Licking Pigs

I’m going to do it.

I’m going to go out there and start licking pigs, and end this madness once and for all.

This hysteria has got to stop! Upon the start of the regular flu season, at which point the delerium of the summer-of-swiney collided with the traditional early-fall panic to create a new breed of monster freak-out, the shit very subtley hit the fan at my work, and apparently less subtley everywhere else.

Without alerting the in-office clients, we were quietly told to start making hand sanitizer available everywhere. Ok, not a huge deal. We were also told to start Lysol-ing the crap out of our phones and keyboards. Oooookay, I guess one should be more cautious than usual in a public area that sees such heavy pedestrian traffic. Not my style personally, but hey, I just do what I’m told.

Then we were given alerts about symptoms, precautionary measures, emergency procedures, and brightly coloured easy-to-read mini-posters alerting us to the death that was surely waiting a sneeze away. Documents that looked more like something out of District-9 than inter-office memorandum.

Then I was handed a cleaning schedule, and that was the final straw. Cleaning is already enough of my usual 9-5 taskload, because frankly the only swiney I’m worried about around here are the pigs that leave wadded up paper towels in their slowly moulding coffee mugs in the sink. I already wipe mystery goo off walls and scrape a depressing amount of filth off counters. I’m more than aware of how to keep bacteria off my hands. So when I’m handed an anti-swiney cleaning regiment to be completed EVERY HALF AN HOUR that I soon realize takes TWENTY MINUTES to complete, my gut reaction is as follows:

a) Dear bosses: If you think I have that much spare time in the average day, what exactly have you been paying me to do up until now?

and b) No. No, no, no! I will not!

This is craziness! If you’re that concerned, hire a damn antibacterial-masked bubble-wrapped she-bot to do your bidding. I have shit to do! Like make sure about 500 calls a day get answered properly, mail for nearly 100 different companies get sorted and delivered, documents get shipped out, shipped in, signed for, bound or requested from various legal entities, make sure the kitchen is cleaned and stocked, boardrooms appropriately scheduled and tidied (and I don’t mean ‘tidy’, I mean ‘pens are placed logo-up on pad of paper at 45 degree angle as per 1000+ identical locations company-wide policy and so help you if the boss shows up and it isn’t done right’ kind of ‘tidy’.)

I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR HYSTERIA!!!!

I get it, this isn’t just the regular flu. But breeding super germs within my body by way of this ultra-sterile behaviour was not part of my job description the last time I checked. And another thing: if you really are that fearful for the lives of your clients and maybe even staff, then may I suggest you spend some of those hard earned dollars on getting us all vaccinated?

Not that I’m not suspicious of a hastily formulated, poorly distributed, side affect riddled, overly hyped innoculation. I just figure if hockey players and private school students get to jump the lines ahead of young mothers, children and the elderly waiting for hours in the cold and rain outside of under-stocked pop-up clinics, then surely my white collar, benefits-up-the-ass colleagues and I deserve preferential treatment as well. Right?

Hells no. Wash your hands, drink your vitamin C, and if you’re that concerned – go to your doctor. This is Canada; they’re backed up, hectic, but free.

come and get me, you pork punk little bastard!

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Problems in Advertising

I’ll admit there are some commercials out there that grab me hook, line and sinker. And I have no problem conscientously awarding good advertising. Someone had to think that shit up, and if I need a product, I’m going to give my money to someone who was at least witty or humourous in their efforts to get at my pocket change.

I try very hard not to be an over-consumer. Sometimes I look around, even in my tiny place and think “Why the hell do I have so much STUFF?! I hate stuff!” But let’s face it – at some point I’m going to need a bathroom cleanser, and after that brilliant ad Vim put out where it looked like the mother was in jail but actually cleaning her shower, I’m all for it (provided the product actually works, of course.)

Then there are other ads, the ones I see right through. I give credit for this ability to a minor, elective class I took in high school. Not a university deal, or a even a required credit. I had to pick a class to fill a time slot, and I chose ‘media studies’, with no actual interest in the field. It was a ton of fun and relatively easy, just what I was looking for. But I did learn a hell of a lot, more than in pretty much any other course that semester. I couldn’t tell you jack shit about the quadratic equation, but I can sure call bullshit on the television when I see it.

Here are my latest whiffs of horsecrap for your reading enjoyment.

Downy Simple Pleasures:

Look at me! I'm soft, feminine, and shaped like you wish you were!

The ad begins with “all women have many sides”, and continues to advertise the premise that women can express their various facets by way of scented laundry detergent. Right. Because all of my moods essentially boil down to huffing lavender versus orange when cleaning for my eventual family. Okay, I see no orange, but “Amethyst Mist” is NOT a scent! You know what amethyst smells like? Cold! Because it’s a rock!

Here’s a curveball for you Downy: Can you come up with a scent that effectively captures the feeling of “I really love Josh and can’t wait to get married and have a life and family with him, but sometimes the whole mom/wife thing seems so intimidating that every once in a while I wish I was still sleeping face down on a bare mattress on the floor of a Kensington Market slumhouse surrounded by overflowing ash trays and beer cans?”

No, I don’t think you could.

