Sustainable building design, translated

The building I work in was built in such a way as to be considered "sustainable design". It's supposed to be more eco-friendly, and it has certification that "recognizes excellence in energy and environmental performance".

Which is awesome. I mean, I'm all about the environment. I love that shit. It's about time that someone recognized that maybe we can live in straw bale houses but we definitely can't work there, so maybe let's get on top of making commercial buildings that aren't a giant blight on the face of the earth.


It turns out that sustainable design in a commercial building is really awesome in theory.

Like communism. Or shapewear.

But in reality, sustainable design for a commercial building is a clusterfuck of failed expectations and broken dreams.

(Also like communism. And shapewear.)

For example.

Energy efficient ceramic heating and cooling ceiling tiles: These sound brilliant, right? Dual purpose! Energy efficient! The cold air falls from the ceiling so you don't have to expend energy forcing it upwards!

What that actually means: Well, what that actually means is that it doesn't work very well. We are a province of temperature extremes. The 'heating' portion seems to do ok - we don't freeze in the winter, exactly - but the cooling portion sucks so bad that they've had to install a series of smaller standalone A/C units. Which sort of defeats the whole environmentalism thing. Also, it's not humid here by any stretch, but the ceiling tiles acquire condensation, forcing us all to watch out for drips and occasionally run a mop over them. It looks super profesh when you've got a number of buckets catching drips in your boardroom and your CEO is mopping the ceiling, I gotta say.

Bathrooms fitted with low-flow taps and waterless urinals to conserve water. Low-flow taps are tried and true. In a house environment, anyway. Where you aren't sharing your germs with 500 of your best friends. I think the 8 colds I had last year and the little signs they put up next to them at the office reminding us all to wash for ages to prevent germs speak for themselves though.

I don't think I can even sell the positive on that second part, because WATERLESS URINALS. What washes the urine down the urinals you ask? Well, more urine of course. What dries on the way down and consequently smells like a well-trafficked outhouse in August?

That was a rhetorical question.

Fun fact: I made that exact complaint to our office manager who then included it in her maintenance request to building management. There's paperwork floating around somewhere with the words "well-trafficked outhouse in August" - my legacy, y'all! Maintenance came out to "fix" it, so now it smells like the same outhouse in June...covered in fake flowers.

I'm beginning to understand why Greenpeace does most of their office work on a boat.




Enough already

Okay. So. I'll be brief.

I don't want to turn this into one of these "woe is me" blogs, and also I'm writing this laying on the floor. So here are the Cliffs Notes.

1. I'm on the floor because I tweaked my back yesterday morning getting my kid out of the car. Sitting, leaning, and now walking are extremely painful.

2. Last Thursday, I spent the night in ER because my gall bladder tried to kill me. (Interesting side note: it took 6 hours in emerg to get seen and diagnosed. Twitter diagnosed me of this errant gall bladder in under an hour, and OVER A YEAR AGO. Conclusion: fuck the ER, we need to work on getting Twitter the ability to prescribe meds.)

3. The extensive bloodwork the gyno did came back with very high levels of thyroid antibodies, which usually indicates an autoimmune disease like Graves or Hashimoto's. My mother has Hashimito's, and yet this doctor is the first person to test for it.

TL;DR version: Apparently I have "best before age 37" stamped somewhere.

ANYWAY. Fuck you, whoever is sticking pins in my voodoo doll, because I still have an adorable kid, Alfred, friends who would help me move a body AND hang out in the ER with me til 3am, a kickass job, family, and pie.


Also, a prescription for morphine that they gave me at the ER.

(Take THAT.)

 I'll be back soon with something cheerier, or at the very least weirder.

Of snakes and their tails.

Not getting the job that I really wanted this week was disappointing, but I was okay with it because I felt like a) I’d put my best foot forward and b) it at least reassured me that there are jobs out there for me.  Today, however, I got some intel on the person who actually DID get the job, and it knocked me for a tailspin.

The person who got the job is ridiculously, mind-blowingly, pretty fucking amazingly qualified.  Like, what-the-hell-do-you-need-this-little-job-for kind of qualified.  And rather than think, “Well, at least I know I can compete in the big leagues,” or even “Well, at least I was defeated by a worthy opponent”, I immediately made a huge leap of flawed logic to a place of despair: “I’m screwed.  I will never get a worthwhile job when that is what the competition is like.”

