Text messaging support groups leave something to be desired.

Me: My kid has spent the majority of the day in time out.  He's in a really fun new 'hitting' phase.  Halp.

FoN: Explain to him that hitting is wrong.  That should work.

Me: Gee, I hadn't thought of that.

FoN: That's what I'm here for.

FoN: Fucking (local footballl team that was playing at the time).  They are frustrating.

Me: Just explain to them that they should try harder to win.  That should work.

FoN: Oh, right.  thanks.

Me: That's what I'm here for.

FoN: Word.

Me: Or you could just not care.  That works for me.

FoN: It's working! They're winning now!

Me: Word.


Oh, I don't know, something about zombies: Random Tuesday Thoughts

So, I re-did the Random Tuesday button.  What do you think?

(Note: I didn't say I de-uglified it.  It's still purple.  And there's still a ham on there.  TRADITIONS, people.)

There is definite weirdness going on with the link, though - in theory I should have eradicated ALL of the old fugly purple buttons, and replaced them with the new fugly purple buttons.  But the old ones are still showing up.  They're a little like an insidious disease. 

So I'm sorry if you're diseased.

The other day I pulled up behind a car that had no less than 6 sparkly pink stickers that proclaimed it's owner "SPOILED".

It was an early 90s Chevy Caprice.

I kind of wanted to leave a dictionary as a gift.    I probably could have hefted one through the missing window.

So most of you were pretty skeptical about my "advice column" idea.  And asked a lot of questions about mayonnaise.  But then someone asked a question that I HAVE AN ANSWER TO, so now I have to go through with the whole thing just to prove to you guys that I am a font of useless information.

(Also, that I can be a know-it-all jackhole.  But you probably already suspected as much.)

You should probably help me out.  You can use the 'contact me' form on the right to ask a question anonymously, if you're not comfortable posting it publicly.  Go on with your shameful queries, you dirty birds.

Don't make me answer some of the stuff that gets people here via google:

...even though those people clearly need help.

Drinkers outlive non-drinkers.  Booyah.

How did you guys spend your labor day?  I spent mine dicking around on the internet, and playing the new(ish) Going Rogue content on my beloved City of Heros MMO (which is, essentially, more dicking around on the internet).  If there's a Creator, that's probably as they intended it.  Slacking is good for the soul.

Last week there were car eyelashes.  This week, the Y chromosome contingent felt left out, so there are car moustaches.

(I'm not sure why the only colors available are black or HOT PINK.)

There are changes, changes afoot in the casa del Un Mom.  Hubby is taking classes; I may have a job opportunity.  It's enough to make a person giddy.

(That could also be the wine.)

Anybody remember my New Years commitment to Two Week Resolutions?  No?  Good.

Hubby posted the trailer for the upcoming TV version of Walking Dead earlier, and I felt obliged to watch it. 

I'm no longer sure that he loves me.


...but you guys still love me, right?

PROVE IT! Get your Random on!


If he's going to get kicked out, it should be for something classic, like pranking the Dean

I love higher learning. I love the vibe of universities and colleges, the creative energy. They're a hotbed of information and social activity. I love to learn.

Sadly for me, we've determined that this time, it's hubby's turn to go get edumacated. It's for the greater good - getting him the hell out of the restaurant industry. (Can you imagine? Working jobs on the same schedule? Having *gasp* more than 30 minutes in a day to converse? The wonder of it all.)

So today he was there talking to the registrar about his options, and he sent me this photo from the bathroom. Clearly, the vibe at university has changed.

Let's hope he can follow the rules, shall we?

You could call it the When Angsty Renaissance FairsTurn Into Obscure Orgies Blog, or something. Though I'm sure that's kind of a niche market.

Someone left this comment on a really old post of mine, and I've been snickering over it for a few days. I mean, it's even odder than the spam comments I get linking to blue cheese. Is this how budding romance authors spread the word about their writing now?

