Woo-hoo! Wholesale bongs! ...Random Tuesday Thoughts

Today feels like a Friday. Because hubby has a totally whacked-out schedule, and all the planets aligned to give him three - three! - days off in a row, so I decided to make two of them MY days off as well. So as of now we're actually spending a 'weekend' - with neither of us having to work - together.

You'll forgive me if I cut this short. Ahem.

Anyway, it's not really a Friday, it's Tuesday. Which only means one thing around this crazy blog I call...well, blog...it's Random Tuesday Thoughts!

Know how to play? Great - get at it, soldier! Need some instruction? Well, step off the short bus and let me elaborate: You grab the purple button. You write a post consisting of whatever's in your brain at that moment on your own blog (don't go cluttering up my place, now, the cleaners haven't been by in a while...). And then you leave your link with Mr. Linky, so we can all stop by YOUR place and drink your good beer and rummage through your medicine cabinet.

Got it? Good! Let's begin.

I've been running every 2nd day and running for 0.2k longer each time. I thought I was way ahead of the game for running the 10k in the middle of September, but then I checked the calendar and realized I pretty much HAVE to continue that pace. I have like, two days' wiggle room.

Well, crap. That makes it sound an awful lot like work, doesn't it?

Today I had the rare - and odd - opportunity to visit the local hemp shop and see their huge warehouse of bongs.

Shut up. It was for work.

Anyway, I also got to listen to the hemp shop owner orate about his plan to import bongs cheaper from China (as "vases", oh those sneaky Chinese), and then undercut the competition by selling them at a discount. Basically his plan for world domination through bong sales. As he explained it, "That way I've covered the wholesale and retail and I can CRUSH THE COMPETITION".

Wow. Somehow I've always thought pot smokers were a lot less...aggressive.

Imagine what he'd be like if he didn't partake of the herb?

In case you're just tuning in, I'm a bit of a video game addict. But I don't have a lot of time these days and I didn't want to waste $60 on Sims 3. So I downloaded it onto my phone for seven bucks.

My Sim is reeeaaalllly teeny.

She's also a total whore. She married young to the first girl she, um, "woo-hoo"ed with, not realizing that her wife was a total bitch. But apparently the bitch doesn't care who else she woo-hoos with, so she's been trying out the less-fair sex, as it were. All of them.

She accidentally "woo-hoo"ed herself to death. For reals. I knew you could starve them, but I had no idea you could boink them to death. What a way to go.

Bex said that yesterday's post was one of the best ones I've written since I had that mouse problem.

You know, when I didn't actually write anything but posted a picture of a dead mouse?

I'm not sure how to feel about that.

Superheroes - the elder years. (LOVE the Flash! Bwahhahhah!!)

Anyway! I'm off to enjoy my 'weekend' the old fashioned way - with an adult beverage and a chocolate cupcake. What's going on in YOUR brain this Tuesday? Let us know and link up!

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I'm rationalizing that chocolate cupcake, can you tell?

Body image is a weird thing.

I mean, on any given day, I can look in the mirror and think "Wow, I'm lookin' pretty good!", "OMG when did I get so wide?" and "Um, well, maybe if I wore the right shirt...". All within the space of hours. And it doesn't seem to bear any significant relation to how I feel, or what I ate, or how much time I put in on the treadmill.

Maybe it's the lighting?

We all put considerable mental effort towards worrying about how we appear to other people. Yet we have little to no control over their impressions. Sure, clean and well-cut clothing is always more favorable than the comfy XXL university sweatshirt that the dog has been sleeping on. And it might do you well to not look like you just rolled out of a ditch. But if someone is going to fixate on your saddlebags, and decide you're a slovenly mess based on THAT, then that's what they're going to do, no matter how much you invest in Spanx.

But they're equally likely to notice your sea-green eyes, or your radiant skin. Or, ohIdon'tknow, your fabulous personality.

And they're even more likely to not notice you at all, because they're busy worrying about what people think THEY look like.

I recently came across this set of photographs on JPG. It's a clever, though possibly heavy-handed, series of posed photos showing Disney Princesses and how they might have ended up in a more realistic scenario. I have a huge problem with the "princessification" of our female youth, so I think they're funny.

But I found it really interesting that while all the photos got some comments and reaction, the one that caused the most kerfuffle was the one showing Red Riding Hood as a fatty, walking through the woods slugging back a soda and carrying a basket of french fries. Aside from the fact that Riding Hood isn't actually a princess, the original fairy tale was a moral lesson about making poor choices - an unaccompanied girl walking through the woods alone and talking to strangers. Making the artistic interpretation that she would choose to overindulge in all the food she was carrying for Grandma isn't a huge leap.

