23 Feb

Cynical inspiration…

It’ll get better.

If I hear it again I swear I will etch that saying into a stick and beat someone with it.

I’m serious.

one-day-things-will-get-better

Look. If you can’t tell me precisely WHEN it will get better then I am calling bullshit on your whole theory that it will.

You said it as though you knew for sure…so it would be reasonable to believe that you not only know it will get better but that you know the precise day, month, year, hour, minute and second that it will get better…

No? Oh…I see. *cough* bullshitter *cough*

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You: “There’s cake if you would like some.”

Me: “I’d love some cake thanks.”

You: *staring blankly at me*

Me: “So…should I help myself…or…”

You: “I don’t know…I was just saying there’s cake if you want some.”

Me: “Is it your cake?”

You: “Oh no…that Universe guy  brought it in…the one with the big chip on his shoulder; standing next to those skanky Fate sisters.”

Me: “Did Mr. Universe say anything when he brought the cake? Like “Help yourselves…grab a slice…?”

You: “No, it is kind of assumed that everyone will get cake.”

Me: ” When?”

You: “No idea…I’m sure you’ll get some…just wait.”

Me: ” Who the fuck brings cake to a party and then just lets it sit there without any mention of eating it? No invitation to eat it? No announcement…”

You: “Oh yeah…he did say there would be cake for everyone.”

Me: “When?”

You: “Like I said…I have no idea…I was only telling you there was cake if you wanted some…just passing along the message…that’s it.”

Me: “Well that’s bullshit…so you’re just standing here telling everyone they’ll get cake without knowing for certain that everyone will get cake.

You: “No I know we’ll all get cake. Mr. Universe said so.”

Me: ” Have you ever seen anyone get cake?”

You: *sighing heavily* “No…I haven’t…look you’re starting to get on my nerves…can’t you just accept that you will get cake and leave it at that?”

Me: “No. You don’t tell people they can have some fucking cake and then not give them specific details on when and how to get that cake…it’s not right. You shouldn’t mess with people like that. That’s an asshole move man. Just sayin.”

You: “Okay…You WILL get cake…why isn’t that enough?”

Me: “WHY isn’t that enough? Well because I need cake, I love cake, I want cake….and it is really shitty to be told there is cake if I want it, and I do, but that there is no timeline for getting a piece…so how do I know…and how do you know for that matter that anyone will even get cake at all. Mr. Universe said so and you just believe everything he says? Do you even know the guy?”

You: “Nope. never met him. Why would he lie?”

Me: “To keep everyone waiting and wanting for cake of course…and to see how many people would go around telling everyone else there was cake that apparently no one will ever get. It’s a vicious fucking circle…everyone walking around wondering about cake and being assured they will get a piece, yet not one person here has a fucking piece of cake!”

You: “For the last time…you WILL get cake! Just go…go about your business…live your life…and you will get cake.”

Me: *incredulous* “W-H-E-N…when will I get cake…when you offer up the cake, the reasonable assumption is that the sharing, dividing of and/ or consumption of the cake is going to occur relatively expediently, and/ or within a reasonable time frame. When you offer said cake to someone you implant the expectation in their mind and the immediate and natural response is to enquire as to ‘when’ said cake will be dispersed…if you cannot answer that one simple question as to ‘WHEN’ then you have no business telling anyone with any level of certainty that they will in fact get cake. It is irresponsible.”

You: “You’re an asshole.”

Me: “So…about this cake…”

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You see? So when you tell me “It’ll get better.”  and you don’t offer up a time line or present me with a fucking spreadsheet or send me an outlook calendar invitation to the event…I call bullshit.

You simply cannot know it will get better.

Oh….you hope it gets better?

Why didn’t you just say so?

19 Feb

Dear Purolator…you suck… a lot.

We live within 5 miles of the Purolator depot here in town.

Our package has been there since the 11th.

The shipper forgot to add our apartment number…okay so shit happens. We had to wait out the weekend as they don’t deliver on weekends. Monday rolls around and it’s a Holiday. So come Tuesday we have huge snow storm…

By the 17th the roads were all clear and everything should have been back on track right?