I realize that this situation, this depression, is a circular thing.  I am unhappy at my job, I am stressed out.  My stress has caused me health problems, amongst them hormonal imbalances, which make me anxious, tired, and…stressed out.  That stress causes tension in my relationships, and destroys my creativity, which, in turn, makes me MORE worried and…stressed out.  I’m not in a strong position to be presenting myself to employers; I’m not even a good candidate for deciding what to make for breakfast.

I’m a snake eating its own tail. 

I have been hammering my head against this particular wall for over a year, and I have made no discernible progress.   I am more ground down than ever; my skin is so thin now, that the tears leak out against my will.

Every time I feel like a failure, every time I beat myself up about my lack of progress, is another bite of my tail.  I am getting close to the end; a few more, and I will be consumed. 

Or I could




It seems simple, but it’s not; it seems simple, and it is.  My serpentine jaw has been grimly clenched on this goal for so long that it is locked – how do you just stop working at what is so obviously the crux of all your problems?  But I will have a glass of wine, do a few muscle stretches, have a cathartic cry, and step back. 

I’m not giving up.  I’m just letting go.

The virus masquerading as anti-virus software is about as meta as a blog post about how my life without the internet sucks: Random Tuesday Thoughts

Happy Frozen Tuesday.  Seriously, it's effing cold here.

So after a successful 20 years of computing history without encountering any major virus, my laptop has been laid waste.  While innocently perusing porn a blog post, urgent messages suddenly popped up informing me that my computer was infected! with viruses! and trojan horses! and possibly syphilis! DOOOOM AND DESPAIIIIRR!  And all I had to do to make them go away was enter my credit card number to upgrade my "System Tool".

When I (metaphorically) flipped off the actual Tool that infected my computer instead of handing over my banking information, it took over the wallpaper and continued to warn me in obnoxious purple and pink lettering that viruses could BREAK MY LIFE.

Yes.  Well, the virus is an asshole and my laptop is in the gentle care of the Geek Squad, but the "breaking my life" thing might be accurate.  I have never felt this...disconnected.

That whole "face time" and "talking to people" thing is TOTALLY fucking overrated.  I want my Matrix back, dammit.

As luck would have it, our desktop computer has also been crippled by a broken monitor.  So I'm pecking this out on our "backup" computer, which is the one Alfred owned when we got together.  It's tucked in a corner of the basement, doesn't have any browsers other than IE and still has Limewire installed on it.

My life, it is painful sometimes.

On the other hand, it's pretty hard to open multiple tabs and get distracted, so I'm staying on task for once.

I'm also not sharing any fun links this week, because OMIGOD you may as well ask me to offer you my own eyeballs after removing them with barbed wire rather than try to STUMBLE something.

This basement smells funny. 

I've come to the conclusion (in light of recent events, and yes I'm still talking about that) that the apocalypse probably won't come in zombie form.  This is disappointing in a way, since I've honed my decapitation skills for nothing, and also because shambling corpses would probably be easier to fight than what will actually occur - the sudden removal of our internet umbilical.  We're all going to go out in a spectacular showing of ethernet DTs and twitching eyeballs.

Well, okay, one link, since you're all so nice and we're talking about living our lives online anyway: The Facebook Breakup Notifier App.  Because sitting around waiting for someone to get dumped is a HUGE attraction factor in a mate.

You're welcome.  You didn't even have to watch me gouge my eyes out for that one.  Though it kind of makes me feel like doing it anyway.

You know what else does?  All the Random Tuesday posts that I won't be able to visit this week because the Virus Gods hate me!  You should still write one, anyway, though.  I'm sure many of the other super-nice, generous and supportive participants (who are kind to animals) will visit.

Random up!




Hell probably ONLY gives you the previews: Random Tuesday Thoughts


Well hi there!  Come here often?  What’s your star sign…now?

Know what to do?  Great!  Don’t know what to do?  Um, don’t ask me, I just work here.

7 loads of laundry + 6 loads of dishes + 4 boxes of kleenex + 1 box of Neo-Citran + 48 hours of sleep = my weekend.  Woo fucking hoo.