But the comments section is awash with outrage over the portrayal, that it's perpetuating the "stereotype" that junk food makes you fat, that it's all a big conspiracy and we're genetically predisposed to be skinny or chubby and there isn't fuck all we can do about it.

And yes, genetics does have something to do with it and yes, a good art piece does indeed spark reactions both good and bad. But all the time you wasted defending WHY you're overweight or unhealthy? You could have: played with your kids. Gone for a walk. Watched a sunset. Volunteered at a soup kitchen. Learned an instrument. Helped your neighbour move a fridge. Hugged your dog.

So all of this is just a lengthy way of saying I'm still ignoring the number on the scale (though I know what it is) and trying to focus on what this body of mine can do, not what it isn't. I have days that I lose sight of that, but most days I know: I can lift my son to the ceiling 4 times without worrying I will drop him. I can do 50 crunches before I feel like puking. I can carry my own groceries. I can run for 2.8 km without stopping (18 mins on the treadmill).

And I'm okay with all of that.

Gonna go have that cupcake now.

The wind beneath your corporate wings was probably blown out of someone's ass

Yesterday I had to go downtown to a government office for a design meeting. In the hallway they had a whiteboard used to indicate who was in the office and whether they were available.

At the top was scrawled the bullshit inspirational quote of the day. Something to do with not just weathering the storm and learning to dance in the rain, instead. Or whatever.

Underneath that was written:

Rick Beech* - In an all-day "strategic planning" meeting (I HATE MY LIFE)


...guess he didn't feel like dancing in the rain.


*Names have been changed to protect the suicidal

Nothing should be able to fly AND inject venom

Because I'm still battling whatever Pollen Fiend is causing my sinuses to be so revolting, I'm totally phoning it in and re-posting something I wrote when not even FoN was reading my blog. But it's pertinent, because guess what I saw crawling their icky selves all over my deck this afternoon? Time to call the exterminators...



I try to be a tree hugger, I really do. I grow a garden that is never that successful because I can't bring myself to thin out my plants; I think they should all get equal growing opportunities. I admire vegetarians (but I can't be one - if we weren't meant to eat cows, they shouldn't be so tasty). I try to buy organic, stay away from chemicals, recycle, reuse, live simply. I think everybody is equal and all creatures should be treated with respect.

Except for wasps.

Bees? See, bees I can respect. Bees are useful. Bees have honour. They don't sting you unless you totally deserve it, and when they do they at least have the common decency to promptly die afterwards. Even spiders, which are creepy and wrong and omigod nothing should have that many legs, have a purpose (eating the mosquitos, which in turn spread the West Nile many hypochondriacs so desperately need now that Chronic Fatigue is out of fashion).

Wasps are like the head cheerleaders of the insect world. Sure, they look pretty cool (look at one up close - most sensibly, one that is dead - and you'll see what I mean. Whoever designed wasps should be working for Porsche) but they're vindictive little bitches and they get more aggressive as the season draws to a close. And they always know to target whoever can do them the most damage.

It's pretty hard to believe in a cosmic balance when there is something that mean out there that can fly and inject venom repeatedly. Not only that, but it has friends. How fair is that?

Twilight vamps, I stab at thee

All in good fun, of course...



From Rebellious Pixels, who's my new hero. But not in a creepy "watches you sleep and wants to drink your blood" kind of way.

Well, fire's not THAT bad, but the tree IS pretty: Random Tuesday Thoughts

Hey! It's Tuesday! Know what that means? It means you should be here, at the Un Mom, the blog that pops up when you google shit like "I am just going to type in something random and hope something turns up".

For reals.

Although, that isn't really THAT random. Really random would be "do ninjas like cake?" which also, apparently, gets you to my blog.

My mother is so proud.

Also, I have no idea if ninjas like cake. I mean, I have it on good authority that the Febreze Ninja LOVES cake, unless it's black forest cake, in which case, only in a pinch. Like, if there is no other cake to be found, she'll eat it, but otherwise, bleh. But I have no clue if real ninjas like cake.

ANYWAY, I'm not calling this Random Creepday Thoughts anymore, because apparently when I did that last Tuesday I broke the internet and Blogger somehow forgot how to send my post feed to ya'll. So many people missed out on my story of how I didn't actually beat anybody up. So it's just back to Random Tuesday Thoughts. If you know how to play - great! What are you waiting for? If you don't, here's how it works: You grab the fugly purple button. You write a post of a mish-mash of incongruent thoughts. You link up with Mr. Linky!