Palm Pre, or anything iPhone:

More complex technology = cleaner looking ads. This one is so comlpex, her face looks like its been soaked in bleach.

You know what? Believe it or not, I actually DON’T need you to live. In the time it takes you to find the right app (from the gagillion available – including a contraction counter for labouring ladies) and hit that notify button to tell people you’re running late to wherever, I can just as easily flip open my regular old phone and text “crap – run. late15m.” It will be plenty understood, even by those friends without their lifeline affixed to your brandnames. And even without my regular old cellphone, I could just show up late and take casual note that although I prefer to be on time to lifes important dates, in the rare event that I am not, the world will in fact keep on spinning.

Swiffer, Febreze, and pretty much anything else along those lines:

what

the

ass

 

WHAT WOMAN WHERE CLEANS THE DAMN HOUSE FROM TOP TO BOTTOM IN WELL PRESSED KHAKIS?!?!? LIES, ALL LIES!!!!

Maybelline Pulse Perfection:

mine can't be the only mind in the gutter...

Um….no. Just no. I’m not putting a vibrating stick near my eyes, especially not when it’s coated with black sticky goo that hurts when it gets in there on its own, nevermind with a micro-drill. But thank you, Maybelline, for being that concerned about my ability to stop traffic with the fluttering of my lashes – like when I’m going “OW! MY EYE!!! DEAR GOD, MY EYE!!! GET IT OUT!!! GET IT OUT, OH GOD!!! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?!!?” If, in some weird parallel universe I ever succumb to this advert and accidentally remove half my cornea while cat-walking the streets of New York and simultaneously fluffing my lashes, I sincerely hope that another version of myself is around to say “I know why. Because you used that fucking vibrator stick near your face, stupid.” Said other version of myself will then likely go back to pushing a wobbly cart full of newspapers, relish, and other conspiracy theory evidence.

 

Well, that’s all for now my internet stumblers. I’m going to turn off the tv for the night because any more ridiculous adverts and my head just might explode. That and there’s only two episodes of the Simpsons on per night, and I don’t care about whats on after the second one. I hope you’ve enjoyed my bullshit advertising expose, or at the very least, I’ve prevented you from buying crap you don’t need. Which means more dollaz for the strip club, yo!

What? Who said that? 😉

An Assortment of Late Night Thoughts

– The phrase “It feels great, the hair feels amazing!” Should never be uttered on late night television. Somehow, the fact that it is uttered in an ad for “shake on hair” (technical term: hair loss concealer, I’m not even making this up) somehow only makes it worse.

– What is wrong with Jay Leno’s chin? And David Letterman’s teeth? And Conan O’Brien’s hair? Is that why Jimmy Kimmel will never be as popular? Because he doesn’t have some weird physical abnormality?

– Josh is right, that was a crepe I was making in that pic, not french toast. Breakfast cognition: fail.

– I really regret getting rid of my magic bullet blender. I’m still convinced that I’d use it. I never used it. I blame the fact that I never looked at the recipe book that came with it.

– I want to be that person who gets to choose classical music clips for cartoons. They probably have a better search process for finding vague pieces than googling ‘that fluttery song they play when its sunrise.’

– Is that a spider on the wall or just a shadow? Should I get up and try to smoosh it? Or will that result in an unfortunate 2am fire since I’m incapable of squishing things and must instead torch them with hairspray and a lighter?

– Why the hell don’t they display the comedian’s name at the end of the segment when I’ve decided whether or not to pay attention? By the time I care, I don’t know who I want to Google.

– Shakespearean improv troupes should not be allowed on Just For Laughs.

– Disney is solely responsible for my choice in hair colour and crushed expectations of impossible volume.

Suck it Disney. This hair is not possible.

 

– Why are odd numbered groups of items considered more aesthetically pleasing? Like the number of flowers in a fancy hair style, or food arrangements, like spring rolls. They always give you three spring rolls…that doesn’t work for sharing!

– Is there something wrong with me for enjoying foreign documentaries so much or is it just the product of having no cable for too long? And for that matter, when did Ed Burtinsky go from photography to narrating documentaries on other photographers?

– Ok, so what the hell is ‘Dadaism’?

– What is Angela Bowie’s problem?

– Sometimes I feel like I’m the only twenty-something office peon who can spend the morning discussing supply chains and market research, and then hide in the admin office for lunch, flapping my black pashmina around and yelling ‘I AM THE BATMAN!”

– Goddamn, I want some perogies…

– Does Lysol really care how much bacteria is on my counter, or are they just trying to make money?

– Why on earth would any food-vending company think that “secret sauce” sounds at all appealing? Maybe in the more innocent days of yore, but not in these perverted times.

– You know it’s gone from ‘late night’ to ‘early morning’ when every damn station tells me either how dirty my house is, how inefficient my vegetable chopping is, or 80% of the time – how fat I am. Can you see me, television? How the hell do you know about my hip jigglage?

– Maybe I do need a Sham-Wow. Or anything else that Vince guy is selling. I wonder if he’s secretly glad that Billy Mays is out of the picture…

– If ‘bagel bites’ now contain real cheese, what the hell ass were they using before? And for that matter, what’s in those little Ritz Bitz cracker dealios?

