Because if you don't, they might "sue" you

I bet I know how they're planning to ship my million dollars: Random Tuesday Thoughts

So! It's Tuesday.

What's new with you?

I just got an email. All it said was this:

You have won £1,000,000 pounds Reply us your Name:Country:Sex

It's like they're not even trying anymore. All the passion has gone out of the relationship, I tell ya.

I have a bone to pick with a certain delivery company. I won't say who, but their initials are U, P, and S.

What the fuck, guys? You attempted to deliver my package, and we weren't home. So you left a polite little note saying you'd try again the following day, between 2 & 5, or after 5. I made sure hubby was home at 2.

You showed up at 12:30. And left another little note, saying you'd try again the following day, between 2 & 5, or after 5. Hubby was home all day and yet, when I got home from work, there it was, your pretty yellow note saying that this had been your final attempt (again, at 12:20, do you need a fucking watch?), and you were shipping my package back. Hello? You can cough politely outside our door and the dog loses her mind, so you couldn't have tried that hard to deliver my Earth boots.

Mama needs her footwear.

So I logged on to your website to see if I could pick them up at your store but no, I got nothing but error messages. I called your phone number and a lovely automaton informed me that because there were brokerage fees owing, for some reason that means they have to be shipped straight back. That very same day. She asked if I needed to hear that information again, and I said "No! I need you to not fucking ship them back!"

Stepford Customer Service replied, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that."

Clearly. I can't seem to speak to a human and my crack shoe dealer tells me that was the LAST PAIR. They will try to ship them back to me but can't guarantee anything.

What are the chances they'll use the same fucking shipping company?

Anyway. Happy Thoughts! Pretty Things! Gorgeous illustrations by my friend Akiko!

I just realized I only have a partial-feed thingy going on this blog. Yeah, I have this interwebby dealie mastered.

The program of stretches and strength-training exercises that Trainer Lady gave me is like, 15 pages long. I did it yesterday. Can't I be fixed now?

I should probably go do that. What's random (or ranty) in your world? Link up, interwebby people!

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A pox! A pestilence! A lack of Raaaaiiiiid!

Last year, we suffered a scourge of wasps. This year, the infestation appears to be flies.

Not the big, fat black flies that herald the presence of Beelzebub, but the smaller, more obnoxious kind. And they brought their underage cousins, the fruit flies, to the party. It's like Satan Lite around here.

I've no idea where they're coming from, if it's just a seasonal thing or what. Having a toddler who likes to hide his snacks probably doesn't help, but the dog is pretty on top of that situation, so I'm sure it's not just us. But you can't exactly ask around about these things, because inquiring as to whether your neighbours are also suffering from these tiny winged demons is tantamount to admitting that you're the worlds worst housekeeper. Which I am. But I have a cleaning service for that.

(I apparently don't feel the same kind of shame about admitting these things to you guys, though. You all seem incapable of judging me. Some days, I thoroughly expect to be judged, and then you're all supportive and "Oh, NO, honey, EVERYBODY has gross kitchen sinks and mice and drinks too much wine. You're fine." I kind of wonder if you're just speaking gently to me like you would someone who was a little simple, or standing on a window ledge or holding a knife to a kittens throat.)

Anyway. We have those really classy sticky strips hanging everywhere, but mostly I'm just waiting it out. Because in a few weeks, the temperature will plummet and nothing but the crazy and the well-insulated will survive.

It's pretty much the only good thing about living here in the winter.

Ex-Boyfriend Greatest Hits: The Manipulative A-hole

(This is Part 3 in a series I've been writing, summing up my past relationships ala High Fidelity. If you're just catching up, you may want to read about All My Highschool Boyfriends and Party Guy. Not that they're crucial to the plot or anything, but they ARE funnier.)


I've actually been procrastinating writing this post. Not because it's so painful to re-live or anything, but just because I can't figure out how to make it funny. I've gotten over it, but that doesn't mean I've figured out how to laugh about it.

Also, this douchewaffle doesn't really deserve the screentime. I considered skipping him altogether, but it was a 3 year relationship and it was rather...defining.

I've already referenced this guy once here, and I dubbed him Pilot Boy. There are lots of other things I could call him, but we'll stick with that. I started dating Pilot Boy shortly after I came back from college, after a 3-year hiatus from relationships altogether. Like Party Guy, Pilot Boy was popular. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and in addition to beginning his career as a pilot, he was a bartender at THE nightclub that everyone went to on Saturday nights.

C'mon, cool guys that can get you free booze? That's pretty much where it's at when you're 23.