Got it? Good. Now go do that, because I have nothing further for you this week.

Seriously, I don't know what I'm going to write about this week. I've been battling some weird sinus infection/cold/allergies thing that is as yet unidentified but is kicking my ass. It's also rendering my thought process to it's most basic. You know, along the lines of "Fire bad. Tree pretty. Jerry Springer!". Which, other than the afore-mentioned post feed problem, is why I haven't posted since Friday. When the blogging hour arrives, it's all I can do to summon the mental energy to play Bejeweled.

Fire bad. Tree pretty.

I have, however, been having some alarmingly deep thoughts regarding things like body image. They're not funny, so you don't care.

(And if I posted it here I'd be robbing myself of a HASAY post next week)

Ever noticed that the people available to 'chat' on Facebook are always the people you can't be bothered to talk to? Why do you have them as friends, anyway?

Also, are they thinking the same thing about you?

Drinking a mojito in the basement on a grey day is not the same as having one on the deck on a warm sunny day. They don't actually taste that good, to be honest. But I'm out of wine.

I've been window shopping for baby stuff for my friend Fashionista's impending bundle of joy. So far I have come up with this sweet ride



or this Klingon Cradle.



Whaddya think? Best friend ever, right?

Yeah, all right, that's all I got. I seem to recall threatening to take a day off in June, it probably should have been today.

But I'm such a workaholic.

So, share your own, hopefully more poignant, thoughts! Grab the button and link up!

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I remember when "Are you dissin' my man?" was something people actually SAID. Well, okay, no, just this one girl. (Part 2)

(continued from yesterday)


I glanced at Pilot Boy, confused. "Uh - what?"

"My girlfriend is going to kick your ass," the guy repeated. "Hey, Cheryl!" he yelled over his shoulder. "You coming?"

"Hang on, I have to get my shoes on!" a disembodied voice replied, from the general location of the semi truck. Momentarily a girl stumbled out of the darkness, carrying a beer and pulling on a shoe, with tall hair shellac'd into place. She looked around at the assembled company and then back at the dude for confirmation. He gestured at me.

"Are you dissin' my man?" she demanded, pointing a finger at me.

I stared at her, taken aback. Not because of the accusation, but because someone had actually used "are you dissin' my man" in conversation. I looked at FoN and Valentina, who were equally stunned. Pilot Boy was gazing back and forth between the guy and the girl like they were in a tennis match, a look of astonishment on his face.

"Wh-what?" I managed to reply.

"Are you dissin' my man?" she repeated. She looked a little put out that we weren't already trading punches. Apparently this wasn't how the script went.

FoN and I looked at each other. And then we burst out laughing.

"Am I - what??" I managed, through hysterical laughter. "Am I DISSING your MAN?"

She sneered. "You told him to fuck off!"

"He told me to shut up! You guys are setting off the air horn on a semi truck, and you're telling ME to shut up?"

The conversation (I use that term loosely) continued in that exasperating vein for a bit. Apparently my earlier rage wasn't as settled as one would hope, because eventually she goaded me somehow - I don't remember, but FoN says she called me a "fat bitch" - and suddenly I really DID want to kick her ass.

Or, y'know, try. Considering I'd never been in a fight in my LIFE.

FoN, who I've often thought was born a couple of decades too late, was trying to placate both of us by saying things like, "Hey, we're all happy here, it's all good, peace and love and groovyness, you guys!". Neither of us were responding well to that approach. Meanwhile, Cheryl the Ass-kicking Redneck's "man" was smirking at the sidelines, saying things to Pilot Boy like, "This is gonna be good," and "Do you think they'll end up rolling around in the mud? I hope so."

Class. Act.

Anyway, he was disappointed. At my core, I really didn't want to fight, so I let FoN and Valentina drag me away, leaving Cheryl and her Man standing around our tent with Pilot Boy. He claimed later that he offered to fight in my stead, but that really wasn't what the Yokel Couple was after. Eventually they wandered off and climbed back into their semi, which ran all night. FoN and Valentina talked me down and returned me to the tent.

In the morning, Pilot Boy and I were at each other's throats with renewed vigour as we realized the Datsun Z was lodged firmly in the mud. We had to track down some people we hadn't pissed off with our fighting to help push us out. I think there were maybe 3.

The semi truck was nowhere to be seen.

Kind of anti-climactic, I know. So I'll leave you with the moral of the story: Don't date conceited pilots.

Oh, and don't tell people in semi trucks to fuck off.