When I gather my minions and take over the world, I WILL have this octopus chair.

Next week I’m going to Blissdom.  Have I mentioned this?  I feel like I probably should have, once or twice. 

Anyway, I’m going to Blissdom.  Anybody else?

Also, my villainous lair will have this rug.

I’m not sure why I’m all keen on my plan for world domination all of a sudden (hint: it involves woodpeckers)…it’s probably all this Phoenix Jones stuff cropping up.  I’ll have a lot more to say about that later.

(I would have had a lot more to say about it earlier this week, but I was felled by the Head Cold From Hell.)

(Although it’s likely that Hell has more devious ploys to make you miserable, but I can’t think of what they would be right now because THERE’S TOO MUCH PHLEGM).

I’ll probably have a lot more to say about Blissdom later, too.

In fact, let’s just go ahead and call this the “previews” post, shall we?

What’s going on in YOUR head?  Grab a button and give us a preview!

I may just end up spending the money we save on medication

Despite my best intentions to "never blog about work", it's no secret that I loathe the job I'm currently at. It's hostile, it's boring, and I'm sure it's at least partly responsible for my early onset of menopause. Some days I imagine leaving that job would be like a physical weight being lifted from me. My life would suddenly be rainbows and puppies, I'd instantly drop 30lbs, and angels would sing constantly.

And I'm trying very hard to make that happen. Unfortunately, I do need some job, and they're hard to come by. I seem to be in the grey zone for employability - overeducated for a regular joe job, but not the right KIND of education for anything higher up. Stupid Fine Arts degree.

Hubby, bless his heart, occasionally pitches me an idea for re-arranging our lives so that I don't have to spend as much time at work. As it is, though, I can only stand to be there 4 days a week (and I'm lucky that my job is that flexible, as my boss keeps reminding me), so money is...a little pinchy. Nevertheless, the other day hubby offered, "If I give you another $100 each paycheck could you drop down to 3 days a week?"

I've no idea where he was planning to find this unicorn money (I'm not sure I want to know), but the answer was actually "no". That wouldn't make up for the lost income. Anyway, I don't think my boss is THAT flexible with my hours - he complains about the missing day each week already.

"What if I cleaned the house on Wednesdays and we got rid of the cleaners?" he added.

Got rid of cleaners? My beloved cleaners? Gah. Actually...yes...that would just about do it. Though I still don't think the boss is going to agree to only 3 days a week.

"Oh. Well, I could still do the cleaning thing and free up some money," hubby offered. cleaners.

I am not a person who likes to clean. I do love a clean house, however, when my son was born I realized I'd rather spend that valuable time playing with him. Or blogging, or reading, or staring at the wall, or sticking bamboo shoots under my fingernails. Pretty much anything but cleaning. If you add together the time I spent cleaning and the time I spent arguing with hubby about which one of us was supposed to be cleaning, it was quite a lot.

And that vague sense of satisfaction you get after you've cleaned the house? In my case, it actually increases when I'm clever enough to pay someone ELSE to do it. I swore that even if I was living in a cardboard box, I'd still find the cash to pay someone to clean it twice a month.

But...the cleaners haven't been doing the best job lately. And we could really use that money.

I quizzed hubby fiercely: Is this something you're really going to do? Every Wednesday? You're not going to make excuses? Is this something I'M going to end up stuck with?

He stuck with his story. So, reluctantly, I fired the cleaners as gently and as lovingly as possible. (Via email. Is that rude? Will they be hurt that I didn't tell them in person? I obsessed over that for hours. What if I want them back and they're too mad?)

And then I went and cried in a corner.

(Still there, actually. Send wine. And laptop batteries.)

Tell me why I don't like Mondays: Random Tuesday Thoughts


Woo hoo! It's Monday! Er, Tuesday. That means you should get random - grab a button, write a random post, and link up!

Okay, you caught me, I write these things on Mondays. Mondays are my day off, but I have my laptop at home and occasionally check my work email. Today I made the mistake of trying to be helpful and answer some of my boss' queries.

Silly me.

