Christmastime in the Emerald City











{September 3, 2008}   Moving!

This may be temporary, or it may not be, but I am seriously in go-mode now with this whole ‘getting my ass to North Carolina’ thing, so for now (and probably for a while) you can fine me at www.800miles.wordpress.com

Update your blogrolls and stuff! ;)



{August 27, 2008}   Shitty Things About My Office

As I’m sure the majority of you are aware, I work in a very corporate type environment. I used to be the receptionist, multitasking like a demon, answering about six hundred calls a day for several dozen clients, and dealing with the general idiocy of the front desk and all it’s approachers. Since then I have been promoted to CSR II, meaning essentially that I am a senior customer service representative. You know those personal assistants you hear of, running about like mad, coffee this, errand that, and all sorts of busy shennanigans. Well, essentially my job description is that of a personal assistant for hire on a billable, as-needed basis. If you’re not big and fancy enough to hire your own full time assistant, but you need someone for a half an hour here and there to reschedule appointments, make travel arrangements, order catering and other function logistics, well that’s me. Corporate bitch for hire.

I do actually like my job a great deal, and when I’m busiest is when I’m at my best. I love flying all over the city running errands for clients, click clacking around our more posh downtown area in my fabulous heels and pencil skirt. And then I come back up to the north end of the city where my office actually is and think “ugh.” It’s not so much the job folks, it’s like everybody says: location, location, location.

In summary, my job is awesome, but my office sucks. Here’s why:

Location: Ugly

I’m a downtown kind of girl. I don’t live right downtown – I’m surrounded by trees, nice houses, funky districts and so forth. But where I live is generally considered to be in that proximity. I can see our dense collection of skyscrapers from my window, and I can walk there in just a few minutes. Where I work, on the other hand, is way the hell ass in the north end of the city. You can’t even see the CN Tower from my office, and it’s one of the tallest damn buildings in the world (fuck you Malaysia, your hookers suck.)

It’s far away and the neighbourhood is fugly. No bright lights, no posh architecture, no trendy amenities at ground level. I’m surrounded by nasty looking condos and Korean fast food. Not that there’s anything wrong with Korean fast food, I’m just not a personal fan. And if I’m going to put the effort into heels and pencil skirts, I’d kind of like to be surrounded by upscale florists and other things I like to pretend I can afford. Wide, pale sidewalks, shimmery and crack free. Potted outdoor plants with footlights and tasteful decor. Not so much up here. Tacky and dirty, that’s the general feel of this area. Ugly construction and confused passerby. Nice. Warms my heart as I get off the subway every morning.

Distance: Too Damn Far

It’s a forty five minute commute people. On a good day. On the subway. With transferring. One transfer if I catch the bus in the morning, two transfers if I miss it and have to take the streetcar. And if that’s the case, then I’m transferring at the notoriously ill-designed Yonge-Bloor junction. It sucks. This station brings out the worst in people, because it’s jammed, busy, and designed so that transferring commuters all crash into each other, and people who aren’t familiar with the layout have to stand in the worst spot possible to find any kind of signage. Also, all the civilized people are generally going south from Yonge and Bloor, towards the aforementioned sparkle and shine of the downtown core. Those going north with me, not so much. This is where you get the assfuckers who will park their oversized knock-off luggage on the seat next to them and sigh heavily when you have the nerve to ask for a seat that you paid for.

Status: Ghetto

The company I work for is tremendously succesful, the top in its field. We have dozens of locations in the city alone, and nearly a thousand worldwide. Part of my job often requires that I hop on the train and stop by our prettier centres to pick up equipment and etc. This means I get a nice taste of what the downtown centres look like. Me? I’m stuck at the northernmost point, initially under the employ of a company that was bought out by these fancy new people. That means we’re nowhere near as pretty because we didn’t have the start-up funding for, say, nice carpeting, or freshly painted walls, or pieces of art not emanating from the horrid, horrid 80’s. All the other centres know that we’re the crappiest. It’s a nice feeling.

We are the ghetto centre. We are ugly and cheap. If I didn’t work with Talea, I would immediately request a transfer to a downtown centre if a position was available, but the likelihood of both of us being transferred is slim to none.

Temperature: SubZero

My office is fucking FREEZING. All the damn time! I know it’s summer, I do, but it’s not really. Have they looked outside? It’s been raining every other day, and this morning it was freezing outside. Oh, but the computer says the temperature is fine! Well it’s not. It’s a bloody cold day in hell. And the worst part about it is that we can’t adjust our own temperature. When we’re cold, or when one of my dozens of persnickety clients are cold, I have to call down to maintenance. I loooooove maintenance. They hate me. They hate that I call every half an hour to have someone’s office warmed up/cooled down. They hate it so much that when Talea called down once, they reminded us that when the original owners took the space, they opted not to pay the extra fee for the option to self-adjust temperatures, so now they just get a little angry every time we call.