For everyone except Purolator apparently, who under the weight of the snow ( that didn’t even shut down UPS, Canada Post, DHL, Easy  or FedEx) were apparently unable to ship. We heard every excuse in the book right down to blaming non-existent construction and equally non-existent road closures.

I have been on the phone with them, in chat with them on Twitter, and we still are no closer to receiving our package.

No one at Purolator knows what the fuck is going on. No one can find our package now…the package that they found on the 15, 16th, 17th and again on the 18th…mysteriously disappears from their system on Friday the 19th.

Being told bullshit by people doing little more than trying to shift blame or divert the ire of an irritated customer is unacceptable. Take responsibility for your mess Purolator and get our package here.

Seriously. It has gone beyond ridiculous. The  only answer I get is to wait for a phone call from a “Tracing Specialist”.

Then we hear that it will be delivered on Saturday…because they are behind. Really.

Should I hold my hand under my ass?

18 Feb

Empty Nest FTW!

Okay. Here’s the recipe:

2 Grown Adults

1 Domestic setting devoid of children or visitors

4-5 hours worth of sheer boredom

40 Mbps down and 10 Mbps up internet speed

So you take all of the above, add a modest income ( sometimes 2 incomes when I’m not busy being unemployed), add a totally juvenile and slightly delinquent mentality or two and what you get is an apartment that looks more like the set for Mr. Dressup than a domestic residence for a “mature” couple. Backdrops, props, wires, disco balls, webcams and video cameras…and tiaras.

Plus an amazing and awesome tinfoil hat (made by yours truly).

Because we can. So there.

And no pervy-pervistons…it’s not for porn…although we could  probably make a quick buck or two…

No this is purely hobby and fun. And we do it because we can.

There will be more on this I hope in the months to come. Some fun stuff is planned and I’ll update here as well as Instagram, Twitter and facebook…etc.

The image is the “old one”…once the new site gets up and running I’ll have to do some updating…

18 Feb

The Toenail Incident…

We all have a memory from some time in our lives that has scarred us beyond words. Something so horrific, that the imagery, smells, tactile sensations, remain years after the event happens.

For my Husband it was a mammary accident, when as a boy he was asked to go and wake his Aunt from nap, as she rolled over, one of her massive flabby breasticles spilled out of her Moo Moo…to this day he cannot look at a large boobs without getting a bit queasy.

For me, it was The Toenail Incident.

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My parents were insane, and at the beginning of summer 1974, with Great Grandmother, laying on her death-bed on the other side of Canada, it seemed a perfect time for a family road trip, with three kids all under 10 years of age. This was before my Dad invested in the VW Pop-Top Van, which would take us on many great adventures, and we all crammed into my Mother’s, 1965 Dodge Dart. Two adults who didn’t like each other, and three kids who liked each other even less.

Alberta to Ontario or bust.

I remember the prairies seem to go on forever. I also remember getting a few elbows in the face from my little brother, and a few whacks from my Mother when I gave him a few more elbows right back than he’d dished out. My sister delighted in tormenting me as well, because she was sitting behind my Dad and our Mother’s arm couldn’t reach her. The woman had an incredible reach, to nail me right upside the head from the front seat. It was usually me who got whacked, but honestly I don’t remember being that bad of a kid…

We did the usual sight-seeing along the way, and stopped at more than a few truck stops and Mickey Dee’s for food and piddle breaks. As I recall, everyone made a  big fuss about my sister…”oh she’s so pretty”, “what beautiful hair…”, “Such a polite young girl…”. My brother was, “Adorable!”, and “Oh look at that little smile… he’s so cute and quiet!”

Then there was me. A barefoot, wild-looking, ginger-haired, freckled, Helion covered in three or so layers of dirt, mud and a variety of condiments and food particles, with a perpetually runny nose.

Yeah.

Anyway, so by the time we got to Ontario, we were all tired and pissy. We pulled into our Aunt’s backyard, set up the trailer tent and crashed. The next day we drove out to see the Great Grandmother.

I remember being forced to wash, put on clean clothes and instructed to,”leave your damn shoes on!” We drove for a while, before we arrived outside a small flat-roofed building, and pulled into a spot along the fence. I always had to sit behind my Mother, on the passenger side so she could hit me, when she felt I required a good whack. My sister had already gotten out on the driver’s side and nearly slammed the door on my head as I tried to worm out behind her, so I scooted back over and slid out of the car against the fence. Right into a mass of spiny thistles. Naturally, I had taken my shoes off and was now barefoot and angry, as I bulldozed my way crying and whining through all the thistles until I got to the walkway.