Anyway, I should have dumped him way earlier, like when he informed me himself that he was arrogant - as though that were a good personality trait. I should have dumped him after 6 months of dating, when he showed up to my birthday celebration 12 HOURS LATE. But he was just that good. I don't consider myself a stupid person, or a weak-willed person, or a person with particularly low self-esteem. But Pilot Boy made me all of those things. For three years.

Giving you a blow-by-blow seems rather pointless, and needlessly lengthy. I starved myself, because he called me chubby (which I most certainly was not). I drifted away from my friends, because they insisted on telling me the truth about his cheating and lies. In the face of a reliable eyewitness account that he had been holding another girls hand all afternoon at a public festival, he told me: "Well, they're lying. I was there with her, but the only time I held her hand was when she tripped and fell and I helped her up." And I bought it. I bought it all.

When I finally - finally! - woke up, I tried to break it off several times. He always convinced me that I was being ridiculous, that I was wrong. That what I was feeling was incorrect, somehow. All I had to do to get it right was to try harder. Didn't I want to get it right?

Eventually I got tired of trying to get it right. I didn't give a flying fuck HOW useless of a human being I was, I just didn't want to be in this stupid relationship anymore. And when I tried to break it off yet again, and he went on his same verbal tirade about what was wrong with me, I felt all the frustration and anger and resentment build up in my chest, and I pushed it out through my fist. Into his jaw.

Okay, so I sucker punched him. It wasn't my classiest move, but it got the message across. There were further meetings and discussions and pointless accusations, but really it all ended with that flat thwock of skin and bone.

I realize it sounds like I'm bitter, and it's true that I wouldn't cross the street to piss on him if he were on fire. But I've moved past it, and I learned from it. I wouldn't trade that experience for the world, because it helped to define several major tenets by which I now live my life:

You can't change someone, no matter how badly you want to. You have to pick your battles. Emotions aren't right or wrong, they're valid no matter what they are. And you can't let, or expect, someone else to define you. I lost sight of that, but I never will again.

I also learned that I truly have the best friends anyone could ask for. Many years later (and after a few drinks) FoN confessed to me that a couple of times, in a valiant effort to PROVE to me that Pilot Boy was cheating on me, she and Valentina went on late-night stakeouts. They borrowed an unrecognizeable car, donned their dark clothes and packed a thermos of coffee, and stalked him.

Now THAT makes it totally worthwhile.

I got nothing. Babies have better moves than me. They probably have better blogs, too.

It's sad when babies have all that talent and no taste, y'know?


(Totally kidding, Beyonce. Call me.)

Project "I've got to be related to royalty somehow" begins. Sort of.

So after declaring my intentions to trace my family tree in my post yesterday, I suddenly remembered that my Mom had taken a course in geneaology a while back, and gathered a bunch of information. So I called her up to see what she knew, and whether I could steal it.

Because I'm lazy efficient like that.

My Mom wasn't home - she was at a drumming class or some such - so I asked Dad if she'd gotten far with it. He said she had a huge chart, and was filling in information as she went. It was probably best if I looked at it myself rather than relying on him for information. Because, as he said, he "Didn't know much, but -- "

Then he launched into a 20-minute diatribe, full of such fascinating tidbits as: Mom's side were predominantly Highland crofters who were ousted en masse by the British and migrated to Canada; my paternal great-grandfather was the seventh son of a seventh son and was killed when a horse kicked him in the head; my maternal grandfather was an orphan; much of my father's family information was lost when the family Bible was lost in a fire; and it's entirely possibly we're related to a US president.

Holy shit, y'all. I think there's a reason most people do this when they're older. They're retired. They have the TIME.

I'm starting to think "learn Japanese" would have been an easier choice from my bucket list.

I went an entire evening without internet, and I have a lot of pent-up thoughts: Random Tuesday Thoughts

I think you know what to do.

Wow, only two posts between now and LAST Tuesday. That's pretty lame. In my defense, I had a seriously sub-par mediocre post planned for yesterday but Mother Nature intervened and dropped a tree on the power lines. I think it's her way of paying you all back for the sucktastic summer.

I've never had my power go out like that before. It scared the shit out of me, because I heard a huge buzzing and the lights all dimmed and sputtered but didn't go out. Then half of the lights in the house went out, and I could smell something burning. Most sensible people, given that it was windy and storming out, would probably look outside, but next to zombies, my biggest fear is that the wiring in my 55-year-old house is going to short out someday and burn us to the ground.

