month I was convinced our office smelled of rotting.  Rotting what? I couldn't say, but I believe I once compared it to the scent of something decaying in the walls.

4.  Do animals behave strangely in a certain area of your home?  See video above.  In fact, he continues to bark, growl and scale the walls in that same area.

5.  Cold Pockets.  When I'm at home I'm often quite cold despite the kick-ass insulation and the 74 degree Fahrenheit (23 degree Celsius) temperature.  I think the ghost gets bored of me though because when she follows me to work I'm at a comfortable temperature for most of the day.  I think she visits my coworkers because they're often freezing in the office even though they're only 10 feet away from me.

6.  Feeling like you're not alone, when you are alone.  I often have this sensation - this feeling of being watched.  At first I believed this feeling to be caused by nosy, perverted neighbours looking in our windows to check out the goods - but once again, the ghost theory seems to make so much more sense!

7.  Light in areas unoccupied by living beings.  Observe.

Oh, that would be the ghost that's trying to steal my identity.
 I think I've proved my point.

At this point in the program ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to point out that in my last entry I indicated that the following posts were going to be successive parts of the "Satirical Self-Analysis" in which I point out some of my character flaws and put a spin on them so I don't seem certifiable special quite so defective.  Some of you may consider a post in which I argue that I'm being haunted by a ghost with the travel bug a post highlighting a character defect, but for those of you that don't, please find comfort in the fact that this entry proves I can't keep a promise (otherwise I would've would've written something self-criticizing), and thus, I can't be trusted.  That, my friends, is a character defect. 
(Yes, I am aware that the described character defect I provided as an example contradicts the character defect argument.  I'm just that deep.  Also?  I feel as though "I'm Just That Deep" would be an intriguing title for an adult-movie.  I'm just saying...)

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Satirical Self-Analysis - Part I

I've been somewhat missing in action the past month or so due to an extended bout of self-reflection (and thus self-pitying, self-loathing, etc etc), prompted by external events beyond my control.  My way of coping with this?  Sending it out to the blogosphere with a bit of a satirical twist to try and lighten my solemn mood.  What better (and more morbid) way to kick off the new year could there be?

Before I get into all that though, I feel the need to provide my insight on the concept of the new years resolution.  (hey, it's my blog - if you didn't want to read about my insights to this and that, you wouldn't be here, right?)
In my previous blog I wrote to this effect back in 2006, but in re-reading the material I think I summed it up pretty nicely for myself, so I'm just going to re-post my 2006 thoughts here for your enlightenment.

Essentially what I want to say is that new years eve?  Is bullshit.  I'm not saying this from a bitter standpoint...I'm too young to be tainted by news years eves past where I would stand alone at the stroke of midnight while couples around me started making out as if under some twisted, soft-core-porn-ish spell. So why is new years eve bullshit?
1. The pressure everyone is put under to have something extraordinary planned for their evening. I'm not against going out and having fun with friends or strangers anytime, but it seems like on new years eve everyone must become socialites for the evening until soon after the ball drops and everyone turns back into their tired selves. Bars that never have a cover charge are suddenly forcing you to pay $20 in advance to guarantee yourself a spot under their roof for the night, the malls are crazed with young women trying to find a whorish outfit that will help them find their prince charming to slobber all over at midnight and the liquor stores are packed with people stocking up on drinks guaranteed to make them do something completely embarrassing to ring in the new year. Remember when you were a little kid and the great thing about new years was the fact that it was the one night out of the year that you were guaranteed the right to stay up until hour only heard of, but never seen? Of course you would either pass out by 10 or be so hopped up on sugar that you would be a perfect reminder to your young teenage babysitter why abstinence is the best policy.
2. Those who fool themselves into making a new years resolution with the belief that they will actually keep it. Why they think that by changing the number from 2010 to 2011 they will stop eating that entire pizza, start a strict exercise regimen, or curb their pack-a-day habit I'll never know. I'm convinced that the whole "resolutions" business was created by corporate America (much like Valentine's Day) as a way to turn a profit. Sales of diet pills, diet books, exercise equipment and videos, the nicorette patch, the nicorette gum etc soar for the first few weeks and as people start falling off (or getting back on) the wagon, they crash hard and that's when sales of cigarettes, Ben & Jerry's and just about any fast food option begin their incline. It's not until about April that things even out and life is as it once was. Really though, I'm quite convinced that you're destined to fail if you resolve to start your diet, or quit your smoking or whatever else it is that you want to start or stop doing come January 1st of any year. Chances are, whatever behaviour you've been engaging in (or neglecting as the case may be) is not new and you've known for quite sometime that you need to change your ways. If this is the case (which it most likely is), if you were really set on making the change you would've done it a lot sooner and not waited until the start of a new calendar year.  After all, January first is truly no different than any other day of the year.