My answers consisted of 1) I don't know where the job order is, I think Person A has it; 2) I set up the file and gave it to Person B to produce; and 3) I don't know how our supplier got the wrong idea about what we wanted, I'll call him immediately. And then I did that.

Later in the day I got another email from my boss saying: "You must have been smoking something because 1) Person A doesn't have that job order, it was in a completely different spot, 2) Person B didn't have the file, but it was in her slot (a shelf unit in boss' office with each person's name on a slot that we're meant to check) and 3) our supplier has the totally wrong idea about what we want."

So, to summarize: he was annoyed that my GUESS at the first question was wrong, and that the second item was not actually in Person B's possession but only the first place she'd look. I get this kind of eye-rolling, finger-pointy, what-do-you-mean-you-don't-know-where-I-put-my-glasses bullshit all the time from him, but on my day off? When I was trying to be helpful?

Bearing in mind that only the LAST item on that list is actually my direct responsibility, and that I dealt with it immediately, I considered the following responses:

1. I have to smoke a lot of pot to work for you and retain my sanity.

2. You don't pay me enough to support a drug habit.

3. Bite me.

4. Sorry, I was too busy looking at job postings online.

5. No, I wasn't smoking anything, but I didn't get much done because I golfed three days in a row and then didn't show up at all on Friday. Oh, wait, that was YOU.

6. (A long drawn-out rant about how pointless and disrespectful emails like that are exactly the reason he doesn't get any respect in return from his staff, and why morale around the office is at the "suicide prevention" level.)

7. Yes, due to your stellar leadership, we've resorted to selling dope to neighbourhood kids to keep the company afloat. Unfortunately, I've succumbed to the product.

8. Did I mention Bite Me?

In the end I chose to take the high ground and not dignify his email with a response.

(On an unrelated note, I think I'll call in sick tomorrow.)

That wasn't random at all. Surprise!

(I've also apparently broken my own law regarding blogging about work. OMG, how random is that?)

Are you slightly less focused about your hate? Good, write a random post and link up. And then visit some of the other players in this game - they're probably more grateful for the jobs they have.

What void did we scream into before the internet existed?

I've been very "woe is me" for a week or so. My glorious results with the regime from the naturopath tanked, hard, in their third week, and I am back to being bitchy and ragey. I have no functional bathroom, my sewer backed up, my child seems intent on killing himself. I hate my job and want to stab people there. My relationship is...not as strong as I thought it was. I'm pudgy and schlumpy and wah wah wah wah you get the idea.

I was hitting the highway to head out to my parents Ranch on Sunday and there was a cop blocking off the road and funneling traffic onto the overpass.

I thought: Well that is just fucking great, they're pulling people over and I'm going to get a ticket for something because MY LIFE SUCKS OMG.

But as I drove across the overpass, I spied the real reason traffic was being relocated: the distant figures of people in white Hazmat suits, cleaning up debris from some horrific accident. Probably picking up stray eyeballs from the side of the road.

And I thought: Oh, hai, Perspective, where ya been?

Obviously, life could be worse. Or non-existant. I could be, as my mother was always fond of saying, Dead in a Ditch Somewhere.

And then I cried a little tear for the people that were, and maybe another one born of my own frustrations, and kept driving.

(I am going to post this because I feel like venting, but I'm closing comments because I feel that asking for comments is like asking for validation of my whining, and I'm trying to stay friends with Perspective right now. If you still need to think good thoughts at someone, you could send out a healing vibe for some friends of mine who just suffered the miscarriage of a very long-awaited baby. Or you could head over to Becky's and give her hugs. She is dealing with the big C with far more grace and class than I am dealing with my stinky basement.)

You can get yourself cleaned, you can have a good meal, you can do whatever you feee-eee-eel

Remember last week, when I posted about how we traded some of hubby's Metallica crap memorabilia for a bathroom reno?

Why the hell didn't anybody think to warn me that it was going to spiral out of control?

I mean, I should know this. I saw The Money Pit. Okay, I was only 8, and a lot of it was over my head at the time. But I totally get it now.

I dragged hubby to Home Depot earlier this week and picked out tile with glee, and it was pretty affordable. Sort of. (What? I have champagne tastes.) But then we realized that we needed grout, and mortar, and sealant. So now it was only kind of sort of affordable. There was still glee involved, dammit.