(I forgot to mention that this was all inspired by the topic over at the Spin Cycle this week)
(Also, Google Reader is not showing my last 3 posts for some reason. If ya'll are using the feed to keep track of me, you may have to res-subscribe?)

I remember when "Are you dissin' my man?" was something people actually SAID. Well, okay, no, just this one girl. (Part 1)

My BFF and platonic life partner FoN is posting the story of FoN vs. The Fucktard Sisters, in which SuperKeely plays a minor role, so I thought I'd take a stroll down Memory Lane too. I used to spend a lot of time drunk and my memory is not fabulous, so I asked her what SHE thought I should post about.

Do you guys have a friend with whom you share 20 years of history? It's awesome. And fucking terrifying, sometimes. She replied immediately with "Are You Dissin' My Man?".

Oh Dear Lord, I know I'm a heathen atheist, but please give me strength.

*deep breath*

Okay.

This may be a shock to some of you, but I have not always made the best choices in life. I know! Me! I seem so rational!

Anyway, at the time of this incident I was dating a guy I shall dub Dickhead
Cheater
Conceited Motherfucker I Wouldn't Cross The Road To Piss On If He Were On Fire Pilot Boy. Pilot Boy and I had plans to attend a weekend music festival in which FoN's husband's band was participating. Obviously, FoN and Valentina and a whole host of other friends were there too. None of them really liked Pilot Boy because he was a manipulative fucker who cheated on me constantly but they tolerated him for my sake.

Since the music festival was being held on a patch of turf that was normally used to grow wheat, we were all camping for the weekend. Some people were lucky or organized enough to bring an RV, but most of us were just pitching tents.

Heh.

Anyway, Pilot Boy and I eschewed my sensible 4x4 Toyota truck for his vehicle, a Datsun Z, because clearly that is the rational choice while attempting to camp in a muddy field. We pulled into a spot that (unbeknownst to us) would be semi-permanent, and, rather than unpacking our gear and putting up our tent for later, we elected to begin partying post-haste.

Located somewhat close to us were some people who thought themselves above both tents AND Winnebagos. They had arrived in their semi truck. Which, okay, had a sleeper, but apparently no bedding or power or comforts of home whatsoever, because they left the thing running constantly. And they occasionally set off the horn, just to maintain good neighbourly relations. We rolled our eyes a bit, but assumed they would shut off the truck and stop honking the horn once all the music was done and people were ready to pass out.

You know what happens when you assume, right?

The evening pretty much progressed as most evenings did with Pilot Boy; that is to say we both got drunk, he got more asinine and I got more sensitive, we fought the whole time and overreacted and generally made each other miserable. And then, when they stopped serving booze, we realized that we had nowhere to sleep. So at 2am, still yelling at each other, we began a futile attempt to drunkenly and uncooperatively put up a tent. In the dark.

FoN and Valentina came to see what all the yelling was about, and I turned on them, too. I can't remember why but I'm sure I felt justified at the time. Then the evolutionary U-Turns in the semi truck honked their horn and I screamed at them as well. FoN, with typical humour, said something to nicely inform me that I was being an idiot, and defused the whole situation. She didn't do it to save Pilot Boy from my verbal tirade, she did it to save me from myself, because I was tired of yelling.

Also, there may have been people trying to sleep at that point.

So, in better spirits, we kept trying to get the tent set up. The idiots in the semi truck, in a somewhat delayed reaction, yelled "Shut the fuck up!".

Coming from someone that had set off a foghorn moments earlier, this seemed ridiculous, so I jovially hollered back, "Fuck you!", and Pilot Boy and I continued figuring out the tent in the dark, on speaking terms once again.

A few minutes later, a strange guy strolled up and stood next to us, a smirk on his face.

"My girlfriend is going to kick your ass," he informed me smugly.




(I know! I'm sorry for the two-parter. But it's getting really long and I need to confirm a few details with FoN)

You'd think someone would have noticed I was a Pod Person

I have these metal kabob skewer things in my kitchen that I have never ONCE used for kabobs, but they're kind of my 'go-to' utensil for pretty much everything. Need to test a cake? Use a metal kabob skewer. Need to poke a crayon out of an oddly tube-shaped toy where your toddler lodged it? Metal skewer. Need to stab someone in the eye because there's been a broken microwave sitting in your kitchen for 5 months? Hey! I have these metal skewers!

Okay, partially kidding about that last one. Honey. Really, I was kidding.