Grateful, he wrapped his arms around his friend and buried his face in his neck. His throat worked to swallow, and a fine sheen of sweat shimmered on his skin. He nodded, slid an arm about Irins shoulders, and led his truemate from the room. But she knew firsthand that knowing and seeing it happen were two very different things. Someones strong arms surrounded her, and a broad chest met her cheek. She glanced away before her visual admiration sparked lust. She had neither seen nor asked after Tykir, Lanthan, nor Brevin. Gala sat back, hands on Eyrhaens shoulders. Blue eyes stared at her from an expressionless face. Anything but admit she was wrong, even if she now knew she had been. He smiled at her glare, the red simmering behind the hazel of his eyes. Stubbornly, she refused to cower into the wall behind her. A gasp puffed past her lips as Lanthan pressed a kiss just underneath her ear. She writhed, prodding the tip of him with her drenched folds. he growled into her ear. Behind her, Tykir nestled close, his cheek resting on the back of her shoulder. He tilted his face back up toward her. He shared in her laughter, and she gloried at how easy it was. But she needed to know one more thing. She met his gaze seriously.

If that's the case, you might want to consider leaving your name, Anonymous.

(Or just get your own damn blog!)

(Seriously, "drenched folds"?)

I tried to picture myself doing this and sprained my brain

On Tuesday I mentioned that I saw Trainer Lady and that she gave me homework. She did this because clearly she hates me I told her I was feeling extremely uninspired, exercise-wise, and that I wasn't motivated by weight loss. Which I'm not. My body seems to like being this size, so I'm going to let it, but I would like to be more fit.

"Okay, how do you define 'fit'?" asked Trainer Lady.

"Uh. Dunno?" I answered wittily.

So that's the homework she gave me. I have to define what 'fit' is to me, so that when I get there, I'll recognize it. Because otherwise I'll just keep working out and working out like a maniac until I keel over in exhausting moaning, "But I never...got...fit....."? Or something. Here's what I wrote:

I will feel 'fit' when I wear my workout clothes with as much regularity as my normal clothes, and when I feel like I belong in them and not like they're a costume. I will feel fit when I think I look 'athletic' in sweats vs. 'schlumpy'. I will feel fit when I am much less jiggly. I will feel fit when I drink a lot of water because I'm thirsty, not because a magazine told me I should. I will feel fit when I have energy until bedtime, but then crash hard and sleep soundly. I'll feel fit when my muscles have the dull ache of being worked properly, not the sharp twinge of misuse. When I choose the salad over the cheesy lasagne because the latter will weigh me down, I'll know I've really made it.

I haven't sent it to her yet, so if you have any suggestions on how I'll get a better mark, let me know. I'm also supposed to come up with a 'backup' plan for if I fuck up my back again (apparently laying on the couch and moaning piteously isn't a good plan), and find 5 drop-in fitness classes to attend. I should probably do that, because as a reminder she sent me this:

She doesn't feed me chocolate, but I guess I'll keep her anyway.

Michael Bolton makes ME cry too, but not in the same way

So in the interest of moving this little "see a ghost" project along, I fired off an email to the local paranormal society. Their website said they were looking for a sketch artist, which, hey! I could probably do. I mean, all the ghosts would come out looking like superheroes, but whatevs.

They sent me an application form, and said a few reassuring things about their organization, and that I'd be working with two very talented psychics in the group. It all sounded pretty above-board and down-to-earth. And yet I was hesitant to send the form back.

I floated this latest development past hubby, just in case he had some previously unmentioned issues with the paranormal. When I got to the part about the 'talented' psychics, he exclaimed, "Omigod! As long as you're not working with Brownie Girl!".

And in that sentence, he solidified exactly what my hesitance was based on.

I met Brownie Girl when I was in university. I was majoring in Visual Arts, so I hung out all the time with Artists who did things like cast multiple replicas of their own labia. But this girl took the fucking fruitcake. She was very young, and extremely angsty, and seemed to spend a lot of time crying. She talked in a lispy baby voice, crafted hideously-painted cats out of clay and listened to the 'lite' music station at top volume in the communal studio space.