Now if my Mother had, had her way at that moment, I’m pretty sure she’d have suffocated me with that handkerchief she put over my face, instead of yelling “Blow your damn nose you look like an orphan!”, and muttering, “You had to take your shoes off…”

It was a really old-looking building, old square tiles on the floor, and a weird odor of rubber and bleach. Lots of nurses in white uniforms and little white hats, with drab cardigans. We walked down the hallway and into a room. There were a few other beds in there if I remember right, and we made our way over to one in particular.

There was a woman laying there with just a sheet draped over her middle half with her legs exposed. I just stood there frozen. She made a weird sound as she tried to move her mouth and her arm flailed as it reached out for me, there was spittle dipping out of her mouth and she grunted loudly…I felt a push from a hand behind me and I lost it.

I panicked. I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with that woman but I wasn’t playing this game…I ran to the foot of the bed covered my face.

Now I had no idea that when I opened my eyes I was going to see something that would forever haunt me. Well into adulthood,the image of that “thing” would remain as fresh as the day I saw it.sunnitawnkingston22

The image of that gangly, gnarled and decidedly greyish yellow toenail…overgrown and thick as a tree branch…spiraled, lumpy and horribly huge. All of the toenails were like that. Attached to a skeletal foot with callouses and bunions as big as my fist.

I ran out of the room and wouldn’t go back. I had nightmares.

To this day, I can barely touch my own feet without gagging. Toenails must be short and trimmed and clean or I go a bit snaky. Feet are just gross anyway…

As an adult, of course I understand she’d had a stroke or five, and her motor skills were severely compromised. Her speech was virtually non-existent but she had her faculties about her. She knew who we were and why we were there. She got to see her Great Grand kids before she died and for her that was all that really mattered. I was too young and terrified to appreciate why we there. Too young to really comprehend that this woman was dying and this was her opportunity to say hello and goodbye.

The end of a wonderful woman, I never knew, and the beginning of a phobia.annarcher

18 Feb

Really?

Shit. You know, making a schedule is a hell of a lot like making a list, and I am notoriously bad at making lists.

That’s not actually true…I am notoriously bad at following lists and/or remembering that I have made a list at all.

My desk is usually covered in bits of paper, with scribbled lists. Like the grocery lists I make, and then forget to take with me when I finally make it out the door to head to the store. Sometimes I’ll remember the list and shove it into a pocket and then forget I have it as soon as I enter the store. Sometimes I remember I have the list but choose to ignore it, foolishly believing I have all the items committed to memory.

I read an article a while back that said most stores will pump pleasing scents into their air to encourage shoppers to buy. I am of the belief that stores pump stupidity into their atmospheres, because it doesn’t seem to matter where I go to shop, as soon as I walk in, I almost always stop just inside the door and wonder, “What the fuck did I come here for?”.

I don’t know what it is.

My greatest fear in life is that my memory will fail me. I actually have nightmares about it, and I frequently take the “Alzheimer’s Test” online. Seriously. I do.

My Mother has lost her marbles, and through the marvel of genetics, marble losing tends to run in families. My Mother writes post-it notes, to remember her post-it notes, to remember her post-it notes… last time I saw her, every cupboard door and her refrigerator door, was absolutely polluted with yellow post-it notes. Most of them were duplicates.

Nu-uh. I use post-it notes to leave love notes for my Husband. That’s it.

So making a blog schedule…I think I’d be setting myself up for a whole lot of irritation and undue pressure. Jesus Christ if I can’t even commit to a grocery list how am I supposed to follow a blog schedule?

I’m still hashing out my intentions for this website anyway. Chaotic and impulsive…loosely structured and full of ideas.

A lot like me.

18 Feb

You snooze you lose…

In a recent conversation with my Husband…recent as in just a second ago, and at least six or seven times a day, everyday for the last 6 years…

He has wondered how it is that I manage to drink all the coffee.

On average, I drink about 85% of the coffee at home. The coffee ratio between us is something like 4 to 1 per pot.