But they are handy-dandy. Earlier I dropped a bottle lid down the drain in the bathroom sink. You know how sometimes they're the EXACT size of the drain? So they don't fall down but they won't come up easily either? I tried to get it out with tweezers, but just ended up shoving it out of tweezer reach, and then I had a go with the end of a makeup brush, but couldn't hook it. And nothing else was really thin enough, so I thought, oh! Hey! Metal kabob skewers!

So I'm attempting to pick up a plastic lid with two kabob skewers, and I'm wondering if I can sell the sludge that's on the walls of my drain to NASA as a possible alien life form, and I start composing this blog post in my head. And then I realize that I'm planning on blogging about getting a plastic cap out of my drain. So I immediately looked around for something sharp to cut my wrists with, because, hello? I MAY AS WELL JUST DIE NOW.

Also, up there? I used the word 'handy-dandy' in a sentence.

Seriously, interwebs, I used to be much cooler than this.

Well, okay, I was never cool. But COME ON!

I can't even tie these together with a title, but there's a gift, if you like boots: Random Creepday Thoughts

I am hereby renaming Tuesdays "Creepdays", because they keep creeping up on me. So you know what time it is, right? It's time for Random Creepday Thoughts!

Um...which is the bloggy thing formerly known as Random TUESDAY Thoughts.

Anyway, if you're not familiar, where the hell have you been? And did you pick up the vodka I asked for?

Random Tuesday, I mean Creepday, Thoughts work like this: You have some random thoughts. You type them out. You grab the button, slap it on your post to make it seem like you MEANT to do that, and leave us a link so we can all join in your confusion!

I've softened somewhat and I'm trying to work things out with Mr. Linky. So in case he's discombobulated or absent, leave your link in the comments too.

That about cover it? Okay, I'll go first:

I woke up this morning with my hand down my pants. Um...what the hell? Did I turn into a dude overnight? Is there some subconscious concern that my lady bits might get up and leave me?

Even I wonder what the fuck goes on in my head sometimes.

Yesterday I had brunch with some girlfriends. We do it once a month - everybody brings something and we gossip and chat and chow down. (This month I made mojitos, in case anybody is wondering. What? I planted a herb garden for a reason). I wish someone had taken notes from our first brunch dates, which were like 6 years ago. Then we could compare what we talked about then to what we talk about now.

You know, in case we need another method to help us feel old.

Someone from Whooga.com contacted me to offer you guys a $30 gift card to spend on their website. All you have to do is enter the code UNMOMX30 into the promo box at the cart.

I shit you not. I'm now a discount code.

Whoogas are like Uggs, in case you're too lazy to click over. They look soooo comfy but personally, I can't pull off the look. Sheepskin boots with a skirt is never going to make me look anything but fucking ridiculous, but maybe one of you can manage to make it look 'quirky' or 'romantic'? Probably someone skinny?

Don't look at these before you go to bed. Or if you are still getting over some childhood fears. Or if you have children and don't remember how vivid and bizarre their imaginations can be. Or if you pride yourself on being 'normal' (in which case, get the fuck off my blog please) or are easily shocked, scared, or offended. Also, you probably shouldn't read the comments if you like the images, or if you really don't like the images, or if stupid and illiterate people offend you.

You know what? Just forget I ever said anything.

I just noticed this is my 200th post. Um, yay? I actually didn't think I'd hold it together this long. Sure, the rest of my life is falling apart and we've resorted to buying new clothes rather than tackle the mountain of laundry, but hey - MY BLOG MADE IT TO 200 POSTS!

This post from Michelle has had me thinking all day about how quickly information travels now. Do you ever watch old movies or tv shows and think, "This wouldn't be a problem if they had a cel phone". Or do you ever read historical novels and want to scream, "FOR THE LUVVA BLOG, WOMAN, JUST CHECK THE INTERNET!!".

No? Me neither.

Hubby has his own blog.

Yeah, that one's just standalone. I didn't ask for permission to direct you all there, and it's mostly comic stuff anyway (I can hear you yawning from HERE). But he just announced it a few days ago and I'm still a little blown away.

So on that note - it's your turn! Snag that button, get all random, go buy some boots! Happy Creepday!

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Running through my head*

Okay. Make sure I warm up. I stretched. I hydrated. Don't eff it up now by not warming up.

Forgot my sunglasses.

"Running up the driveway doesn't count," haha, honey. I don't see YOU exercising.

Okay, really going now.

Running. Really, running? Wtf is wrong with me?

Maybe I should pretend something large and toothy is chasing me.

I wonder if I could drop kick that guy who is standing perilously close to the edge of the water without breaking stride?

Hey, this isn't so bad.

Hydrating is good, except now I have to pee. Running while having to pee? Not so good.