– They should have a cereal called ‘Dealios.” I’d buy it.

– Can my houseplants think?

– Pros to being vegetarian: no chicken-head mcnuggets.

– Dammit, it’s 3am. Am I never going to fall asl-

– Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…..

“Funny Little Quirks” or: A Brief Glimpse into my Crippling Neuroses

Ever notice little things about yourself that are a bit odd? Not necessarily quite ‘strange’ or ‘unusual’, but just funny little details that help you set yourself apart from the rest of the herd on those depressing Monday mornings when you realize those cute shoes you bought are about as unique as the fake Louis Vuitton purses sported by the frumpy office moms who apparently also thought that sensible ballet flats were special and different this year?

*pause for breath*

Ugh. Nothing I love more than the constant reminder that to the average onlooker, I’m just part of the flock. I put on pants nice enough to qualify as ‘business’, avoid open toed shoes or tops that leave my shoulders bare.  But in reality, I fall into the category of apathetic gen-Y office dweller. I’m not quite the post high-school slacker just working hard enough to not get fired, uselessly pushing the dress code with black sneakers and nailpolish. I’m not the razor sharp, well dressed, killer heeled Career Woman with expensive accessories. I’m not a Frazzled Office Mom with a mismatched pantsuit and the wrong sandwich in my knockoff purse that isn’t fooling anyone. I don’ t have a kid and/or mortgage, and I’m not stuck here doing my frantic best to make it through to retirement, realizing that one day I’m going to wake up amidst sit-com reruns, wondering where my youth went.

No, I’m just paying my rent, happy enough that I usually like my job and get to work with my best friend, before secretly running away to live in the south and save up for a trailor.

This last option actually kind of terrifies me. No, no, not the trailor thing. I mean, that’s scary, but crazy exciting. No, it’s turning into a Frazzled Office Mom that scares me. Because Slacker Girl won’t be able to pay bills, but at least she’s hip and cares not for ‘the man’. Career Woman may not have her looks forever, but for now she kicks a lot of ass. But Frazzled Office Mom? There’s plenty of  ladies sporting kids and bellies and mortgages wandering around my office looking lovely and ridiculously pulled together, but somehow I don’t think I’d be able to pull this off. I’m already flying around by the seat of my pants without throwing kids and “caring about my career” in there. And I seriously do not want to turn into my cubicle dwelling mother, shouting at the kids to hurry the hell up and get in the minivan, poking my eyes with mascara at stoplights and hating every minute of it.

And so this is why my morning arrival into the elevator banks is often nothing short of a brief, dizzying bout of introspective crisis. If I see in my fellow ascenders enough terrifying glimpses into the possible future to remind me that it’s a slippery slope from ‘just paying the bills’ to ‘stuck here for life’, it makes me want to throw down my latte and run, shrieking “I’m not one of you! I just have to wear these pants!”

Unfortunately, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea since while waiting to eventually say “Screw this noise!” and run away to the wilderness, I happen to enjoy at least electricity and a roof over my head. So I wear my pants and drink my latte and remind myself that aside from my crippling neuroses, I’ve got a few other traits that, at least internally, set me apart from the herd:

– I used to have eight barbells in the back of my neck. I didn’t take them out for my job, I took them out because it turned out I’m allergic to nickle and it would have cost an assload to have them plated in titanium and put back in (see: cost of roof and electricity). I still have the jewelery though – just in case.

– I get a sick kick knowing that even when I’m pushing the ‘doors close’ button on the elevator, it looks to the rushing fat guy that I’m pressing ‘doors open.’ The elevators are lined with mirrors, perfect for displaying the vaguely frantic expression of  ‘oh, so close!’

– I value my sleep enough that I’d rather show up with wet hair, put my makeup on at work and greet my clients blotchy-faced and blurry-eyed than show up looking professional and have someone ask me for stuff before 9am.

– Somehow, my ‘desk job’ involves an awful lot of ‘moving desks.’ Not sure how that happened. In fact, my ‘white collar’ job is actually about 25% blue collar. I feel this gives me the right to scratch and burp in a manner that would otherwise be deemed inappropriate for an office environment.

– At least once a day I belch fairly loudly at Talea. She usually belches back.

– I can pretend to give a shit in four different versions of engrish.

– While Josh enjoys my occasionally sexy corporate wear, he really wishes I’d dress like Joy from ‘My Name Is Earl.’ Secretly (in that ‘I just said it on the internet’ kind of way), I think I could pull it off.

– I get ridiculously annoyed at bathroom dwellers, like that ugly chick from across the hall who stands in front of the mirrors for upwards of ten excruciating minutes, morosely adjusting her ill-fitted clothes. I hate her. Yanking on your shirt will not make it fit, get out and let me pee in private!

– I consider corner cutting to be an efficient skill worthy of honing. Sort of along the same lines of “If you ignore it long enough, it will fix itself.” I’m also of the belief that sometimes, violence is the answer – particularly in relation to the Xerox machine.

– I sent one of my superiors the so NSFW links to ‘Like a Boss’, ‘I’m on a Boat’, ‘Powerthirst’ and ‘Powerthirst2’ because I felt he was not adequately in the cool kids club. I like my bosses to know when I’m making fun of them, or at least understand the humour of being ‘uncomfortably energetic’.