(Except for the stupid dog, who will somehow escape the inferno and live to return and piss on our ashes for never taking her for walks.)

(Uh, I didn't say it was an entirely rational fear.)

So I did the grown-up thing, and called my dad.

Dad said call the power company. Duh.

Ever tried to entertain a toddler in a rapidly-darkening house? Yeah, I didn't even try. We left the terrified dog in the pitch black and went for a drive.

See, it's not totally irrational to think the dog hates me.

Disney princesses, "Keely" style. Y'know, if I'd thought of it first. I think Beauty is my fave.

The stretches Trainer Lady gave me to do for my back are helping, a lot. So much so, that on Saturday I experimentally weeded a tiny bit of garden - without pain. Holy shit! So I weeded some more, thinking the whole time that I probably shouldn't be pushing it, I should quite while I'm ahead, I'm being a fucking idiot. I weeded for probably 1/2 an hour.

Guess what I got on Sunday? Confirmation that I'm a fucking idiot.

Consensus on my totally informal poll (which I almost forgot about. Who's taking bets on whether or not I actually finish this little project?) was, shockingly, "trace my family tree". Which has appeal, mostly because I can do a lot of it without leaving this comfy chair right here. But...do you really want me to BLOG about it? Boooo-rrrriiing. So I'm throwing "see a ghost" in there. Or at least I'll attempt to.

I will probably drag FoN along, because I'm a big chickenshit.

Wow, I was a fucking idiot AND a chickenshit, all within two paragraphs. I'm feeling self-disparaging, apparently, so I'm going to stop there. Want to play? You don't have to say mean things about yourself. Or me, for that matter. Grab the button and link up!

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Ex-Boyfriend Greatest Hits: The Party Guy

If you missed the All My Highschool Boyfriends post, I'm recapping my dating history now that I'm set to get married (sometime in 2016, when I get around to planning a wedding), a la High Fidelity. This was FoN's idea, and I suggest you steal it, because I don't want to be the only person standing here looking like a ho, okay?

Shortly before I graduated high school, I started dating the Party Guy.

Party Guy was fun. Party Guy had parties. Party Guy was, well, a party unto himself. Party Guy was popular.

Party Guy did entertaining things like entice large groups of people to wear ridiculous costumes in public for no good reason. He bought dry ice to put in drinks just for the novelty, had the biggest stereo system on the block, and had a beach volleyball court in his backyard. Party Guy made me mix tapes and called me the "perfect person". He helped me paint my first car plaid.

Party Guy was also 7 years older than me and already owned his own Party House. I'm sure my parents were horrified, but they held their tongues. At least until I declared my intentions to move in with him. Then they felt the need to lodge a protest, to beg me to promise them that I wasn't going to blow off an education and catch The Pregnant, or anything.

I scoffed. DUH. I wasn't planning to do that at ALL, I was in it for the party. So I packed up my teenage stuff and moved into Party House.

Turns out? Actually living in a Party House makes it much less of a party. Party Guy hosted Thursday Night Live each week, where people would regularly stay until 5 and 6 am. You know, about two hours before I had to be at WORK, now that I was living in the real world. People played beach volleyball all weekend and never left. Party Guy also had to keep a roomate around to supplement his lifestyle and his choices were...eccentric, ranging from a Greenpeace worker (and, generally, all of her friends) to a born-again Christian who had recently been dumped by her boyfriend after he'd discovered she had faked her pregnancy.

So, after about a year of living in Party House, the party was over for me. I told Party Guy that I was going to move out, and since I was doing that anyway, it was probably best that we break up.

Apparently, performing 24-7 as Party Guy leads to a lack of emotional growth, because Party Guy suddenly became a lot less fun. He drunk-dialed me regularly, and showed up outside my parents house at 3am wailing my name (my father very kindly drove him home and explained the facts of life to him, probably not as kindly). He called me and implied that he was committing suicide. Because I'm not totally soulless, I drove to his house in a panic and found him passed out, an empty bottle of pills in his hand.

The EMT guy told me, after I dialled 911 and brought the whole reponse team out, that Party Guy hadn't actually taken anything. He was just drunk.

I solved the Party Guy situation the only way I knew how - by moving away to college. Where I stayed single. The whole damn time.

But hey - I learned how to Party.

It's amazing they let me procreate at all, really

So I was going to sit down this evening and write the next post in the ex-boyfriend series, except that I had this...DAY...today. You know the type. I spent the majority of my afternoon dealing with a client who I will not go into much detail about. I will simply say that her last name rhymes with Penis, and she has clearly been so scarred by that tragic coincidence that it has rendered her a lying, shrewish, demanding bitch who is full of self-loathing, and completely incapable of carrying on a civil conversation without mentioning at least three times that people are NOT supposed to call her on her work cel phone, and why can't they just manage to get along without her very important self?