I went off to work on Thursday light-hearted. I was going to have a beautiful new bathroom! By the weekend!

I got a text from hubby at 10am from hubby: "Black mold."

This was...not totally unexpected. (I did say our bathroom was beginning to look like somewhere crack whores go to die.) But there was a lot of it, and I returned home from work to find the entire bath gutted, insulation and all. And left to "air out".

And then somehow, that turned into needing new faucets (which means you need a new towel bar! To match!), and replacing the pipes. And installing a fan, so that we aren't just creating another mold farm. Hubby's Metallica-lovin' buddy is being way too generous with his time, and doesn't seem at all perturbed about all this extra labor. Hubby assures me he's offered to pay him more, and been rejected. Am I outing myself as a wretched ingrate if I just want my bathroom back?

Because, as gross as my bathroom was, borrowing other peoples showers or cleaning up at the Y like a frickin' hobo?


Also, other people's beautiful bathrooms make me want to renovate.

Yes, my week sucked, but it could be worse. I could be on the Celebrity Apprentice (Random Tuesday Thoughts)


I don't really feel like a chatty intro today. So I'm just going to launch into random. Get your button, do your thing. And...GO.

Did anybody else's Firefox offer to pretty itself up for you? Mine is now sporting a picture of a retro flapper girl. I feel like maybe my web browser is trying too hard.

Hubby and I had another date night tonight, we used up some gift cards we had to a swanky restaurant that's in the middle of the park. We got all dolled up, got a sitter, ate way too much and had some wine, and then came home less than two hours later and immediately got into our pajamas. Now I'm blogging and he's watching wrestling. Possibly one or both of us is farting. It was kind of like playing grown-up, there, for a little bit.

Last week? Sucked. My kid made a break for it at daycare, spent Friday puking, and burnt himself on the stove Sunday. I didn't get the job I interviewed for (I didn't really want it anyway, but that's not the fucking point) and the job I do have sucked with its regular force.

So I thought I'd get things off on the right foot this week with a dentists appointment this morning.

I know, I'm concerned about my IQ as well.

I think I hate getting my teeth cleaned more than the actual check up. After I jolted out of the chair for the 4th or 5th time, the dental hygienist remarked without much sympathy, "Oh, they're all very sensitive today, aren't they?"

Well, yes, if you're jabbing them with a pointy metal instrument, they're sensitive. Though I'm not sure that just applies to TODAY you evil bitch.

I almost never watch TV, let alone reality TV, but last night I found myself enthralled with the season premier of Celebrity Apprentice. I think it was because I was watching it in HD. Bret Michaels, Cyndi Lauper, and Sharon Osbourne? That is a LOT of facial crevices. I felt a bit discombobulated. Like I might fall in.

In the wrong end of town and lacking a dollar coin for the cart at Superstore, against my better moral judgement today I ventured into the new Super Wal Mart for groceries. Okay, now THAT was discombobulating. At one point I texted hubby: "Avocados are eleven cents each and there are zombies working here. I'm going to hell, aren't I?"

He assures me I have to spend more than $250 in a trip before they punch my ticket to the infernal realm, but I'm not convinced.

I'm pretty sure I saw this lady there. She winked at me and handed me an avocado.

I'm starting to feel bad for John Cusack. Hot Tub Time Machine, really? Really? If you need money, man, all you have to do is ask.

(I still love ya though. Call me.)

On that note - that desperate, love-hate kind of note - I'm out. Random up, kids.


I feel I owe you guys a post, or at least owe it to myself to write something, but I also feel like I have nothing to write. I have all this paralyzing angst lately. And nobody wants to read about THAT.

I also have several things in the works that might get me out of that place of paralysis, but I don't want to jinx them. You've probably read between the lines by now and figured out that my one major soul-killer is my job, so they have something to do with that.

I finally got a real live naturopath on the phone and made an appointment for Monday. (It turned out that the referral to a gyno that my doctor was supposed to make before she abruptly closed her practice, did not actually go through. It took them 3 months to call me back and tell me they'd never heard of me. So rather than go through the whole process again with a new GP, I am just going to go to a health practitioner that is more in line with my beliefs anyway.) There is a 12-page "getting to know you" form that I have to fill out. Want to know what kind of poops I have and whether I was breastfed within 10 hours of being born? Probably not, but apparently the naturopath does.