I wonder if I could drop kick that Canadian goose without breaking stride?

Still have to pee.

Stretching, hydrating, and warming up properly actually works! I feel like I could run forever! This is further than I've ever run before! This is great! This is - owowowowowowowow shin splint!

Well, fuck.



*Get it? Because it's about running? Right? Okay, fine, it wasn't funny. Shut up, I just went for a run. What did YOU do?

Relationship troubles? This should keep it in perspective.

I had a totally different post planned for today, but then I saw this and died laughing. So now I can't write the other post, because I'm dead.

Have a good weekend!

They were later found to have had a suicide pact, one was just a procrastinator

I'm playing Bex's photo meme again this week, Funky Foto Flashback. Even though I take slight issue with the spelling, you should head over there anyway and play. It's fun! And you get to dig through your old embarassing pics, and then make yourself feel better by laughing at other people's embarassing pics.

Or by consuming an entire tray of cupcakes. Whatever blows your skirt up.

Anyway, this is from 87? 88? Somewhere in there, when my family decided to pick up and move to New Zealand for a few years. To smooth the transition, my parents bought both my brother and I guinea pigs.

I was obviously feeling the social pain of that bad hairdo and unfortunate choice of boyish jacket, and lashed out by inflicting the name "Meepsie" on my guinea pig. My brother followed up by naming his "Hiffy".

Hiffy promptly died of distemper. Or something twitchy and gross, anyway. Here I think I'm checking to see if I can finish digging the tiny cemetary plot.

Hiffy was never replaced, because, as it turns out, ONE guinea pig is quite enough for any family. Those little fuckers are loud and obnoxious and produce an obscene amount of shit for such a small rodent, and they suffer from the same problem beavers do: their teeth never stop growing, so they have to chew on something to wear them down. Lacking any miniature trees, they gnaw constantly on their cage.

Or on the buttons on a remote control, or on the door frame, or on their owners.

Anyway, Meepsie lived an inordinately long time for a critter with a death wish - almost two years. I was pretty lazy about cleaning it's cage, and, like I said - lots of poop. So my Dad eventually insisted the beast and it's pungent cage stay outside, which is easy to do in New Zealand, except for - oops! - that one night where it gets a little TOO cold. Cold enough for a rodent that was past it's expiry date to, well, expire.

I think my Dad felt a little bad about that one.

You know what, Dad? DON'T.

A hungry rain and yes, more zombies: Random Tuesday Thoughts

What time is it, kids?

Why, it's time for Random Tuesday Thoughts!

What does that mean, kids?

It means y'all get out your number 2 pencils, scribble down some incohesive thoughts on a cocktail napkin, and then turn them into a post! And then add the fugly purple button, and leave the link to your post in a comment so we can all check you out!

(No, I haven't forgiven Mr. Linky yet. Maybe next week).

Ready? Randomize!

Anybody else get really squirrelly when they're hungry? Do you ever skip a meal and think, "Omg, I'm going to be SO crabby later," and then later you're all, "GAH everybody is SO STUPID and I am SO IRRITATED and IT'S NOT BECAUSE I'M HUNGRY SO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!". And then you eat a huge meal and you're still crabby as shit so you feel vindicated. Like, "See? It wasn't because I was hungry, everybody really IS super irritating!"?

No, I'm not cranky. That isn't the POINT. Shut UP.

I'm reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Some former friends of mine gave it to me as a belated birthday present. Inside the cover they wrote, "To Keely. We're sorry. Love, Friends who used to be on the Christmas list".

Yeah. Sure they are.

Anyway, no nightmares so far. It's kind of a silly read, and there's some humor to it ("The creatures were crawling on their hands and knees, biting into ripe heads of cauliflower, which they had mistaken for stray brains"), so it's not completely terrifying. It reminds me of Shaun of the Dead, which I foolishly saw in the theatre, and wasn't scared a bit until 3/4 of the way through when the zombies pulled some dude through a window and ripped his stomach open. Then I was all, "Oh holy shit this is a ZOMBIE movie!!".

No zombie nightmares since reading the book, but I had a doozy a few days before. I was standing in a graveyard on the edge of a swamp. Someone came up behind me and I just about took their head off. (Because apparently I have swapped my terrified attempts to barricade windows for uber zombie-slayerness. )

It turned out to be my mother. Alive.

I was ecstatic to see her but suddenly realized we were surrounded. I could only leave the way I came, over the swamp in a skiff, but I couldn't put two people in it without capsizing it (and leaving us both prey for zombies above and below). So I had to leave my Mom in a graveyard, up a tree, surrounded by zombies.