– Freaking out about something completely unnecessary is a part of my balanced breakfast.

There you have it. A little bit of me, myself and my brain. I hope this has been an enlightening or at least amusing adventure. At the very least, if any of you have the good fortune of meeting me in person, particularly at work, you may be less perturbed when I suddenly bust out with The Lonely Island. Because, you see, it’s very important to my peace of mind. So until I can kick this creased-pant habit and start wearing slutty tank tops, I’ll be here, drinking my latte, directing workflow.

(Like a boss.)

Delicious

Where the hell have I been?

No seriously, if you know, please raise your hands, because it seems like days and weeks have gone by with me standing here going “wait, what?”

I’ve been super busy, once again. I figured I should probably fix up the spare room in my apartment given that I’d nailed up a bunch of wood and left the cardboard tile ceiling a little on the saggy side. I shanghied a handy pair of friends into helping me last weekend and then tagged along on their trip to the Junction Arts Festival for honey-and-lavender ice cream, random fridge art and copious amounts of bureks and perogies. Every Saturday I’ve been at May’s for knitting and pie (one hideous cardigan finished, one super cute hoodie about halfway there!), there’s been a trip to Niagara for Talea’s wedding plans, dinners with family and a ton of baking for corporate client events. Oh yeah, and I’ve got a boyfriend to spend with too! Josh has been busy building an extra room onto his brothers house with him (today: stairs) so I try to line up my free time with his as often as I can. I haven’t even had time to do grocery shopping – and I do my groceries online! It’s been sad amounts of takeout this past week for me.

There’s been zero time for blogging, or even time for structured thought on anything I’d like to blog about. So what do I do when I don’t have time to type? I post pictures. Much, much less time consuming.

Since I haven’t had time for groceries, I thought it would be good to remind myself that yes, at times, I have consumed real food. In that spirit, here are some pictures of me eating whilst on my not-so-recent vacation – have I mentioned I’m already in dire need of another? Also included are pictures of me about to eat, having just eaten, or generally in the midst of an eating type environment. You can’t visit the south without taking a bite, and Josh and I do love our delicious meal times.

Obsoive!

Eating it up at the almost-in-laws

Eating it up at the almost-in-laws

 

My southern man frying up some plantains for breakfast

My southern man frying up some plantains for breakfast

French toast? Or maybe Quebecois toast...

French toast? Or maybe Quebecois toast...

Mmm, breakfast! With a side of white trash bra.

Mmm, breakfast! With a side of white trash bra.

Out for Japanese on our date night <3

Out for Japanese on our date night ❤

Edamame! I don't think Josh had seen them before. I have two kinds in my freezer.

Edamame! I don't think Josh had seen them before. I have two kinds in my freezer.

We rode from dinner to the movies - even though it was in the same plaza.

We rode from dinner to the movies - even though it was in the same plaza.

Bean dip!

Bean dip!

Mmmmm ^_^

Mmmmm ^_^

Back to School, America

You may have heard news of this little speech dealio that occurred yesterday afternoon. Oh you know, nothing major. Just the president of America having a little sit-down with the youth of the nation. A little pep talk, as it were. Do your best and all that jazz. Probably not the first President to ever do so.
However, he may be the first to be greeted with parents pulling their kids out of school for wanton fear that he’d warp their mushy little brains with his left wing agenda.  Really folks, do you so distrust your own parenting that you honestly think that a fifteen minute exposure to someone who’s views you disagree with will destroy their little morals forever and undo years of tireless value-instilling?
Here, take a quick gander. If you want, you can see the whole 15 minute shebang here, but for a brief taste that really speaks volumes about his “agenda”, here’s a brief segment.
I don’t get it guys. I really don’t understand what the problem is. I’m not even talking about this particular speech here. This goes beyond that, to the atmosphere of absolute media hysteria that I feel trembling up from our southern border. This is what you’re worried about?! And this is something that Josh and I have discussed at great length, another clear indication of the difference in our cultures. Why do you panic at the thought of understanding another point of view?
For example, let’s get away from politics for a second, and talk about another frequent point of difference and disagreement. Yeah, let’s do it, let’s talk religion.
Do you know where I learned about Buddhism and Islam? Theism, Antitheism, Agnosticism? In my Roman Catholic high school. Yeah, yeah, I wore the kilt. And they taught us not just the Bible, but provided access to other teachings as well. We learned not just Creation – although it was the obvious favourite – but Evolution. We learned other theories, teachings, and schools of thought. The Quran, the Torah and Talmud, the Bhagavad-Gita. The belief in nothing at all, or perhaps just a ‘maybe’, and even the basis for the belief of some that religion is outright harmful. We learned that you can take the Bible literally but that it’s not going to add up to real life (because, hello! Science!!!) And we learned that you can take moral truths from the scripture instead of basing your perception of reality on every single word. We were never taught that dinosaur bones are the work of the devil.
Let’s talk other issues. I was also taught not just about abstinence, but safe sex, abortion, adoption, sexual health, marriage, and all the sexual orientations under the rainbow. I saw brutal pro-life videos and articulated pro-choice seminars, and had open, frank discussion about the morality involved in either options. Understanding, rather than condemnation, was the name of the game. The girl who was brave enough to come to school while pregnant wore her belly as a badge that she hadn’t succumbed to guilt and fear, and was greeted with support, not shame. The same was true for the girl who decided for another option – publicly, the school had it’s opinion, but in the halls there was comfort, not mudslinging.
Let’s talk politics again. We learned not just about how our country works, but how others work. We learned the basis behind democracy, theocracy, oligarchy, aristocracy, monarchy. Communism, socialism, facsism, nationalism. If we see a system as inherently good or evil, why? Nobody gets in charge ranting about the terrible things they’re going to do in a few years, so what happens? What did communism hope to accomplish? How did it fail and why? Was Hitler batshit insane from the get-go or did something go horrifically awry? How do global politics come home? What aspects of our own system have the potential for abuse and misuse?
In other words, we learned to think critically about our opinions and others, and it makes me furious that there are those who don’t just allow parroting, but encourage it. Mindless repetition. Yes, I went to a religious school, and the leanings were definitely towards the morality our parents evidently wanted us to learn. But we weren’t sheltered from the rest of the world for fear that it would negate all their teachings.  We were encouraged to learn, to form opinions based on information and analytical thought, not repetitive propaganda. How can you have faith in what you believe, be it politics, religion or otherwise, if you can’t withstand criticism? And how can you criticize others if you don’t know where they’re coming from? How do you cover the ears of your children and then expect them to learn?
This is why I don’t understand the fear, hysteria and sheltering. Not just pulling your kids out of school because they might hear a ‘controversial democrat’, but beyond that. How do you forbid evolution in schools? How do you burn books? How do you take the rules of your particular interpretation of one of so many belief systems and try to rule others with it? How do you think you’re right, just because you’ve insisted so for so long without turning that criticism inwards to see if you really measure up? How do you think any single one of you has all the answers, so much so that you give yourself the permission to rise above other human beings and condemn them? How do you fear other points of view so much?
Ladies and gentlemen, I just don’t get it.