She also claimed to read auras. Now, I really do believe that human beings produce some kind of energy field, and that probably there are some people who can see them. I just didn't believe that SHE could see them.

She told me that my aura was "stressed out". I told her it would get better if she left the room.

She cried. I know, I'm an asshat, but I couldn't help it. I said it as kindly as possible, but I was trying to live my life Drama Free at that point, and she just set my teeth on edge. Anyway, the right Michael Bolton song after 3pm on a Tuesday could make her cry too, so I'm not taking too much ownership of the black hat.

I graduated and presumably she stayed on to graduate as well, and I never thought about her again other than to hope that she gained some maturity or perspective or control over her tear ducts.

Several years later, a friend of mine had a Hallowe'en party. His wife had moved here to be with him, and while she's a lovely and sensible person, she has what some people would consider rather eclectic and alternative interests. In an effort to make some new friends, she'd joined up with a local Wiccan group, most of whom were also lovely and sensible people. Most.

You can see where this is going, right? She invited the Wiccan group to the party, and in the attending numbers was Brownie Girl. Imagine my surprise.

I didn't talk to her much, other than to give her a polite nod (and hope that it didn't make her cry). Later, though, when there were fewer people and I could actually hear her rather loud conversations monologues, I realized that she was just as flighty, awkwardly exuberant, and bizarre. I escaped to the front porch, where my friend joined me and rolled his eyes.

"Uh, how did you befriend HER?" I inquired. He explained his wife's connection, and added, "She and her friend there spent half an hour earlier talking to a Brownie on top of my fridge."

"A brownie?" I perked up. Hey, I like dessert.

"No, a BROWNIE. Like a small faery-type creature. They think there's one living on my fridge. They were having a whole conversation."

I died laughing. And went back into the house to rescue hubby, whom I'd abandoned in a sea of Faery-Finding Whack Jobs.

Anyway. While I may not encounter my erstwhile studio-mate in particular, people with that brand of...enthusiasm still tend to get on my nerves. Signing up for this type of society is probably going to get me back in touch with the froot loop factor.

And I'd hate to be known as the girl who stabbed a "talented psychic" in the ear with a No. 2 pencil.

Librarians never forget. Or maybe that's elephants.

Today we're hosting everyone's favorite librarian, Michele from It's a Dog's Life. I thought I'd post this on a Sunday, because nothing says 'wholesome Sunday' like librarians, tequila, and table dancing...

Keely was looking for people to guest blog while she went on vacation. By asking me and several others to provide content for her blog she really must need that vacation; BAD! I mean really, with the crazy emails going back and forth between all of us she really had to have been at her last resort to contemplate using any of us. Silly, silly girl! *shakes head slowly*

Somehow it transpired that the theme of this party was going to be clothing optional. I’m pretty much sure this idea started with Captain Dumbass, but don’t me quote in on it. I’m totally disavowing any knowledge of the whole thing. I’m so much older than the rest of the group I’ve decided that I’m going to claim dignity because of age. The rest of you can bite me.

So firing myself up with that plucky Pinot Noir that I have been laying down for a special occasion (Hey, this is special. It’s the first time I’ve been asked to guest blog. It qualifies). I girded my loins (no easy task) to write about a rather interesting, typical embarrassing moment in my budding career as mail order phone representative for Recreational Equipment Incorporated (REI). Read it and weep.

In 1990 I worked as a mail order operator for REI. We took orders from recreational enthusiasts from all over the world. In the fast paced high stress world of recreational equipment the mail order division of REI was world class. Our sales figures were astronomical. I like to think that my contribution was undisputable (I think that this is a pretty safe statement since it was like a hundred years ago).