(Oedipus had fewer issues than me, apparently).

I rushed the skiff back to base camp, which was an adobe fortress built into a hill, and pounded on the door. Guess who let me in?

Casey.

We took the 50s-style pickup truck/tow truck overland back to rescue my Mom. I'm going to assume we got there in time, because that's when I woke up.

(Sorry, Mom).

I have an ultrasound tomorrow for no happy reason (it's to eliminate any potential weirdness/cysts that might be causing my premature spiral into hell menopausalness). I'm dreading it, because, y'know, CYSTS and OVARIES. But also because it's one of those really fun ones you have to endure with your back teeth floating. "Drink at least a litre at least an hour before your appointment," they say.

Which would probably be tolerable if they were on time.

Magic 8-Ball says, ALL SIGNS POINT TO NO.

I wonder if it needs to be water? I bet drinking a litre of wine an hour before would make it a lot more fun. Or vomituous. Either way.

The Inaugural Run for our relay marathon training didn't happen today, either. Yes, it was pouring rain all day, but our Fearless Leader Trainer Lady was incommunicado, too.

That can't be a good sign, can it? If the trainer doesn't feel like training? I'm kind of getting that 'doomy' feeling about this whole project.

And, y'know, I could work out on my own, but I'm busy writing for YOUR amusement. You'd think you guys would be more grateful.

(Pouts fetchingly).

What's that? You are grateful? Prove it, then - grab the button, write your RTT post, and leave your link in the comments! Happy Tuesday!

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HASAY update, and some ducks

Today was supposed to be our first 'group run' (ie, 'find out how out of shape you really are') to kick off our training program for the relay marathon. However, it's been raining and close to freezing for 3 days, so it was called on account of wimpiness postponed until tomorrow.

(It's great weather, if you're a duck. Apparently the ducks got that memo, because when I got into my car this afternoon, this is what I saw:

Trust me, my lawn is not normally duck habitat.)

Anyway, I've still been hitting the treadmill and have added some cross-training courtesy of the new Wii game EA Active. It kicks Maya's butt - and mine - all over the place, and it's a lot more fun. So far the workouts lean heavily towards the leg/glute end of things, which is good, and also OW. Really, really OW. Jumping lunges? Jumping squats? Followed by more squats and oh! hey! Maybe some lunges?

I never thought I'd be begging for an ab exercise.

You're probably wondering when the 'fun' part comes in. The squats and lunges are not a party unto themselves, but they're sometimes disguised as games like inline skating, and mixed in with 'for fun' games like baseball that keep your heart rate up.

So, fitness is going well. And, uh, look! We're out of time, we can't talk about the food.

Move along, nothing to see here.

Go and lay on the couch and feel sorry for yourself, dammit!

On Tuesday I had a minor vent about our ninja office manager and how trying to keep the workplace running in her absence was virtually impossible.

Can I take that back? Floundering around, appearing like an idiot to clients, and spending an hour tracking down one single work order is INFINITELY preferable to listening to her wheeze and cough and attempt to convince people she isn't contagious.

Seriously - my biggest office pet peeve EVER. If you're sick - keep your disease-ridden carcass at home where it belongs, thankyouveryfuckingmuch. I don't need to quail at the sound of a ringing phone, wondering whether you answered it last and how big of a loogie you hawked up onto the receiver.

Also? If I bring home last month's pig-flu-du-jour because YOU "need to work", I'll be pissed.

I mean, at least make it something with some retro cool appeal, like the bubonic plague, or ergotism.

Or leprosy. Now there's a sexy disease.

I feel all headachey and tickly in my throat now. And my fingers feel perilously close to falling off.

Damn office ninjas.

Things you shouldn't do when your girlfriend or boyfriend says "I love you" for the first time

1. Wait 3 days before saying it back, "just to fuck with them".

2. Say "I know."

3. Reply with, "Elephant Shoes, too".

4. If it's over the phone, don't use the excuse "Um, yeah....I'm in a room full of other guys?" to not say it back.

5. Say "That's nice!"

6. Start looking at your watch and checking your (fictional) pager nervously.

7. Jump straight to, "Great! I want 8 kids, how about you?"

8. Whine, "If you really loved me you'd give me head."



(It's entirely possible that I've been the recipient of all or most of those responses at some point. Maybe. Not from hubby, which is one of the many reasons why HE WINS).

(Posted at the implied request of Sprite's Keeper, in conjunction with this week's Spin Cycle)

The ninja office manager stole my chocolate cake: Random Tuesday Thoughts

The Tuesdays, they just keep coming! They're coming out of the WALLS, man! This isn't happening - game over, man, game OVER!

