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...

**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.

****UPDATE:

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't...it 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".

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!

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:  www.arrowofmorality.com.  (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?

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*

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.