Our sales were so high the upper level never to be seen or heard from management decided to give us a party. A party that would be held on a large boat that cruised around Lake Washington, Lake Union and the Ship Canal area of Seattle. A party that happened to fall on my 31st birthday. You can see the problem in this.

We had the party. We had a really good time. We drank too much. I drank way too much. My friends at REI thought it would be fun to toast my birthday way too much. I drank way too much. Have I said that? Yes? Well, it bears repeating. My friends decided to dance too much. I danced too much. Then I drank too much. Do you see the theme here?

As the night went on I drank, danced, and partied too much. JR got my back on this one. He’s good at that and it’s a damn good thing because obviously I have no sense of decorum. And tequila and I don’t play well together.

When the boat docked JR and I made our way home from the party. Don’t ask me how. JR probably remembers. Or maybe not, we’re old. Memory is the first to go, don’t you know. We did make it, poured ourselves into bed then suffered a 2 day hangover. Try that with 2 small children at home. I defy anyone to tell me something worse. That’s not a challenge people!

While I was busy recovering REI was buzzing about how the party went. I had no clue what stories were being bandied about but it seemed that I was featured prominently.

When I showed up for work I endured the usual light hearted bantering that co-workers give each other. Then Wally (the CEO of REI and EVERYONES boss) shows up. This is not typical. He would have had to make a special trip over from his rarified offices 10 miles south of our building. The brand new building with the climbing wall and fitness center.

Wally wanders his way through the computer work stations until he gets to me. I’m pretty much speechless (very rare). Our quick exchange went something like this:

Wally: Hi Michele

Me: Ahhhh Hi Wally

Wally: Hey, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.

Me: Thanks

Wally: Did you ever find the shirt you stripped off and tossed into the lake on Saturday night?

Me: ………..crickets

The whole call center was cracking up with laughter. Seems it got around that I had stripped my shirt off and was dancing on the tables. I contend this is a pack of lies. JR would never have allowed me to do something like that. He is totally responsible for my clothing or lack thereof when I’ve been drinking tequila. He knows this.



Titles are for suckers

Today one of my very favorite bloggers, Frogmama from Frogs in My Formula, is venting some crap she can't post on her own blog. Isn't that always the best material?

My younger brother armpit farts entire songs—usually at restaurants.
He can also belch the National Anthem. His Facebook updates make me
cringe (e.g., “Just fingered a neighbor’s poodle), and he constantly
pretends to make passes at my husband.

Let's call him "a."

When I first came along, my husband Chuck’s best friend referred to me
as the nameless “Chuck’s girlfriend”—for almost a year. If he wanted
to hang out but Chuck was hanging out with me, he’d have a tantrum. He
told me flat out that he liked Chuck’s ex better. He owns a potato

Let's call him "b."

Knowing the subzero standards of maturity we’re dealing with here, who
do you think told my two-year-old parrot (and by parrot, I mean
toddler) to say, “My mommy’s a lush,” not once but seven times over
dinner last weekend?

If you chose a or b, you’re wrong.

It was our married, Master’s degree-holding, polite and cultured
friends, Eric and Anne. The ones who enjoy wine and tequila just as
much as the Mullets and who hope to be parents soon themselves. The
ones who recycle and shop at Whole Foods and have careers in child
development and healthcare.

Child development.

People, man. They never fucking cease to surprise me.

(For the record, Mommy is not a lush. And Eric and Anne? We can’t wait
to meet your little parrot.)

The Best Day I Can't Remember with No Pants

Our guest poster today is Jenni from Oscarelli. She's witty, she's engaging, she has two small boys so she's probably certifiable. Also, she has no pants (at least in this story).

Somehow today I'm bending the laws of physics and guest posting over at Life and Times of a Wicked Step Mom. So I'm not here, but I'm not really THERE, either. Maybe it's the laws of light I'm bending. Whatever. You should probably go read it after you're done reading Jenni's post here.