As it pertains to the self-analysis portion of today's e-mail, we'll start off light and gradually build over the Satirical Self-Analysis Series - Parts 2 through whatever number I finish off with.  As with any other time I've delved into the practice of reflecting on myself, my behaviours, etc etc I start off by looking at the superficial things.  This often means I go into a cleaning or organization frenzy because it offers a welcome mental and physical distraction before I reach the darker depths of my psyche.  This time, it started at work.  The following e-mail to three lovely friends at work should explain quite nicely what I'm trying (and so easily failing) to convey here:

I find myself in a tough situation this morning.  Over the last few months in an effort to make more positive choices for myself, I made a significant effort to bring my lunch, and to make my own tea instead of stopping by Timmies.  The problem is that while I may be disciplined enough to bring these things to work, I'm not always disciplined enough to eat/drink what I bring, and will often choose to opt out for something else (especially if they're serving fish and chips in the caf).  It starts getting messy when I try convincing myself "hmm, I'll just eat that tomorrow"....then tomorrow turns into a few days, and then a few days turns into a week, and so on and so on.  Many good pieces of tupperware and travel mugs have been sacrificed in this ongoing problem of mine, and yet the problem continues.  It's a bit of an addiction.
I spent yesterday cleaning my desk and re-organizing my filing, but I can not bring myself to look after a few food-related discretions that haunt my work space.  This is where you come in.  I need your help in ridding the office of the ghosts of abandoned-foods past.  I propose we have a sort of ceremonial service in the ladies bathroom of simultaneous dumping and flushing of the foods and substances that were once liquids.
I'd love to be able to just do this on my own, but I know that's not the reality of the situation.  I need help.  Your help.  Before you respond by telling me to just dump my crap on my own and the sicker it makes me feel the less likely I'll be to do it again, I assure you, you're wrong.  Ryan has attempted this tough-love approach with me many a times, and this e-mail should be solid evidence that it doesn't work.
I have made small progress in changing my ways - but it will take time.  I've completed the first step  - admitting I have a problem.  Steps 2 and 3 are kind of a moot point for me, and I take inventory of my faults all the time, so step 4 is done on a regular basis (oh, and look at that - number 10 is the same idea!  Multi-tasker extraordinaire!).  I'd say this e-mail covers me for step 5, and I think we can totally count a bathroom ceremony as step 6 - even though you guys aren't god, but again, referring back to my comments about 2 and 3, that's quite alright with me - you fine ladies will do.

Following this e-mail there was a little back and forth which led to two of the ladies confessing their some of their "sins" - which in turn only highlighted more of mine.  One of the three proved herself to be a little OCD and thus lacking such faults, and was therefore promptly chastised by yours truly for her domestic purity.  Ultimately, the ladies pulled through.  At 2pm on the dot, the ladies showed up to my department complete with face masks to protect them from the smell and the potential for toxic fumes which may or may not emanate from the food containers upon opening.  Together, in solidarity, we marched to the nearest bathroom for the "Ceremonial Dump" (as we so lovingly called it), generating a little caution for the people in the board room who watched us walk by as if we were handling anthrax.
Post-dumping, the three ladies promptly removed themselves from the vicinity (I considered this to be self-preservation on their part), while I stayed behind to wash the containers and try and rid them of their putrid smells.  When I got back to my desk, I was informed by a coworker that someone had posted a sign on the bathroom door that read "Loony did it" (referring to the lingering odour that plagued the bathroom for hours after).  I frantically started explaining to people that the vile bathroom scent was generated by my problems with lunch disposal, and not a different kind of dumping.
To commemorate the event as well as the holidays, I wrote a song about the dumping, which should be sung to the tune of the "12 Days of Christmas".
NOTE:  The day after the dumping, I did sing this to the ladies during morning break and presented them with gifts of thanks.  I'm not an ingrate.

On the first purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me
A starbucks mug of coffee!

On the second purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
A container that held cheese, 
and a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the third purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
and a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Fourth purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Fifth purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Twooo Month Old Broccoliiiiii!
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A Container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Sixth purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Moldy peppermint tea,
Twooo Month Old Broccoliiiii!
A bowl that once held soup, 
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Seventh purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Stir-fry that went furry,
Moldy Peppermint Tea,
Twooo Month Old Broccoliiii!
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Eighth purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
4 week old jelly,
Stir-fry that went furry,
Moldy peppermint tea,
Twooo Month Old Broccoliiii!
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Ninth purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Three month old  orange,
Four week old jelly,
Stir-fry that went furry,
Moldy peppermint tea,
Twooo Month Old Broccoliiii!
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Tenth purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Ten week old green tea,
Three month old orange,
Four week old jelly,
Stir-fry that went furry,
Moldy peppermint tea,
Twooo month old Broccoliiii!
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the Eleventh purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Liquid watermelon,
Ten week old green tea,
Three month old orange,
Four week old jelly,
Stir-fry that went furry,
Moldy peppermint tea,
Twooo month old broccoliii!!
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!

On the TWELFTH purge of Christmas, Loony gave to me,
Chunkified hot chocolate,
Liquid watermelon,
Ten week old green tea,
Three month old orange,
Four week old jelly,
Stir-fry that went furry,
Moldy peppermint tea,
Twoooo month old broccoliii!!
A bowl that once held soup,
Tupperware for meat,
A container that held cheese,
And a Starbucks mug of coffee!