Danger: No Swimming (Or Complaining)

Happy Tuesday, my Internet friends.

How’s your Tuesday going? Good? I hope so. I hope it’s going swimmingly. Mine sure is, with several buckets worth of water coming down from the kitchen ceiling at the office this morning.

Yeah, kind of like this

Oh, would you care to hear the tale? I bet you would.

Now for the sake of e-scrutiny, I need to be wary of identifying my workplace for fear of happenstance reading by a workly superior. Thusly, I can’t go too far into detail as to what it is I actually do. Suffice it to say that I work in a professional environment wherein it is our responsibility to make sure that people looooooove their offices, simply loooooove coming in to work every single day because our company makes running your business just that much easier. To put it bluntly, we keep your shit running so you can do your thing.

Naturally, this service isn’t free. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper and easier than muddling through all the details of an office by your newbie lonesome, but it isn’t free. Of course, people seem to forget that. And so the crux of my week-daily life is that I’m surrounded by people who are paying for my very presence, but aren’t exactly thrilled about it. I pretty much just come with the furniture and serve as a reminder that the luxury of appearing important comes with a monthly bill.

A good chunk of my job revolves around keeping the place quietly functioning. You know, the background. This means photocopying, faxing, scanning, printing, all things courier related, keeping everything ordered and stocked, booking boardrooms, about a million and one other non-specifics that change on a daily basis, and of course the full time job it is keeping the place up to the white-gloved scrutiny of the aforementioned powers that be. I get in trouble for dusty picture frames. This part of my job is fantastic, because I am anal retentive and get a thrill out of a completed list of things to do. However, we of course would have no reason to exist without the clients who need us so very, very much.

Ahhhhh, the other part of my job. The big part. The big, whiney, complainey part. Because they do complain. Ohhhhhh do they complain. If it’s a big complaint about money or whatever, it goes over my head. Someone else deals with that. I am nowhere near important enough and damn well wouldn’t want to be. But all the little piddly shit? That’s me. Is your internet being stupid? I’ll jiggle the wires until it works and make you think I have a clue as to what I’m doing. Do your phones sound like crap? I’ll yell at someone until they sound better. Did you forget your mothers birthday again? I can arrange that floral delivery and even call her to lie about it for you. Are you unhappy because we called someone in to replace the jack that you decided was slowing down your internet, and now its faster…but still not enough to run Word as fast as you’d like? (Yes, you read that clearly: some people think Word is controlled by the internet.) Or even better, are you befuddled by my inability to program your phones so that you don’t keep getting these ‘anonymous’ calls, being that you apparently live in the century before call display? Well then I’d be more than happy to stand there with a retarded grin on my face while you berate me for your own damn stupidity.

Yes, indeed, a disproportionate part of my job requires placating the masses, the Great Confused Unwashed who wander these hallways leaving smeared coffee handprints on the wall and kitchen cupboard doors flapping in the breeze. I’ve seen lollipops stuck to picture frames, shredded paper dumped on the floor *next* to the garbage can, and all manners of inconsiderate tomfoolery.

Today kind of took the cake though, I have to tell you.