The fabulous and amazing Unmom has invited me over to blog-sit while she vacations. I'm basically going to raid the liquor cabinet and trash the joint. I'm also going to switch out all her centigrade thermometers for Fahrenheit ones, so when she comes home she'll be all "WHAT?? It's 90 degrees? How come we aren't boiling in our skin?" It'll be hilarious. Americans make terrible house guests. We also make bad thermometer jokes.

So, the best day I can't remember (apologies to Julie and Captain Dumbass, but no blowjobs or Canadians are involved. That I can remember.) Well, to start, in my AHEM younger days, I liked to drink. To excess. Frequently. So, this story takes place almost exactly ten years ago, when my BFF turned 21.

My best friend was the last of all of us girls from high school to turn 21. My friend Sue and I decided we'd rent a hotel room and get her (and ourselves) filthy drunk and into all kinds of mischief. We come from a pretty small area (we call it "the County") and at that time the only place good times were to be had was in a town we called "the Island." Not that there was anything remotely tropical or islandly about it. It was more of a tourist trap, for anyone dumb enough to think the County was a good vacation spot.

We started our night at the Tiki Bar with $10 Mai Tais, but moved on from there pretty quickly because, well $10 Mai Tais. We went to two other bars. I don't remember what happened there but this is more because I am old than because I was drunk or anything. I mean, we got drunk - we drank a few pitchers of beer, took some shots, smoked 100 cigarettes, got loud. The usual.

So at maybe 10pm, we get to the FINAL BAR. We had been avoiding FINAL BAR because we just knew it would be full of people from our high school. Except it wasn't. It was full of tourists and stuff. And, as drunk 21-year-old girls, we were hugely popular. I don't think we paid for one drink at that last bar. Actually, I don't think we paid for any drinks all night.

Anyways, there was a jukebox and we played Van Halen which for some reason we though was HILARIOUS. And then we did some shots that were ON FIRE. And then the next thing I remember is waking up in our hotel room on the floor without any pants. (I totally found them later.)

Things I was Told Happened But I Completely Forgot:

*BFF was hit on by some British guy (or some guy pretending to be British)
*I somehow convinced British guy that if he really liked BFF he'd jump up on one of the tables strip for us
*British guy jumped up on a table and stripped down to his underwear
*We were ejected from the bar
*I fell down the stairs
*I found $20
*I fell in the road like ten times, and kept saying, "I don't understand why I keep falling." (Methinks flaming shots may have had something to do with this?)
*I was nearly hit by a car
*I peed in someone's front yard (WTF, this is so not my style - I'm totally a back yard pee-er)
*I vomited, possibly in public

The next day Sue had gotten up early because she had to work (she ended up leaving because she was so hungover), so BFF and I checked out of the hotel and headed to the BK for some greasy breakfast with my found $20. BFF was driving, and she was telling me the story of my awesome (awful?) night while we were in the drive thru and I started to feel...not right.

So, I got out of the car, went into BK and vomited in the toilet for about ten years. While I was in the restroom, a woman and her daughter came and and the daughter was like, "Mommy, that lady is sick and she smells funny." I felt profoundly lame. At this point I also noticed that I was filthy. From the falling, I assume.

After my display of smelly, hurling awesomeness we headed back up to my house. We were at a stop light and some burly bald guy started waving and gesticulating at us. At first we thought he was a pervert, but I felt like I KNEW him. I mean, I did happen to know a lot perverts so it wouldn't have been totally out of the question.

I rolled down my window and the guy is like, "Hey, you chicks are AWESOME!" and I was all, "???" Yes, we were awesome, but how did this guy know about it? I figured he couldn't be hitting on us because calling women "AWESOME" (or chicks, for that matter) isn't the best way to pick them up. Our hair was pretty matted and our make up was significantly smudged, that was kind of the "look" back then. Anyways, then my BFF is like, "OH MY GOD. That is the bouncer that threw us out of the bar last night! And the bartender!"