Great. Thanks. I’m still cold, so you can just bring your angry ass right on up and turn the a/c down, okay?

Oh and peep this! Just now the elevators stopped working. They’re coming up from the lobby, but they won’t go back down. Super fabulous.

Memos and Signatures: Pointless

Why do you think I type up memos and deliver them with mail everyday? Is it because I love risking the slicing intrusion of paper cuts on my fingers? The trees smashed under every word I type? No, people. It’s because there is something new that may pertain to you, and so I am giving you the courtesy of letting you know ahead of time. If you don’t read it, I can’t help you.

Picture this: It’s ten minutes after five, and I happen to still be at my desk. There is loud, insistent banging on the front glass doors, which are locked since it is past five. We didn’t always lock the door at five since we do have people who work here at all hours, even though they all have keys to the alternate entrances. But then security gave us shit. And so we sent out a memo and began locking the doors. Clearly, this banging individual failed to read said memo, and was irate upon my courteous gesture of opening the door for him. It would have been nice, he said miffedly, if someone had informed them that this new policy was in effect. We did, I retorted, there was a memo sent out. Well, said the haughty individual, *I* did not get that memo. You did, as a matter of fact. Your last bill? The one you paid? Yeah, it was in there. You just didn’t read it. Thanks.

Then there are arguments over contracts and all that other legal jargon that I’m not going to go into because it’s company privacy blah blah blah. But sticking with just generic observations, I will say this: If you sign a contract, you’re bound to the terms. That’s why you’re allowed to take these things home and read them over, kind of like when you buy a house and all that stuff. So if you piss and moan that you didn’t understand the terms or that you didn’t read this or that section, or that it wasn’t clearly explained, you can piss and moan all you want. You still signed something without reading it, and you’re stuid. Next time, I think I’m going to add a clause that allows me to tie people to chairs and kick them down a flight of stairs, and see if anyone notices before they sign it.

Incidentally, non-memo readers are about 70% more likely than memo readers to cuss and fight if they think you’ve charged them twelve cents extra for photocopies. Not exagerting here, TWELVE CENTS. Really, if it wouldn’t be construed as insubordination or flat out snarkiness, I’d start up a change jar at poor Talea’s desk so she could simply fling quarters at people rather than start the horrific process that is convincing our head office half a country away that joe-schmuck and his accounting errors desserve twelve cents back in the name of customer service.

Tech Support: Fail

I give up on the phones and internet, because our provider fails on an epik scale. (hahahahahahaha, subtle). We’ve been with this particular vendor for over a year, and still we can’t go a week without them fucking something up. Just yesterday, I took a spare phone we had sitting around, and asked them to program it for a new client. Just change the name thats already in it, that’s all! Wipe out the voicemail, maybe add a feature or two. You are a phone company, right? Well it takes a week (if it were me programming a VCR, I could understand, but I don’t get paid to program VCRs) before it gets programmed. Plug it in and the extension assigned to the phone has magically been stolen from one of our other phones and given to this one. Why? I have no idea. Damn good thing that extension was assigned to another spare phone and not one sitting in someone’s office.

But maybe they knew that, you say. They are tech people after all, they know what extensions are where and all that jazz. Just let them do their thing. Oh yeah? So when they hand us a spreadsheet of all the available phone numbers that we are free to assign to new clients and we find their own damn tech support number on there, I guess that’s a real fab indication of exactly how much they know about their own business.

Morons: I’m Surrounded

Yeah, that’s pretty much the gyst of it folks. I’m surrounded by morons and ugly buildings. I’m not planning on jetting out of here anytime soon, though. Firstly, there are a number of cool people keeping me here. Talea, obviously. Some of our clients can be buckets of fun when they’re in a good mood. One of the resident financial advisors stepped into our office for some of my lemon squares and to give us a fifteen minute lesson on how to flip pens in a crazy impressive manner. My boss is pretty rocking too, and that’s something you don’t want to gamble with. I could end up in the prettiest office downtown with a douchenozzle for a boss to make the overall day just that much worse.

It’s not my job that I hate. It’s my office.

Okay, some days the job sucks too, but I have rent to pay.



{August 21, 2008}   Dude, Where’s My Pepto?