So we have this water heater. It apparently lives in the ceiling. I couldn’t tell you why, but that’s where it is. Said water heater stopped working some time ago, and so we’ve endured weeks of complaining. I like to respond with the sympathetic head nod meant to imply “I’m so sorry I’m not a tradesperson capable of climbing in the rafters and welding leaks myself – please note the career wear meant to imply said inability despite my constant wriggling under your desks to fix all kinds of shit that shouldn’t be my problem. But please rest assured that I will take your strife very, very personally.”

Today was the day we had been scheduled to receive a new unit. Joyous occasion!

However, for whatever cause that should reasonably be expected, the installation did not go as smoothly as (not really) anticipated. These things never go perfectly, right? No biggie. Until of course the installation fellow wandered off for some time and someone at some point thereafter apparently came in to use the sink. That’s where it got ugly. To be fair, installation fellow should have put up a sign saying “don’t use the water yet”. But to be equally fair, there were plenty of displaced ceiling tiles, hanging pipes, and other assorted dangerous accoutrements that should have been a signal to even the least logical of the crowd that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to venture into the kitchen. But venture they did, taps they turned, and out of the ceiling the water began to pour. Where installation fellow was for the ten minutes or so it took us to find him I still don’t know. What I do know was that our kitchen and any water-related appliances were SNAFU for most of the day.

Now, I can see this as an inconvenience. A pain in the ass even. What I can’t see is how having repairs done in a kitchen can turn into a launching pad for all sorts of huffing, puffing, and general jackassery. Here are my two favourite responses to being told “Sorry, we’ve got a bit of a situation here. We won’t be able to use the kitchen for the next little while.”

1. From too-thin client whisping down the hall with a dish of fruit and a packet of soluble-fibre oatmeal (as well as a look nothing short of absolutely despondent): “But…but where am I supposed to get boiling water for my oatmeal?”

I don’t know sweetheart. Ours is broken. Do you not see legs dangling from the ceiling? Pipes and wires and cables everywhere? Oh hang on, you need oatmeal. Let me just fire some boiling water out of my ass for you, because by this point I feel like I could. Are you kidding? I know it’s inconvenient, I really really do. I’d be pissed too. But I also know that it’s very obvious that nothing can be done about it at the moment. In fact, I know that it’s very obvious that the only thing that can be done about it is currently in the midst of being done. What I’m not sure of is what exactly you would like me to do. Oh, and I also know that there’s a foodcourt downstairs. Have at it. Or you could eat the FRUIT you’re carrying.

And on a totally unrelated note, do you eat your cigarettes? You can’t be 30, how do you sound like that? Also, you’re married. I get it. You can stop casually mentioning it three times in an unrelated conversation.

2. Weird little troll like guy, who seems quiet until the occasional passive-agressive outburst of assholery: “You know, if we can’t get coffee from the kitchen, you should be supplying it for us from the Starbucks downstairs.”

Wow. Just…wow. Really? If the pipes were to burst in my apartment, do you think I’d be hammering at the landlady to cough up vouchers for a spa to clean my self-entitled ass? No. I’d carry on my way, complaining loudly so that nobody attributed my dirty hair to a lack of hygiene or anything other than what boils down to a MINOR INCONVENIENCE!!!! That’s what I’d do! Just like you, upon realizing that the kitchen is under about an inch of water, should take your four fucking dollars and buy your own goddamn latte! Starbucks? Are you kidding me? Does the repair shop loan you a Lexus while your Ford is getting fixed? No. No they don’t. Especially not if you’re a jerk.

Here is your latte and I hope it hurts you in your sleep.

Has nobody in their right freaking mind ever heard the term Shit Happens? You know why they say that? Because SHIT HAPPENS. We wrinkle our noses at the smell, buy a fruity cup of java to make ourselves feel better, and move the hell ass onwards.

So! In conclusion, today’s lesson has been as follows:

The next time shit goes wrong anywhere at work, I’m just going to leave it. If there’s water streaming down from the floor above, I’m just going to let it fly. That’s right, you can all get your loafers soaked and wade around in your own self-serving crap.

But hey, at least you’ll have your coffee flavoured oatmeal or whatever the hell else you’d like me to pull out of my ass for you.

LOOOOOOVE!!!!

A New Improved Way to Get Your Kids Off Your Back

Hey everybody!

It’s time for some great parenting advice from an obnoxious twenty something who doesn’t have kids!

Not sure what to do when your kids are out of control? Are they screaming in the back seat for the eleventh hour in a row en route to Aunt Ethel’s for that family dinner you’d rather not be at anyways? Do they have an annoying habit of yanking on the phone cord for your attention until they disconnect you from your long lost best friend in Alberquerque?

Well then, I’m sure it comes as no surprise that in the days of yore there were those of the opinion (probably including Aunt Ethel herself) that a quick shot of silly juice was enough to soothe just about any toddler ailment from teething pain to pesky bed time meandering.