Okay so I drink an unusual amount of Joe. I love the shit. I even drink a cup before bed and believe it or not it helps me sleep. I have gone to bed without my bedtime cup of coffee, only to lay there for an hour thinking , “Mmm…a cup of coffee would be really nice…”. Then I’ll get up and make one, drink it and sleep like a baby. Seriously.

On average I make about 3 pots per day, sometimes more depending on the day. Our coffee maker makes 5 cups based on my mug size. It’s a large-ish mug…

To be fair I always announce when I have made fresh coffee. That conversation goes like this:

Me: “I made fresh coffee Baby.”

Him: tipping his mug to peer inside at the cold coffee already growing a milk skin on it, “I still have half a cup…”

Me: “That’s disgusting…you can have fresh…”

Him: “There’s nothing wrong with this coffee. I’ll get  a cup later…”

Me: “Ick.” as I pour myself a fresh cup.

An hour later… repeat.

An hour after that…repeat.

Three hours or so later, he’s finally reached the end of his cold coffee and is ready for a fresh cup, only to find, what he affectionately refers to as “scags” left in the coffee maker. That is old-ish, burned and bitter, coffee dredges. He empties the coffee maker into his cup and marvels at how I can drink so much so fast.

I give him ample opportunity to get fresh, warm, yummy coffee. I even offer to get it for him, because it grosses me out that he drinks “dead and dying coffee”. I have on occasion pinched his mug when he’s preoccupied, empty out whatever is growing in it, washed it and filled it with fresh Joe. Muddy with milk just how he likes it. He’ll argue that the coffee that was in there was, “perfectly good…” or that it was, “…still okay, it was just from yesterday…”

Honestly.

The man has a lead-lined stomach.

So the rule here is simple, if I mention that there is fresh coffee and you don’t get yourself some quickly…you’re more likely to get “scags”.

Sucks to be you…drink faster!

18 Feb

Do you ever…

Please tell me I’m not the only one.

A kind of weird mental regression that overcomes me, and is enacted before I can even consider the company I am in or the consequences of my actions.

I swear it has to be a form of Turrets or something…

A plain pack of hot dogs sitting on the counter waiting to be opened, becomes worthy of a silly song and a little happy dance.

Sung to the tune of “Hello Mudda, Hello Faddah” by Allen Sherman

“Hello Doggies, Little doggies.

I will eat you, before you get all soggy,

In your squishy, pasty, white bun from the Quicky…”

Then comes the hysterical laughter as I clearly think I am extremely clever, and I add a little happy dance just to make sure I look as stupid as I sound.

My Husband was unfortunate enough to witness this.

I had opened my dogs and was grilling them ghetto-style in the oven, (for those who don’t know, ghetto style is where you put naked dogs on the oven racks themselves to get the “grill” lines. Makes awesome dogs!) Still giggling I headed to the living room to grab my coffee cup for a refill.

My Husband was sitting there, head tilted to the side, grinning…watching me.HotDog

Him: Sooooo…I’m guessing there is now a Hot dog song?

Me:  Yers…dare is. (comedy voice)

Him: Okay. Just so I know…you know…in case I hear it again and you know…wonder “What the fuck…?”

Me: There’s a song for everything Baby. Everything!

It is true. Apparently I have made up stupid songs for just about everything.

Lets see… in addition to The Hot Dog song, there is:

The All Alone song

Everyone Hates Gus song

You Don’t Own Anything Cuz You’re  a Dumb Cat song

Poor Kitty Why Can’t You Grow Thumbs and Go to the Store to Get Cream for My Coffee song

The Gotta Pee So Bad song

The Empty Fucking Coffee Cup song

The Holy Sneezy Face song

Why Does Everybody Call When I’m in the Goddamn Potty song

You get the idea… it’s chronic. What’s worse, is all of them are accompanied by my ridiculous, “dog-shitting-razor-blades” version of the twist, I refer to as My Happy Dance.

I know right?

For the record, nobody really hates Gus. Its just what we tell him so he doesn’t go getting all “Feline-Power” on us…we’re just helping him keep it real. Opposable Thumbs FTW Motherfucker!

My Husband will tell you, he knew there had to be a catch. Pretty, smart, funny…

Poor guy even fancies himself the “lucky one”.