Her: "Well, it's about TIME you got it right. They are supposed to be WHITE. All the other ones are WHITE. I don't know why that was so hard, I never agreed to the GREY, they're obviously WHITE."

Me: (thinks) Why don't we have video surveillance so I could play you the tape of you agreeing to the GREY?

Her: (phone rings) "Why do they keep calling me on this phone? They're not supposed to. Can't they figure it out on their own?"

Me: (mutters) "I bet you wouldn't be such a bitch if your name didn't rhyme with penis."

Her: "WHAT?"

Me: (brightly) "I said 'Have a nice day, Mrs. Lenus'!"

(Yes, I am actually 8 years old)

Then shortly before I was ready to leave for the day I got a text from my hairdresser, inquiring as to whether I might have forgotten that I was supposed to be sitting in her chair at that very instant?

Shit.

Two minutes after THAT I got a text from hubby saying "Um, the crockpot isn't actually turned ON...". Great. Now I have split ends AND a whole raw chicken that has been sitting on my kitchen counter for eight hours.

And then Trainer Lady worked me over. This isn't actually a bad thing, as she's a physio trainer and she's trying to help me overcome my gimpy back, so I can get back to working out or maybe even running again. But this was my initial assessment, and a few simple tests and some really painful stretches pointed out just HOW gimpy I actually am.

So now I'm sitting here with a glass of wine and a box of Robax Platinum.

The end.

I didn't use a sniper rifle on the mouse but I'm ready to upgrade: Random Tuesday Thoughts

So, it's Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday. It's kind of like Marsha Marsha Marsha, but far less annoying. Especially now that there's Random Tuesday Thoughts! Want to play? Grab the button, spew your own brain bits and bobs, and link up!

My back problems have not improved - in fact, it's gotten worse. So I'm in the market for a new back and probably a hip.

(The black market. Obviously.)

I'm going to need a lot of extra cash to fund this little endeavour. The only way I can think of to make that much money at once is to a) turn a lot of tricks or b) live the dream and become an assassin. Option A is kind of out, because of the whole hip thing (also the whole "I'm supposed to be someone's wife and mother and an upstanding citizen" thing, but mostly the hip), so does anybody have someone they need whacked?

Hm. Actually, if I'm offing people anyway...and I make sure it's a head shot and not through the torso...

You know what? Never mind.

Last week Valentina and I got bored and crabby at work, so we decided to go on a Slurpee run.

(We go on a LOT of Slurpee runs.)

I drove and when we got back to the vehicle with our purchases, I had to clear the debris out of the console to make room for the Slurpees because I'm a fucking slob and my car is a contaminated zone. I picked up a Tim Horton's Ice Capp cup, in which there was about 2" of liquid. Oh, and also a dead mouse.

Despite my status as Triumphant Mouse Hunter, I am still grossed out by this. I mean, what if I had unthinkingly taken a sip? What if it was there the whole time?

Bleaaaaaahhhhuhuuhuuhuhuuuhuhuuhuh.

I don't think I've ever mentioned that Valentina and I work for the same company, but Valentina and I work for the same company. I worked there first, but she's worked there longer. Whee! Fun with math!

Animals. With lightsabers. Need I say more?

The voting seems pretty evenly divided on yesterday's post ("what project should Keely tackle and blog about?"). I would just like to reiterate at this point that I'm a complete godless heathen, so the singing in a gospel choir thing might be...awkward. Or burst-into-flamesy. Either way, it'll probably be good video.

And...that is all. Randomize and link up! Oh, and leave a comment if you want someone whacked. I'm pretty sure that would never stand up in a court of law.

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Yes, generally I DO need someone to tell me what to do

A while back I saw the movie Julie & Julia with FoN. The book was very endearing, you should definitely read it. I'd recommend the movie if you really, literally, absolutely have nothing else to do. Like, your chequebook is balanced and the recycling is sorted and you've taught your dog to let himself out and take himself for a walk.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, if you haven't seen it or read the book (did I mention you should read the book, not see the movie?), is that it's about a blogger. A woman who cooks her way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking over the course of a year, and blogs about it.

(And then she turned it into a book. Sheer. Genius.)