I don't really think that my job is the cause of my weird menopausal symptoms, but just filling out that form drove home how very toxic it is. Physically and emotionally. Every day, I absorb stress and anger and bitterness along with the dust and solvent fumes.

I gots to get out of there, you guys.

Bagging and backing... obviously something we should do more often.

(I've lost the use of my basement for several days now. It's almost enough to make a person rethink their comic nerd status.)

(I said almost.)

(Send help. And wine. And 3 more longboxes.)

NyQuil NyQuil NyQuil, we love you, you giant fucking Q*

I still feel like a buzzards butt that fell off and got sprayed on by a bunch of skunks**, so I went to the walk-in clinic this morning to procure my get-out-of-jail-free card.

"I pretty much just need a note that says I can go home and suffer in peace instead of dragging my diseased carcass into work," I told the doctor.

"Doctors don't just write notes," she admonished me. "We can help, too, you know!"

"Um...I'm pretty sure it's just a head cold. Last time I checked, you actually couldn't," I mumbled, but she just tut-tutted and wrote me a prescription for penicillin and a corticosteroid nasal spray. One of which is totally useless for a head cold and the other was forty-three dollars and also, totally useless.

"Great, thanks!" I said brightly, pocketing it. "Can I have my note now?"

So now I'm at home suffering in peace, like I asked in the first place. Anybody need a prescription for penicillin?

*Name that tune.

**Clearly I have not an original thought in my head today, mostly because it's filled with phlegm. Name that tune 2.

Maybe "kelp pills" will replace "pinecone extract" in my google searches, because I still don't know what pinecone extract is: Random Tuesday Thoughts


Whee! Here I am. It's Tuesday!

And, I'm sorry to be a lame-o* but I've never felt less like writing a Random Tuesday post. I woke up with kind of a sore throat, and it just went downhill from there. My usual strategy of attacking the illness with naps did nothing. Nothing, I tell you!

*I know, who says that anymore? Clearly I'm not in my right mind.

My boss, who bitches constantly that I don't work Mondays, just sent me an email bitching at me to stop answering email on my "day off". Oh, so THAT'S what a Catch-22 looks like.

In the ongoing campaign to restore my body to some semblance of the one I know & love don't mind, I went to the health food store for kelp pills. Thyroid issues run in my family and though mine was tested last spring, sometimes the blood panel doesn't catch it.*

So, kelp pills. Except they were out of the pill form, they just had the powder. Did I want the powder? Sure, I'd take the powder. The label read, "can be used as a salt substitute due to its salty flavor".

Uh, no. It doesn't have a "salty flavor". It tastes like fucking KELP. Kelp that's been lying in the sun for three days. And then been pooped on by seagulls.

At least I'm not burping it up. Nothing says, "Come give me a kiss, honey," like breath that smells like rancid seaweed.

*I would just go back to my doctor and get her to re-do the bloodwork except, well, I don't have a doctor anymore. Shortly before Christmas she just closed up her practice and went home to raise her babies (who are 5 and 7). No letter, no phone call, just a vague message on the clinic's answering machine and a tiny announcement in the local paper. Thanks a lot, lady.

Needs no explanation:

Epic duel by *IsisMasshiro on deviantART

Did I mention I feel like shit? Yes? Well, it bears repeating. Since that seems to be the only thing in my brain right now. Other than mucus.

I'm not going to submit a logo to 99designs today. I re-worked one and re-submitted it, so I'm counting that.

(Apparently I even fail at 2-week Resolutions. Oh, don't act like you're shocked.)

And, yeah. That's all I got. Tune in next week when I promise to take psychotropic drugs or something to provide you with a more interesting post. You see the things I do for you guys?

Random up, link up, yadda yadda, blah blah. Where's my Neo Citran at?

She'd probably write better blog posts, too

Angst via text:

Me: Am stuck doing boring sales calls with boss for self-important government types ALL DAY. Kill me now.

Hubby: Aw :(

Me: I hate my job.