Now THAT should be a song and dance!

18 Feb

Have I told you…

Have I told you the story of how I met my husband? I don’t think I ever did.

Well…what a hoot it was!

 

I was just coming off of a 7 year episode of agoraphobia. Couldn’t leave my house, and the rare times when I did, I had to have someone with me.

One of the weirdest things I have ever had to deal with honestly.

Any way… so I had gone through therapy and was feeling a bit better. I was going out more and for the first time in my life at 32 years old, sat and had a cup of coffee in a restaurant all alone.

I spent a lot of time online while recovering as well as going out more often. Any method I could find to be social seemed to make things much better. One day I wandered across a link to a video blogging site. BlogTV.ca.

I was hooked. I started chatting, then actually doing little “shows” as well. Then the opportunity to head across Canada for a big weekend camp out came up. I would be staying with some of the people I had met online.

Who does that? Who just packs up and travels across the country to meet a bunch of weirdos in Ontario?

Any hoo…I did it. It was more about proving to myself that I could face the fears and do it than to actually meet everyone. I mean I loved meeting everyone and boy did I have fun…but for me it was a life confirming thing that was all mine.

Now I had been chatting with a fella who had been doing bachelor style cooking shows online. I liked him a lot.

I went to the camp out in Woodstock Ontario and had a blast!!! Then stopped in and met my Husband for the the first time in person. This is the actual picture I took of the moment I saw him.

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A little blurry…I was so damn excited I nearly hung myself when I forgot to unhook my seatbelt. I was hanging out of the car with the seatbelt cutting across my midsection as I took this picture.

This is the exact moment I knew. Isn’t that awesome? How many people have a picture of the exact moment they fell in love?

So, we met hung out a bit and then I had to go back to Vancouver.

We chatted more, then started making phone calls and talking till the wee hours, we spoke everyday and he was 100% exactly as he portrayed himself to be. In fact most of the people I met were straight up, not all of them…but the ones that were important were and I never lost contact with them.

A year after that visit, he came to Vancouver to bring me back to Ontario. It took us two years but we made it back.

A big thank you goes out to my absolutely insane sister for all of it too. She sent me to Ontario and back and funded my insanity while there. And when the Hubby and I needed to get back to Ontario she helped us again.

It really was an amazing thing.

We kept on with BlogTV.ca until the site went belly up. One of the bloggers purchased the domain name and hung onto it.

Well now…it looks like BlogTV.ca is going to make a comeback and guess what? We’re ridiculously into it. It’ll be…well…like a reunion.

17 Feb

Lost and found…

So again I find myself with far too much time on my hands. Aside from looking for work…I really have far too many hours in the day to try to fill with something meaningful and useful.

I found myself wandering around the house today…looking for something. I didn’t know what I was looking for but figured I’d know it when I found it.

I never found it and had no choice but to sit my ass back down and spend yet a few more hours staring at on-line jobs and customizing my resume to send to them.

Makes me go a little snakey…

So I did a little browsing and  googling to kill some time.

I still have a few sewing projects to do that I didn’t have time for when I working from 7 am to 5pm…

I also made a tinfoil hat. More about that later…maybe… I mean I know this is supposed to be where I release my inner weirdo…

All in good time.

17 Feb

If “It” had a voice…

This was a post I had written some time ago…oddly one of the few that did not get lost when my site crashed (with my help).

Men are funny creatures. I like them. My Husband is a pretty good catch I figure, as far as men go. He’s a no pretensions, no apologies, manly man. My Husband is the kind of man, who as soon as he walks in the door from work, will strip down to his underwear, and that is how he’ll remain unless he is forced to put on some cargo shorts.

He’s a mullet sporting, biker type. Mustache with a little “foo-man-chu thing started and a soul patch. Tattooed and rough-looking with a definite edge. Highly intelligent, clever and, in all honesty a big dork. His appearance totally belies the person he is, and he likes it that way. He likes the “shock-factor” when people discover he’s not the stereotypical red neck he appears to be. He’s very fond of the contradiction.

So I’m sitting at my computer the other day, whining that I can’t seem to keep a single thought in my head, long enough to get more than a line or two written. Then I hit delete and stare blankly at the screen.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to find my Husband, in his underwear of course, flashing his man-bits at me.