I remember thinking back to that book when I started this blog, and thinking that I should really have something like that, some kind of challenge or 'theme'. Rather than just yammering on about nothing. Because I think Seinfeld already did that. But I never came up with a good goal, so I just started with the yammering. (You're welcome.)

The movie reminded me, obviously. And I still can't come up with a good theme. But a while back I posted my List of Things to do Before I Die, so in the interest of keeping you people entertained, I'm going to pick one and just launch into it. We're kind of broke right now, so unless you want to read a whole series of posts about fundraisers so I can go to Egypt, here's what's in the running:

#23, Learn to 'sideways stop' on hockey skates (the potential for many a bruised butt in this one. No, I won't post pictures)

#25, Learn sign language (I can already flip you off! I'm a frigging natural)

#36, See a ghost (I could get Frogmama's hubby to help me with this one)

#44, Trace my family tree (Oh holy crap wouldn't THAT be thrilling for y'all? WE MIGHT BE RELATED. Scarier than the ghost)

#108, Take over a small island in a bloodless coup. Use the natives as foot soldiers in my bid to conquer the world

(How did THAT get in there?)

or #61, Sing in a gospel choir.

And, because I'm incapable of making any kind of decision without asking the Internet first, I need your vote. I'd leave your vote in a comment, because I'll probably never get around to making a poll. Wait, will I?

(Asks the internet)

Nope. Please comment.

Ex-Boyfriend Greatest Hits: A series in, um, let's say 5 parts

So, not having a lot of blogging mojo lately, I turned to my usual muse: FoN.

"I need a blog subject," I whined. Last time I did this, she suggested the masterpiece (snort) that was Are You Dissin' My Man. This time, she did me one better:

"Why don't you do an old boyfriend review, ala High Fidelity? You're getting married now, so you can reflect."

Well that's just...fucking brilliant! And highly embarrassing. Really, her talents are wasted working for the government. She oughta be in show business, pitching ideas for reality tv.

So I'm going to list them in chronological order and kick off this little project with All The Guys I Dated in High School. FoN suggested amalgamating them all into one, globular Highschool Boyfriend, but while I didn't date any of them for long, and they do tend to blend together sometimes, they all played their specific role. There was:

FIRST BOYFRIEND WHO WAS ALSO EVERYBODY ELSE'S FIRST BOYFRIEND. You know the type - targets girls who are new to the scene and just blanket bombs them all with affection until one takes the bait. And then, when they figure out he's kind of an idiot (usually about 3 weeks), moves on quickly to the next one and professes his undying love on her doorstep. My First Boyfriend was also my best friend's First Boyfriend, and the First Boyfriend of another girl in our circle of friends. After First Boyfriend, there was:

FIRST OLDER BOYFRIEND WHO WASN'T THAT GOOD LOOKING OR INTERESTING EITHER BUT HEY, HE WAS OLDER. Like, 5 years older and able to drink legally. I often wonder how badly my mom had to bite her tongue about this. It took me a lot longer to figure out First Older Boyfriend was also an idiot, because hey! He was older. And had a car and parents who were rarely home. He spent a lot of the time his parents weren't home inviting me over and pressuring me to sleep with him. No, thanks. I'm saving myself for:

REALLY HOT CRUSH WHO FEIGNS INTEREST BUT ONLY WHEN HIS SLUTTY GIRLFRIEND IS UNAVAILABLE, REPEATEDLY BREAKING MY HEART. He had warm brown eyes, long brown hair and looked smokin' in tight jeans and hightop sneakers. Do we need more details? No. I would have given it up for him, but couldn't acquire an appropriate venue (satin sheets covered in rose petals) before his on-again, off-again slut girlfriend came to her senses and stole him back. Crushed, I swore off hot bad boys and set my sights on:

THE NICE NEW GUY AT SCHOOL. Actually, it didn't hurt that he was hot, too. He was 6 feet tall and had hair like CC from Poison. Swoon. But he really was a nice guy. A nice, intelligent, funny, caring guy. So, naturally, I kicked him to the curb. Because this was high school, duh. And I was perplexed by a boyfriend who didn't try to stick his hand down my pants at every awkward opportunity.

(Later, when Nice Guy went into Theatre in university, we all nodded knowingly. Of course! Nobody straight was that nice. But now he's married to a lovely woman, and he became a cop. Whoops. That'll teach us for being stereotyping assholes.)