Nowadays, we know better. Letting our children have booze is a bad idea. Letting our children have peanuts is a bad idea. Letting our children have milk products is a bad idea. As is sunlight, tap water, synthetic fibre and bubblegum. Not to mention letting them loose in a playground with outrageous gravel, now that we have brightly coloured squares of ubersafe chopped up former tire bits to cushion their feeble, feeble knees. And if you have the nerve to cover a boo-boo with any sort of non-antiseptic bandaid, or dare leave your counters bare of their daily recomended dose of Lysol, well then! You’re headed straight to the stocks, you bad parent you. At least if you believe those Brand Power commercials (because those no-name granola bars tell your kids you don’t care.)

Thankfully, the two modern worlds of over-sanitizing the crap out of kids and the occasional need to get said kids to shut the hell up have collided ad last. Yes, it’s true, kids are getting snockered on hand sanitizer. Now of course like most products designed to improve your child’s overall health, hand sanitizer should be guarded carefully to avoid overdosage. You know, kind of like Flintstones vitamins.

Look, I've got shoes! How toxic can I be?

But at least now you can enjoy the comfort of knowing that while your energetic little one is contentedly dazed, he or she is also being protected from all the scary germs out there by way of licking chemicals off of their clean little paws.

Of course, I guess you could also use soap….or even make use of this ‘immune system’ thingie. But hey, that’s just me.

except probably not

 

Doin’ Toad

So what do you say to someone you love when you haven’t seen them in a year?

Well, a lot of things. “I love you,” of course, along with “I missed you,” and “I can’t believe it’s been a whole year!” Eventually, you say things like “So where do you want to eat?”, “Nap or tv?”, and “Dude, there’s no way they can send that car over the fucking mountains!” (It was a Mythbusters marathon.)

When your vacation is less about exotic destinations and more about relishing the everyday, you find yourself at Target saying things like “I guess camo just isn’t in this year, babe” and “Seriously, I hate thong sandals! Why aren’t there any normal sandals for men?!?”

Thong sandals. Josh fucking hates them.

 

One thing you definitely wouldn’t expect would be to say “Get the fuck away from me!” However, I did in fact utter those or at least similar words about two thirds of the way through our visit.

I had a good reason though:

No seriously, he's like this in real life.

No seriously, he's like this in real life.

 

I didn’t want to get warts!

Can you get warts from licking a toad? I mean, he didn’t just pretend to lick it or barely touch it with the tip of his tongue. I know right there it looks like he’s faking and only licking his thumb, but trust me, he full on licked the toad. In fact, there was enough tongue-to-toad direct contact to realize that toads aren’t just slimey, they’re dirty. He spat for about a full minute trying to get the dirt and grit off his tongue before drowning the taste with beer.

*insert American beer joke here*

Then what does he do? Tries to kiss me.

Oh hells no! I don’t want your warts, get away! I squirmed and wriggled and refused to let him kiss me, loudly proclaiming “It’s okay, my best friend is engaged to a doctor! I need to check with him first!” There was no way I was going to end up coming back and having to explain “Oh these? No, no, it’s not herpes. It’s actually far more ridiculous. My boyfriend licked a toad.”

Naturally, he thought I was hilarious and took great delight in occasionally leaning over for a smooch and seeing how close he could get before I remembered that he was covered in toady, toady gross. You’d think I wouldn’t forget, seeing that it had *just* happened. Right, did I mention I was also drinking beer? He got pretty close a couple of times. Plus, he’s my man after all – it’s not easy not kissing him!

Eventually, though, my beer ran out. And so I did what any miffed girlfriend does – I grabbed his.

Mid-swig, the smirk on his face caught my attention.

“Darlin’?” he says.

“What?” I snip back.

“Now tell me, how is that any different from kissing me?”

“….”

*smirk*

“….   ….   …..Well, fuck.”

After a raucous round of pointing and laughing, I grumbled “Oh fine, go brush your teeth.”

So…as it turns out, you can’t get warts in your mouth from licking a toad. Or maybe you can and we just didn’t. Or at least I didn’t, and Josh hasn’t mentioned anything to me about any toad-related regrets other than a mouthful of dirt. But I was seriously grossed out, and wouldn’t kiss him anymore until after he brushed his teeth. For once, his habit of brushing about seven times a day came in handy.

Still, if our kids turn out like this, I won’t be held responsible.

 313KTJ96WYL__AA280_

‘Twas Ladies Night

If you were wondering what other exciting activities occurred during my trip to see Josh in North Carolina, there are plenty of tales for me to share. Not all of them are 18+ rated of course, but this one is.

Suffice it to say I ended up getting smacked in the crotch, but that’s for later.

I know I’ve mentioned my almost-in-laws before, but Josh’s sister-in-law Sami is pretty awesome. She’s itty bitty and packs a punch, and was all over a girls night out during my stay. So what do two bad ass ladies do on a bad ass evening? Go to the strip club, naturally.

To be honest though, I can’t really say “naturally” because as rad as we are, this was a rather new experience for both of us. Sami had never been to such an establishment. I’ve been several times, but only ever sat in the VIP room with a group of suave shady characters more interested in beverages and business than the ladies, poking fun at the B-list and waiting for the lights to go on to see who won an assortment of age related bets. (I kept some interesting company in my early twenties.) Either way, the idea of sitting right up front with no experienced posse was a new one. So maybe we were just the slightest bit nervous. But hello, what are vacations for? So off we went.