Me: I wish the zombies would just rise up and kill me, already.

Hubby: Who would that leave me with?

Me: Zombie Keely. Pretty much the same thing, just less whiny and a little more bitey.

Hubby: ....

The other recommendation was "stupid gift game where someone always steals the one you want at the last second" : Random Tuesday Thoughts


So! Here we all are again. On a Tuesday. Twiddling our thumbs, looking around at each other but not making eye contact...

Oh, wait, that was my mumblemumble Anonymous meeting.

THIS is way more fun. Got something to say? A few paltry bits that you can't really tie together, thematically speaking, but that you want to post anyway? Round 'em up with Random Tuesday Thoughts and link up!

Today's beverage of choice is hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps. Hubby received some schnapps in the (insert more politically correct term than 'Chinese gift exchange' here*) at a dinner party Saturday night. Guess who's allergic to mint?

Well, not ME. Heh.

*Google informs me that better terms are "Dirty Santa" and "Rob Your Neighbour". Yes, Google, that makes it sound MUCH more appealing.

(I am so getting Google searches for Santa porn now, aren't I?)

Speaking of which, someone contacted me with a "search engine advertising" opportunity for my blog. Basically, ads would appear for people who get here using a search engine, targeted to them and what they searched for. You, my wonderful regular readers, would never see a thing.

I sent them back a note saying it sounded interesting, but that they may want to have a peek at what Google searches actually get people to my blog, first:


You know what would be fantastic? If they would make my beloved City of Heroes game for the Wii. If I had to actually punch the virtual bad guys in the nads and do flip kicks off their heads, I would probably look a lot better in my spandex.

Um, I mean, I would be looking so good I could wear spandex. Yeah, that's what I meant to say.

So, get on that, NCSoft. My potentially smokin' bod depends on you.

On a totally unrelated note, did anybody read Farenheit 451? Remember those full-wall interactive TV screens that pretty much meant nobody ever had to actually talk to other human beings again?

I don't know what made me think of that. That could never happen.

I told hubby today, "I'm just going to let myself go and get really fat, okay?" He's used to hearing weird hormonal statements from me lately, so he just shrugged.

I'm pretty sure that means it's okay.

My doctor has decided to close her practice and go be a full-time parent. Which is a sentiment I totally get, but I am still a little upset. I mean a) she was awesome, and b) Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a medical professional that doesn't think I'm a nutjob?

Thank goodness there's you guys. Quick, diagnose this lump, will ya?

Here's a thought: Got a cold? Don't lather yourself up with Vicks and then head to bed and expect to get grabby with your husband's stick shift. Or at least don't expect him to appreciate it. Not that this has happened to me. Because I think these things through.

And, on that note...where's the Vicks?

Random up, you guys. Don't make me come over there.

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 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?


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.

Love, Hate, and Lethargy

In case I didn't mention it, last week I packed up the fam and took them on holiday to Vancouver. I used to live there, and I love it. I love the mountains, I love the ocean, and I love the vibe of a city full of community-minded hippies. I love that independent retailers thrive, that there are always a ton of amazing (and free) community events, that you can get a decent job with a tattoo on your face. That I don't have to argue with people over whether feeding my kid organic milk is going to lower the chances that he'll be hitting puberty at the age of nine.

(And that organic milk is actually readily available, and not by appointment-only in some sketchy alley in the bowels of the city.)

But I also hate Vancouver. I hate the expense, the ridiculous commutes, the obscene crowds. Sometimes I even hate the hippies, or at least their lack of deoderant. And I hate the rain.

The rain, the rain, omigodthefuckingRAIN. It rains there, incessantly, oppressively, from October to March. I spent two winters there, and if I hadn't been a drunken 20-year-old theatre student in love with the world, I probably would have stabbed myself in the eye with a number 8 Phillips screwdriver. It rains, it keeps raining, and rains some more, and you're chilled to the bone and damp, constantly, because nobody who lives there actually uses an umbrella. It's like some great unspoken community effort to NOT use umbrellas. Possibly to lessen the loss of eyeballs, I don't know, but as a result you live your life as a drowned terrier for 6 months out of the year. Or be the social pariah with the umbrella. Your choice.