Somewhere around this point I decided that virginity was an overrated commodity, and to hell with satin sheets and fucking rose petals. So I ended up with:

THE "FIRST" GUY, WINK WINK NUDGE NUDGE KNOWWHATIMEAN. I dated him for about 3 weeks. At the first available opportunity - the back room at a loud house party - I let him get me naked. I think I saw him twice after that. One of those times was like 3 weeks later, when, after not calling me for 2 of those weeks, he came to my house to tell me I was a slut because he'd heard I was making out with some other guy at the drive-in. Which, y'know, was true. But in my defense, two weeks is a LONG time in the high school dating world. I'd assumed he was dead.

With that pesky hymen out of the way, it paved the road for all kinds of dating opportunities.

So of course I stayed single until just before graduation. THAT guy will be the next in this series. When I get around to it.

If you scream in cyberspace, does anybody care?

If somebody broke the internet, how long would it take us to find out what happened?

Think about it. I logged on to my work computer this morning, and launched my browser, only to get a Site Not Found message. Google: Site Not Found. Hotmail: Site Not Found. Facebook: Site Not Found.

Hm. Okay. No big panic.

(Well maybe a small panic)

The network is probably down. I'll just check the wireless connection. I mean, I'm sure it's just MY computer, although it could be the whole office. Or the whole block, maybe someone cut a cable. Or - IT COULD BE THE WHOLE INTERNET. OH HOLY CRAP, SOME SADISTIC BASTARD BROKE THE INTERNET.

Because those are the kinds of conclusions I jump to before I've had any coffee.

(And yes, I'm blogging from work. I'm on a coffee break. SHUT UP, this is important.)

Anyway, obviously I got my internet back. But not before I thought about how I get the entirety of my information - the internet, of course. Stuff I see on the news and hear on the radio I've usually already read on the internet, at least two days earlier. If someone broke the internet, it could be MONTHS before the news got here via carrier pigeon. And then - gasp! - someone might have to tell me face to face.

How unreliable is THAT?

Anyway, I'm very sorry if I've scared you. I've had my coffee now, I'm all better. Back to you regularly scheduled programming.

(*shudder*)

Oh, wait, I DO know you - you're that guy with the clown tied up in his garage! (Random Tuesday Thoughts)

Long weekend? Yay! Long weekend, forgot it was Tuesday - Booo! Long weekend, followed by 4 long days at the office instead of the 4(ish) hours I'm used to? BOOO-URNS.

Anyway. It's Tuesday! You know what to do! And if you don't....well, my back still really hurts and I've had a couple of glasses of wine. Ask someone else. Surely ONE of these fine people won't leave you hanging.

After complaining (loudly) for several days about how much my back hurts, I wandered into the bathroom rubbing my eye while hubby was giving the kiddo a bath. "Ouch," I mumbled, reaching for the saline.

"Are you falling apart on me??" he demanded. In a tone that sounded distinctly like, "I have two years left on the warranty, for god's sake!"

Hmph. Surely there's at least THREE years left.

You know how you know you know someone, but you can't remember where you know them from originally, and they keep cropping up in your life in different contexts and you have this mental block about their name every time you see them, so you don't say anything, which makes you seem like a total asshole every single time because, obviously, you KNOW each other?

No? I'm the only one who can manage to be THAT socially inept? Fantastic.

Clowns are creepy. This guy is creepier.

Does anybody else Freecycle? Does anybody else grind their teeth when people fail to pick up their stuff, or offer an excuse or an apology? IT'S FREE, for fuck's sake. You don't even have to talk to me! Just pick it up, because the neighbours are starting to wonder.

One of the things that sucks about my dysfunctional back is that I can't sit and draw for more than, oh, five minutes. It sucks. I was kind of on a roll, there. I really did intend to enter the 'Draw 50 girls 50' contest. And I've asked Churchpunkmom and Onlyaman to come up with a new blog design for me, but it sort of hinges on me actually DRAWING something.

And that's about all I can sit still for this week, folks. Unless I medicate myself more heavily, in which case I'll be totally incoherent anyway.

(Okay, who said "what's new about that?"? I heard you, there in the back.)

So saddle up! There's no recourse! Go kill someone, signed Bad Horse! Git yer Random on, little cowpokes!

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The mosquitoes are trying to tell me something in their tiny, annoying voices. Like Fran Drescher tried, before I punched her in the throat.

Our summer has been so fucked up. All our lovely hot 30 degree* weather, which usually happens in July and August, is showing up NOW, long after everybody's gone back to school and taken their vacations from work. And where mosquitoes normally plague us in June and July, this year they're having an autumn feast.

After less than an hour in the garden yesterday, I came inside with 10 large welts. Seven of them were on my ASS.