Firstly, before we set out for the night there was the task of selecting our venue. There is no Yonge Street to go between the Brass Rail and Zanzibar, or waiting cabs for a trip somewhere else. And with booze *obviously* on the menu, we wouldn’t be hopping about. We needed to find one place for our adventure, and we needed to find the right place. A place that was nice (but not too nice), and down with unaccompanied ladies. Apparently there are places where women are not allowed without male company. Also crucial was finding one that wouldn’t leave our respective men worrying about their unaccompanied ladies and what sort of attention they might receive from rather rough crowds.

This was not a job for the new girl and the new in town girl, and so we assigned our men the work of calling up their buddies for consult. I don’t know how much ‘work’ it was, really – picking out a strip club for your girl must be at least somewhat hot. And so it didn’t take long for them to come up with Pure Gold, in the next town over.

For this we needed Irwin, a somewhat stunted GPS with a bad habit of announcing turns after they’d been past. But we got there and managed to figure out the parking lot. It was wedged sort of under and next to a few other establishments of the more daytime variety, all with their own parking. The only spaces available to us was the valet parking, five bucks. Except since the spaces were literally right next to the door, all you really had to do was give the guy in the vest a fiver for the privelege of not letting him touch your vehicle.

However, as an amusing interlude, he did announce that it was his duty to inquire as to whether we were there as guests or applicants. Between surprised snorts, we managed to tell him that no, we were not there for jobs. But thanks. We parked and went in, paid the cover, found a seat and sat down.

Did I mention it was a Thursday at about 7pm?

It was very quiet, obviously without the regulars who would filter in as the evening went on, and for about half an hour we sat awkwardly sipping our mimosas. We had our fistfulls of bills ready to go, but it seemed the dancers were less interested in dancing and more interested in morosely leaning against things. We decided it was the first night out for many of these ladies and so sat back in our chairs to wait for someone a little more interesting.

I don’t know how many of you ladies out there frequent these establishments, but if you do I’m sure you know that we for the most part aren’t there for the same reason as a male attendee (except for maybe the squat lesbian in the corner who liked the chubby ones). You see, I’m not impressed by big jiggly boobies – I have them too. I can walk in heels and lean on railings and wiggle about in a skirt. What I can’t do is support my own weight around a pole or kick higher than my head. That’s impressive.

A few more drinks later and everything was far more entertaining. The A-squad started showing up in twos, with one girl in front and another featured in the background. That’s when Blue came out, a fantastically built lady with dark skin, big tattoos, and even bigger hair. She totally ruled, and before I could blink was not just up the pole but hanging from the scaffolding in the ceiling.

I don’t know if the standard reaction to a stripper is “Wow! Come here! Can I give you money?” but she was amused and let me give her a cute smack on the bottom along with my dollaz. She was an instant favourite, and the rest of the night was spent comparing everyone else. When I got back to my seat after giving some attention to the other ladies, Blue was there again to thank us for the tips. We fawned over her hair and skills, and she promised to come out again later.

At this point my drink was distressingly low. Naturally, the lady walking around giving out body shots had perfect timing. We decided body shots were fun – a quick dance with a drink at the end! Getting a test tube out from bra strapped cleavage is a fun endeavour and always a surprise as to what fun girly flavour your drink is going to be. Yes, it would be a fun night after all, and from then on we freely tucked bills into gstrings and waitress trays alike.

We didn’t want to spend too much on the alcohol given that Sami had to drive us back and also because more booze meant less thong-dollaz. So after a few more dancers we decided to get one last body shot. The last dancer had been a buxom asian girl with cute bobbed hair and lashes for days, and she had spent a fair amount of time in our general vicinity. When she came over after her dance to thank us, I asked her if she did body shots, but she didn’t. She did, however, do lapdances.

Apparently some ladies are more rowdy than others, and this is how I ended up getting smacked in the crotch by an overplayful stripper who couldn’t possibly have known that I’d left the Nair on just a liiiiiittle too long that afternoon. It’s also how I ended up with boob on my face while Sami had a good laugh at what I’m sure was my hilariously mortified expression. 

Well then.

Carrying on, we got to see Blue work her aerobic feats again while I ordered one last drink to lessen the sting. I thought it might be a good idea to take out a little more cash for a few more minutes, but the eight dollar service charge at the ATM quickly discouraged me. That and we didn’t want to stay out too late, it being a week night and all. Plus Sami agreed to wake up early the next morning to drive Josh and I to the radio show, so a relatively early night suited us just fine.

We made our exit a while later, right about the time the girls stopped dancing and just stood all together in a crowd on the stage. We weren’t sure what the purpose was, if were just supposed to buy one of them or something, so we made a quick trip to the ladies room before making our giggly exit.

Sami was fine to drive but I wasn’t much more help than the befuddled GPS on the way home. We got turned around a few times in a town that neither of us knew before getting back on the right highway. The men were still up waiting for us when we got back in, and we stayed up a bit longer drinking beer and exchanging tales of our evenings.

Eventually, tired after an eventful night, we all wandered off to our beds. Of course I had to explain to Josh why I was a little on the fragile side…

50's House Wife Wig - photo

You see honey, it started with this one stripper...

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