I have to remind myself of all this every time I visit Vancouver, because unsurprisingly, I always visit in the SUMMER. And it's pretty and sunny and all the hippies are feelin' the love, and I think, "Oh! I love Vancouver. I miss Vancouver. WE SHOULD MOVE TO VANCOUVER".

We're not, in fact, going to move to Vancouver, because I made myself promise (the LAST time I moved back) that I ever got that urge again, I'd spend a couple of weeks there during January to disabuse myself of the notion. So there's that.

But my workplace greeting on Monday really made me notice the stark contrast between the happy, positive, go-with-the-flow type of people that we were hanging with in Vancouver, and the fucking cesspool of negativity that I wade through every day. To keep myself sane there, I'm obligated to be relentlessly cheerful. One might even say obnoxiously cheerful.

I probably don't need to tell you that this is not, in fact, a state that comes naturally to me. I'm not a fucking cheerleader, I'm the bitter girl making sarcastic comments in the back of the classroom, thank you very much. I like it, I'm comfortable with it, and I'm good at it. But I'm a firm believer in "fake it til you make it", and in my current work environment, I need to do that to offset the whiners/complainers/bitchies/bullies.

Something needs to change, clearly. Location, job, number of children, my underwear more than twice a week, SOMETHING.

But then, there's lethargy.

I'd write more about that, but I can't be bothered.

"Re-integrate Keely into the Matrix" has a nice ring to it, too

Yesterday I may have convinced one or two of you to go out and buy Sims 3. Well, now I feel I must issue a warning: those Sims can be destructive little bastards.

Apparently my phone-Sim felt maligned by my portrayal of her whorish self in yesterdays post, because immediately after I hit 'publish', I headed upstairs to bed, lalalala, went to the bathroom first, phone in hand, swung my arm a little and - FLOOP! - straight into the toilet bowl it went.

I swear to you, I couldn't have made that fucking shot if I'd tried. It was the Sim, forcing my hand and launching herself to an untimely (if somewhat more dignified than her first) death.

I picked up the phone, which seemed okay, and I remembered my phone-salesman friend saying that the WRONG thing to do was hit a bunch of buttons to see if it still worked, because that fries things, and that in the event, you should just turn it off. So I hit the button to turn it off.

It immediately did it's best imitation of a strobe light on a Japanese game show and vibrated across the counter top where I'd set it.


So I pulled the battery, and it's drying out now, but I don't have much hope for it. I just got the stupid thing, and I didn't put the 'extended warranty' on it. In fact, I remember having this exact conversation with the salesguy when he tried to sell me on it:

Me: "Will it be covered if I drop it in a toilet or if my toddler throws it at the ceramic tile?"

Him: (giving me a look like I'm the first person in the history of cel phones to ever anticipate that happening) "Uh, no, sorry."

Me: "Well, those are the two most likely scenarios right there, so it's not going to do me much good."

Him: "Well, you get a free 1GB memory card with it."

Me: "Is THAT going to help me if its in the toilet?"

...Yeah. In addition to having to replace it at full cost, I've been phoneless all day and frankly, I'm freaking the fuck out here, people. I had no idea I relied so much on that shiny, chunky, camera-y, vibrating bar of touch-phone goodness.

Went to text FoN to tell her what happened. Oops.

Went to check on my Sim to apologize for outting her as a total slut. Oops.

Went to grab a quick pic of my son making a sandwich out of his toast and some crayons. Crap.

And then, bravely I thought, left the house to run errands. Do you have any idea how BORING waiting in line at the grocery store is? I actually had to read something about somebody named Speidi. What the hell kind of name is Speidi?

And the torture in line at the bank. Precious minutes when I could have been twittering my agony to the entire blogosphere, lost.

Do you think it would be very obvious and self-serving if I were to email LG and ask to, um, review a Voyager on my blog?

Or maybe a "Save Keely's Social Networking Life" campaign on twitter. With a Paypal button.

In other news, my stove has also crapped out. Unsurprisingly, because this is just the way the universe works for me, it will cost me approximately the same to replace THAT as my phone at full cost. Also unsurprisingly, that's approximately the same amount of money we can possibly come up with at the moment without selling our son.

...We don't really need to eat, do we?

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.