What the fuck, mosquitoes? Is it that large of a target? No - wait - don't tell me - it's so big you got sucked into its gravitational pull?

Fucking mosquitoes.

I'm going to just assume that mosquitoes have great taste, because despite the fact that I've completely fallen off the exercise bandwagon, I still feel great, my clothes still fit (mostly) and I have a couple of fairly valid excuses as to why I'm watching said bandwagon disappear over the horizon.

Mostly, and I'll just get this out of the way right now, it's that I'm just a terrible human being who had four desserts today. But also, I had to stop running because I screwed up my back. Again.

Me and my back have a rather rocky history. It started when I was in university and I was doing a lot of pottery, and all the time spent hunched over the throwing wheel sent my (supposedly youthful and pliant) back muscles into spasm. I spent several months in physio, but it's been a bit of an albatross ever since, and it often derails my exercising efforts. One of the more memorable is pre-child, when I was playing squash daily with FoN, and while showering off after one game I innocently bent to pick up the shampoo. When I stood back up something went POP.

POP is a good sound when associated with kernels, or bubbles. Not spines. That unhappy incident introduced me to my chiropractor, with whom I am now on a first name basis.

(His name is Bill. In case you were wondering.)

So I wasn't kidding a month or so ago when I said that in order to go running, I needed to visit the chiropractor at least once a week. It was getting closer to twice a week, and it was getting kind of fucking pricey. And then it wasn't keeping the pain at bay, so I had to stop running.

I was still kind of enjoying running though**, so when I've done enough stretching and had enough visits to Bill, I keep trying again. And I then I'm reaching for the Aleve-Robaxacet cocktail, and voice-commanding my cel phone to "Call. Bill."

Anyway. I think I need to give up the marathon dream, and start looking at something that's a little more suited to my general personality. Low-impact and hippie-esh.

Yoga anyone?



*It's Celsius, I'm Canadian, just deal with it. It's about 86 F, plus.

**I know. I don't get it either.

4 readily-available beauty products that aren't trying to kill you or the environment, and actually work

I know, that was a long ass title. But that's really what these are. Do you know how much time I spend trying to find eco-friendly, low-toxicity products? And how much money I spend on them only to find out that they don't even fucking WORK? I swear "eco-friendly" is practically synonymous with "stupid and useless".

So here, you get the fruits of my labours. Some stuff I've found that actually works, you can find on your regular shopping trips, and won't make you (or our lovely green planet) die.

(Disclaimer: I mean from cancer or leprosy or something. I'm pretty sure if someone threw one of these at you hard enough, and hit you in the eyeball or groinal region, it might kill you. I'M TALKING REGULAR USAGE HERE, people. It's sad that I even have to write that disclaimer, and even more sad that I just chuckled at the mental image of someone impaled on a shampoo bottle.)

1. Tom's of Maine Lemongrass Deoderant. I'm pretty sure my Mom used to use this stuff, back when SHE was a hippie. So I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. I was afraid I'd smell like an army of Pledge, but it doesn't really smell like anything after you put it on. You still sweat. You just don't stink. Or increase your chances of Alzheimers or cancer.

I found it at Shopper's Drug Mart, but WalMart also carries it.

2. Burt's Bees Honey Lip Balm. I'm kinda picky about my lip gloss/balm. At one point I had an entire drawer full (that was, uh, pre-child. Now they're just choking/mess hazards). When I found out what went into a lot of them - YOU PUT THEM ON YOUR MOUTH, FOR THE LUVVA GAWD - I got even pickier. Burt's Bees works, tastes good, and you can find it practically everywhere. Shopper's, WalMart, Target.

3. Live Clean "Clean Air" Shampoo & Conditioner. Okay, I'm not sure how 'readily available' this one actually is to you Yanks. I think it's a Canadian company. But it's organic, vegan, sulfate & paraben free, and it actually cleans your hair. And smells pretty. WalMart carries it here in Canada. They have a baby line, too, which I haven't found or tried yet, and unfortunately the rest of their hair product line (mousse, hairspray) rates a good solid shrug.

4. Bare Escentuals Mineral Foundation. This may seem like a no-brainer - it's just minerals! - but it contains things like titanium dioxide that aren't super great to be inhaling, considering its powder form. But, otherwise, it's a freakin' miracle foundation. The infomercials are right. (I hate that.) You can find it at Sephora, or order it online.


That's certainly not all the products I've found that work, but they're in the few I've found at common retailers. So do me a favour, folks, since each and every one of you have touched my life, and I'd be really bummed if you caught The Cancer. Check out your local health food stores, and maybe try out a few of the products. If you find something that won't kill you and actually works, let us all know. Large retailers aren't going to carry that stuff unless we tell them to.