And it so was. Then he yells, "Wow, I bet you guys feel almost as bad as you look," and at that point I was pretty certain he wasn't hitting on us. And then he said, "See you tonight?" so maybe he was hitting on us?

Whatever, because the light turned green and my BFF floored it so we could just get away from him and the non-memory of the night I choose to remember as the best night I can't remember with no pants. I think actually remembering the truth would be too painful. And humiliating. And AWESOME?

Yeah, screw you, Rob

As I may have mentioned, I'm away on vacation this week. But it's okay! Don't cry! I've lined up some amazing people to tell you stories while I'm gone. I'm not really sure how this happened, but the theme for the guests this week ended up being teh naked. So if you're easily offended, first off, I have no fucking idea what you're doing here. And secondly, you may want to avert your sensitive eyes.

First guest blogger on the chopping block is Captain Dumbass, of Us and Them. Coincidentally to this story, it's his anniversary today! So head on over there when you're done here and wish him lots of happy anniversary nookie.

So a week or so ago, Keely sent out this email asking for some guest posts while she's off on holiday. I'm not sure how many of us were on that list, but we were obviously the wrong group of people to ask and leave unsupervised. Somehow the theme ended up as nudity/and or nude blogging. There may have been another subject as well, but I'm not touching that one. Ok.

Picture, if you will...

*cheesy tv special effects*

It's November of 1996, and a young Supreme Leader and Captain Dumbass have finally saved up enough money after their August wedding to fly off to Maui for their honeymoon. (And in hindsight, that worked out well, 'cause Maui in August? What's the point?) Ah...? Where was I going with this? Sorry, left to get some ice cream and now I've kinda lost my train of thought. Actually, that's not it at all. I reread what I'd done and decided I really didn't want to tell it from the third person but I'm also too lazy to go back and rewrite it. Are you a regular at the Un-Mom's and don't know me? Ya, it's not going to get any better.

Anyway, things did not get off to a smooth start. I got to the airport and realized I'd forgotten my passport at home and only had my drivers license for ID. Lucky for me, the US Customs guys took pity on me and let me board the plane anyway, though that may have had more to do with wanting to avoid the paper work and court appearances that would have resulted in my wife murdering me in front of them. So ya, they let me board the plane with only my drivers license. The world was a different place then. After that it was all good. The flight was great and we sat beside an interesting guy, Rob, who was flying over for a wedding. And another aside here, who the hell gets flown to exotic islands for other peoples weddings? Bastards.

So yadda yadda, island paradise, blah blah blah. Our first full day there we find this beach called 'Big Beach.' It's beautiful. Right beside it though, nestled between two old lava outflows is 'Little Beach,' which is even more beautiful, secluded and nude. When in Rome, right? I convince my young bride that we should check it out, after all, not like we're going to run into anybody we know.

Ah... there's nothing like warm sunshine on your bits where the 'sun don't shine' and everyone should swim in warm ocean water naked at least once in their lives and holy shit, is that Rob from the plane? Of course it is! Heh heh, ya, what a coincidence, Rob. Yep, sure is beautiful. I mean, aside from the millions of tiny daggers been fired into my back right now. Hurt? They sure do, probably not as much as they will later. What? Oh no, I put LOTS of sun tan lotion on. Thanks.

But then he left and the sun was still warm and so was the ocean and we were still on our honeymoon so whatever. Until the next day. We stop by a grocery store to pick up some food when we hear a voice yell out from behind us, "hey! It's the nudies!" Oh yes, it's our old friend Rob from the plane again, only this time he's with his aunt and uncle whom he proceeds to remind that this is the couple he'd been talking about the night before. You know, the ones from the plane who were on the nude beach? Yes, Rob, that was us. The Nudies. Ha. Ya, funny. Still. Um, your aunt is starting to creep me out a little. Inappropriate.

So, the moral of the story (moral? Ahahahah) if you find yourself thinking 'what the hell? It's not like anybody knows us here,' keep doing whatever you were going to do. Hell, you only live once. Screw you, Rob.