Okay, I'm being a little dramatic. But it does sort of seem like it was JUST Tuesday. You know, like 6 days ago.

So that means it's time to whoop it up again! Grab the fugly button, type out a blabbering post, and then leave your link in the comments! BECAUSE I AM SO DONE WITH MR. LINKY. I'm too fucking old to be giving people 3rd and 4th chances, y'know? We'll just kick it old-school, we're awesome like that.

Are you seated comfortably? Then let's begin.

I don't have any wine left and I don't feel like drinking vodka (I know, right? I checked - I'm not running a fever). So I made a chocolate cake to compensate. But no icing. Because I'm a health nut.

Today sucked at work and tomorrow will suck twice as much (because I work twice as many hours). The office manager, who is one of those people who somehow does like 3 jobs and is the lynchpin of the operation, is out with pneumonia. She's a lovely person and does a great job but the woman is a fucking ninja. She hoards information, she leaves no paper trail. So nobody can do her job in her absence because we don't know where anything is, which clients have been told what, or what product is hiding where.

We get it, lady - you're indispensable. Now get over yourself and write shit down!

Ninja Office Managers - might make a good YouTube video but otherwise not all they cracked up to be.

Happiness is a warm chocolate cake.

What does that even mean, "all they cracked up to be"? That phrase doesn't make any sense.

Search strings by which people found this blog (and sometimes even stayed to read):

"Aquanet bangs"

"Chick finds random nerd and fucks him"

"Do mangos have a funny smell"

"How to electrify my existing chainlink fence"

"My small dog is leaking my legs and I wonder is normal because I don't feel well when he does"

"skinny girls drink pee"

....and a LOT of people with an Oedipus complex.

Like, really. A LOT.

I'm not sure which is more depressing, that there are so many people who want to screw their own mother or that I could maybe get skinny if I could stoop to drinking my own urine.

After stating yesterday that I could run, MAXIMUM, for 12 minutes on the treadmill, today I ran 13.5. I went to the gym with Fashionista, who, after I had announced my marathon intentions, gave me a perplexed look and said,

"But you don't trust people who run."

This is true. I've often made that statement. Now, however, I'm going to amend it to "I don't trust people who ENJOY running". Because even if I manage 10k without killing myself, I will NEVER be convinced that it's enjoyable.

It's that, or admit to some serious psychological issues. I don't have the money to fix those, so I'll just adjust my blanket statements accordingly.

That's like the first time in over a month that I've seen Fashionista. I miss her. We used to breathe each other's air practically 24-7, but then we got busy. Then I had a kid and got REALLY busy. And wondered how the hell I ever thought I was busy BEFORE. Now she's pregnant with her first and says she's busy a lot, and it's all I can do to refrain from saying, "Oh, you think you're busy NOW?". Because I don't want to be that person. Even though I am totally that person, but I remember being the OTHER kind of person. The no-kids-thinks-she's-busy kind.

Anyway, she'll find out eventually.

I'll probably never see her again.

After specifically taking a day off work last week to plant my garden, thinking I was leaving it too late and omg what if nothing grows, it's supposed to FREEZE tonight. IN JUNE.

I fucking hate this province.

So now I have to go out and put old sheets over my garden beds, like they're having a nap or something (maybe I should leave them an alarm clock? Set it for July, when it might be warm?), except I don't have any old sheets, so I just have to use our regular ones and pretend the reason they're dirty is because I suck at laundry.

Which, coincidentally, is entirely believable.

(columbian drug lord accent)Once, there was a mouse. I keeled him. He had a little friend. I keeled his little friend, too. They will keep coming, and I will keel them all. There will be no more mousie friends, there will only be me. So run, leetle mousies. Run. (/columbian drug lord accent)

Aaaannnnddd, that's a wrap, people! Great work! Hand in your assignments, don't dawdle, and we'll see you all next week!

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(Don't forget to leave your link in the comments so we can all visit you. And Mr. Linky? If you're out there? Eff you, man. Eff you.)

Run away! Run away!

Starting next Sunday, FoN's Trainer Lady has developed a 12-week training program for those of us participating in the relay marathon. It appears both challenging and completely fucking terrifying. All at once!

Each of us will run approximately 10k. (Except for the woman who claimed the 3k portion, the lucky lazy beyotch).

Right now, I can run - absolute maximum - for 12 minutes. On the TREADMILL, mind you.

I am so totally, royally, screwed.

Send booze.