Aaaannnnd, that's me, off my soapbox for at least another month. Back to zombies, comics, and Advil-Robaxacet-red wine cocktails. Happy Friday, y'all.

Anyway, everybody knows creeps don't have access to the INTERNET

I've spent the last couple of weeks trying to find part-time daycare for my son. It's like tracking down the last fucking unicorn or comfortable pantyhose. It does not exist. He's been on the list for a couple of daycare centres for over a year and a half, but they don't take part-timers his age. And everyone else I've called either has no room, no room for his age, or they don't take part-timers either.

Or they just don't ever fucking call back. Which presumably means they don't have a spot, but I've spent a lot of time checking my cel phone, sitting by my cel phone, compulsively checking my email, thinking well surely they're busy with children it'll take a day or two, thinking but they seem perfect, surely they're going to call and offer an interview, for the luvva god why don't they call why don't they like me I'm likeable please please like me WAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Ahem.

Anyway, I've been searching a lot of home daycares on a local classifieds website. Dayhomes seem to be abundant and occasionally one will call me back. The Office Ninja was bemoaning her own daycare woes, trying to find somewhere to stash her 7-year-old after school, so I suggested the website (and dayhomes) to her.

She looked at me like I'd suggested her kid turn a few tricks while he waited.

"Just...somebody's house? Off a classifieds website??"

"Uh...yeah."

"That seems....really weird and creepy," she informed me, with a look of utter disdain.

"Oh? My brother and I did that all through elementary school. A woman who lived close to the school, we just went there for lunch and after school," I offered.

"And did your mom find her off a classifieds website?" the Office Ninja demanded, with about as much disdain as a person could feasibly cram into one sentence.

"Uh..no. She found her when I fell off a jungle gym in the playground and cracked my head, and I was crying so the daycare lady came out and took me into her house to call my Mom. Which, in this day and age, WOULD be creepy. But I'm sure if the website had existed back then with the dinosaurs, my Mom would be looking on it. Where would YOU look to find home daycares?"

"The newspaper," she informed me with a sniff.

Oh. Well, naturally. Because pedophiles who can afford the 30 bucks for a newspaper ad are so much less creepy than the ones who post on website classifieds?

(Does anyone even READ the newspaper anymore?)

It's like a train wreck, you can't look away and people get weirded out if you start going through pockets: Random Tuesday Thoughts

Yes, folks, it's that day again. Time to belly on up to the Random Tuesday bar and let me pour you a shot of whatthefuckisshetalkingabout. (It's new, just got put on the shelves.) Then keep the party happening on your own blogs!

So, Disney bought Marvel Entertainment. I wish I'd known it was for sale, I'm sure I have 4 billion laying around here someplace. But anyway, who wants to take bets on how long it takes for gay and bisexual characters like Northstar and Rictor to get unceremoniously shoved back in the closet? Not that Marvel had a ton of them to begin with. But they were making progress. I know Disney's all family-friendly; at least, if it's the right kind of family.

C'mon, someone prove me wrong here.

On the other hand, hopefully this means they'll stop attempting to make Punisher movies.

I spend a lot of time on this site, horrifying myself by what's in the beauty products I use. Go on. I dare you.

Most disturbing Twilight fanatic stuff to date:

Edward shower curtain

Edward My Little Pony Mod

Twilight-inspired dildo

This morning I had a dream that I was trying to get frisky with hubby and he rejected me, getting mad and telling me I was a liar because I didn't really find him attractive. For the record, obviously I find him very attractive (and my dream self has a lot more energy than my real self in the morning). I told him about it; he seemed more interested in the frisky part than whether his dream-self was mad at me. But when I got home from work he offered me 12 roses, to apologize for his dream-self being an ass. Also to make it abundantly clear that he would not reject my frisky self under ANY circumstances.

I wonder what I can lie dream about tomorrow morning?

I totally missed my blogoversary. It was last Monday. So I'm having an extra glass of wine to celebrate. Feel free to do the same.

Who knew that I, with the attention span of a gnat, would manage to

Oh holy shit this is the funniest kid's toy ever!

Hubby also broke the computer chair the other day. He blames girthiness. I blame leaning further than crappy Wal-Mart computer chairs are meant to lean. Either way, now I'm sitting on a folding chair.

My butt hurts.

In unrelated news, this may be the shortest RTT ever. See, I told you it would be quick and painful. Now grab the button and link up!

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