“Hello…I am Mr. Peen…” he says in a low baritone, giving it a little wiggle.

With the slightest smirk on my face,”You’re such a dork.”

He flashes a moustached grin, gives “Mr. Peen” another little wiggle, “I’m not sure why I gave him such a deep voice…?” he questions.

“It just seems like he should have a very deep voice…” tilting his head to the side slightly, obviously now lost in thought about the implications of a supposed and likely vocal quality for his penis…if a penis could have a voice.

I don’t interrupt this thought process, other than to say, “It’d be a little disturbing if it sounded like Michael Jackson…”.

It’s one of those things that doesn’t need a lot of female input. I mean it doesn’t need female input to decide what vocal quality a man’s penis would have if it were to have a vocal quality at all. I don’t really have an opinion on the subject, and really at that point, had it not been so damn hot and humid, I am certain we could have found other things to do with his penis that didn’t involve “finding it’s voice”.

But it was hot and humid and the thought of getting all sweaty and breathless at that moment, although briefly and silently entertained in my head, was quickly dashed by the reality that, when even the action of blinking makes your eye balls sweat it’s too damn hot for nookie. That’s sad. I know. It pains me.

So as he wandered off muttering in various baritones that might suit his peen, and I was left to ponder.

I know damn well that my Husband is not the only man who does this. It has to span the classes. It cannot be a “status” thing or a socioeconomic “trait”. Men from every walk of life, educational background, upbringing and rearing, do this kind of thing. Hell, they have two Ozzy guys that created a live show and tour the world and actually make a living, contorting and manipulating their penis’ for large crowds of people… “Puppetry of the Penis“. They give them voices too…

You know I am betting, that Harper himself has on occasion, approached the Missus, peen in hand and announced, “Say Hello to Mr. Winky!” Disturbing and likely a bit proper…I kind of envisioned Harper giving his penis a proper British accent…not sure why. I could totally see Obama doing it too, he’d make it sound like Inspector Clouseau I figure. Obama seems like the type that would be pretty good at impressions… We all know with almost absolute certainty that Rob Ford does. So then I was off thinking of all the “famous” powerful men who might prance around in front of their significant others, using their penis’ to make commentary or initiate some frisky time.

I am glad that, despite our technological advances in computer enhanced neurosciences, that you are unable to see the images that flitted around in my brain.

As a side note, I don’t recommend Google searching for anything with “penis” in the title. I did try to find other instances of women saying their husbands or boyfriends did this…all I can say is the internet is a weird fucking place. Really, really, really weird.

From a woman’s point of view, I think I speak for all woman here…we are so very glad that penis’ cannot talk. Can you imagine the endless muffled chatter?

“Are you ready now? How about now? Now? Oh nice bend over like that again…I love it when you vacuum…are you ready now? You look hot doing dishes…ready yet? How ’bout now?”

They’d never shut up. Never. Penis muzzles and shock collars and special underwear with noise cancelling “cones of silence” would be flogged on the HSC and doctors all over the world would make a killing at “de-vocalizing ” penis’. Reality Talk Shows would spring up everywhere, and would have episodes with great titles like, “Shocked Into Silence”, “How Fruit of the Loom Stole my Voice and my Innocence”. There would  be rallies and protests, precedent setting court cases. Men would take their own penis’ to court and sue for damages to careers and relationships. Penis’ would counter-sue for undue hardships and inhumane treatment. Penis discrimination would be rampant. Employers and recruiters would have to interview both the male applicant and his penis and the paperwork would create an administrative nightmare!

What if the penis had a speech impediment or learning disability? Can you imagine? (The very thought almost made me pee a little from laughing so hard).

Then there would be the  Annual Penis Pride Parade, because everyone has to have a fucking parade!

Advocacy groups would spring up like dot coms did in the 80’s…Phallic Freedom Fighters, The No Penis Left Behind Campaign, Dicks Anonymous, Shlongs United and The Penis Rights Coalition.

Dating sites for Penis’ would be all the rage, and speed dating groups would gain in popularity as every penis tried to find their soul mate. Men and their Penis’ would have to double date…

It would be mayhem!

I could go on…but you get the idea…

Uhh…well….