What people are googling RIGHT THIS MINUTE

(And they're all clearly feeling more creative than me, because I have to steal their genius to phone in a blog post)

1. "jealous" "i want to be her" (who doesn't?)

2. "Can I rent Universal Studios for my birthday?" (The bigger question is, can you rent it for MINE?)

3. "do baby spiders die if you kill their mom" (I fucking hope so)

4. "how to spell connoisseur" (uh...you just did)

5. "i dropped a plastic lid down my drain" (Holy crap! SO DID I!)

6. "I'm afraid to take my pants off" (Do you think google is going to do it for you? Can you be more specific as to the nature of your conundrum? Really, we need deets if we're going to help you.)

7. "Is it normal for mom to leave toddler and go to rock concert" (Yes, it is, okay? I bet this was my fucking MIL)

8. "regret threesome" (Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier. Whore.)

9. "to my neighbour, I saw you this morning take a shit in the backyard" (I think you have the wrong blog. You probably want Kat's Dear So and So)

10. "twilight - something smells like fish" (Uh, I said it stunk. I don't think I was that specific)

11. "truth about pinecone extract" (I...don't even know what you're looking for. Is there some pinecone conspiracy I'm unaware of?)

12. "what is space time continuum explanation for kids" (...y'all are taking that 'Baby Einstein' thing WAY too literally)

13. "whoever is reading this, there is a fly that is bothering the heck out of me right now..."

I'm sorry to hear that. And next time, if you want to get on this blog, you should probably swear more.

Also, in other news, the winner of the Must Have Mom Manual book giveaway is the lovely Ane Fallarme from Life According to Me. Yay, Ane! Take a bow!

Thank you so much to Maternal Spark for hosting this little get-together, and to the authors Sara and Stephanie for just being all round awesome. Let's do it again sometime!

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

Are you Canadian? Do you like meat?

I mean, I'm totally not going to judge you if you're a veg-head, because we're all about tolerance up here in igloo world. But, if you're down with the slabs of cow (or pig or chicken), listen up: On Wednesday the 13th, President's Choice will be promoting their new product lines of meat products by handing out coupons to commuters in Toronto, Vancouver, Montreal, Halifax, and Calgary between 4 & 6 pm.

Just look for the people dressed up as butchers (no, not that guy - he's actually auditioning for Sweeney Todd. Over there, the less-bloody looking ones) at transit hubs for your coupon.

But remember, meat is murder.

Tasty, tasty murder.

Zombie Roundup

I'm having a busy week and I don't really have my poop in a group to pull together a REAL post, so I thought I would share with you the things that people share with me.

That's right, the zombie things. That people send me. Because obviously they all really hate me.

For instance, did you know there is an entire organization dedicated to zombie preparedness? That's right, I'm not the ONLY whack job out there. Other people think dead things are coming to get them, too, and they're even going so far as to put together task forces. With tanks. And face shields, for the ones that like to nibble.

Peggy knows I like to read, I mean who could miss my rave review of World War Z? So she sent me this link to Pride and Prejudice (and zombies). Didn't think Jane Austen did zombies? Oh yeah, you were wrong. So very wrong. I think I'd seen that before but this time I actually read a few pages and...d'oh. I may have to buy it.

I'll be sending Peggy a bill for the therapy required after that.

Robin at Cinnamon & Honey figures me for a stiletto girl, so she sent me a link to these: Zombie high heels. Possibly she also thinks I'm a drag queen?

A while back Erin, the Head Bag Lady at Durtbagz, sent me a link to her new 'zombie crossing' t-shirts. Because obviously, zombies have the right of way. Unless you're driving the tank. Then I think you win.

And, just in case you thought this was all getting too silly, here are 5 Scientific Reasons a Zombie Apocalypse Could Actually Happen. Because that kind of information is EXACTLY what someone with my fear and rabid imagination needs.

You're welcome.