Seriously, people are gross. The grossness of the average person never ceases to amaze me. Never. But because I’m all polite and Canadian and stuff, and because I live in a ginormous metropolis where you don’t want to cause a scene with the jackass who cut in front of you and stole the parking spot you’d been waiting for because you never know who’s going to be a psycho with a knife, I can never just shout out “hey asshole, quit being so fucking gross will you?!”

So instead I’ve started writing letters in my head and mentally projecting them with eye daggers towards the offending party. I thought I’d share, and in return I welcome your tales of human-grossness woe.

Dear Little Old Asian Lady With The Chopped Off Scabby Former Toe Sitting Across From Me on the Subway:

Keep your shoes on. Really. The idea of one taking off their shoes in the middle of a public vicinity is disgusting as it is. My little brother developed a habit of taking his shoes off in the car, and I pummelled him for that. There is no way in hell I would tolerate the sight of your scabby, dried out flesh wounds if I weren’t bound by the social code that is silence on the subway. I’m sure having such a wound inflicted was awful, and you do have my sympathy. But you have it in the form of my gag reflex, now please put your dollar store slippers back on.

Please and thanks.

Dear Fat Lady With The White Pants On The Escalator

Thanks for showing me your ass tattoo *through* your pants. Here’s a set of tips. Firstly, fat people don’t wear white, unless they’re really really rocking the chubby. Some people do this with ease. But not you. And if you must wear white, and white pants at that, please get pants of a decent enough quality that they don’t become inherently translucent after two runs through your second hand washing machine. And if you really can’t afford a new washing machine that doesn’t destroy your fabrics, and you really can’t splurge on an item of clothing over ten dollars (’cause hey, some of us can’t) and you really really really want to wear white pants, then at least for the love of god don’t wear a baby blue thong. Full bottomed panties can be had at Honest Ed’s, less than five minutes from the escalator on which you presented me with this show, for a dollar. I have purchased dollar panties in the past. They can be fun and exciting with ribbons and bows and pockets. Please invest in covering your ass.

Dear Guy Who Was Clipping His Nails On The Subway

What are you doing?!?! I’ll tell you what you are doing. You are snipping dead pieces of genetic material from your generally unwashed body and flinging them through the air in my vicinity. Gross dude! Do you have any idea what kind of crap is under your fingernails? Have you seen an episode of CSI? Probably not, because your overall impression is that of someone who spends most of his time dragging a teetering cart around my neighbourhood on recycling night in hopes of scoring some five cent cans, and recycling night is when CSI happens to be on the telly. So to spare you a night in, or the trouble it takes to open a textbook or bottle of Purell, here’s the shakedown. The last time you scratched your ass? It’s under your nails. Picking your nose? Under your nails. General grime from wading through other people’s refuse? UNDER YOUR NAILS GROSSWAD! If you have the wherewithall to be trimming your nails with a neat little clipper instead of just gnawing at them, then I’m going to assume that you have the general basics of hygiene down pretty well. You’re not misinformed or ignorant, you’re just a dirty jerkface flinging bits of nasty at my left elbow. Go away.

Dear Mother of That Dirty, Unwashed Little Bastard Bawling Through His Snot Dripping Nose

Itty bitty travel packs of Kleenex can be had for pennies, and at the age of two, your toddler is not going to pitch a fit of embarassment if you happen to at the very least spit on one of these tissues and rub it up against the chocolate and snot leaking from his facial orifices. This skirt I’m wearing cost two hundred dollars. Yes, I’ll admit I’m an idiot for spending that much on a skirt. But I was nineteen at the time, with oodles of money to spare, and I’m fucking THRILLED that I still fit into it after my single year of noodles-n-jello University diet. So don’t ruin it for me by allowing your breeding ground for bacteria to lean out of his stroller and onto the Italian fabric, okay? Much appreciated.

So there you have it. My adventures with grossness. And this was just yesterday. I’m sure all of you great people out there have come across such atrocities. How do you deal? I’m not about to invest in a full body bubble, as I consider it rude to take up unnecessary space on the subway. And a sandwich board instructing all without deodorant and bodywash to keep away seems a little excessive. Maybe I should make up some pre-printed little memos to inform people of their grossness, and fold them up nice and complicated like so that by the time they unfold them, I’m well out of range of any snot-related retaliation.

On scented paper of course.



We love to hate them. We hate to admit that we secretly love them. We taunt them, tease them, organize days on which to beat them. And all this fury serves only to fuel their objective: to be the biggest loser of all. Imagine, a social caste where the suckier you are, the whinier, bitchier, self-absorbed you are, the cooler you are. At least according to the rest of your douchebag friends.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, I am referring to the red-headed stepchild of our, and several others before, generation. The term ‘emo’ has been thrown around for quite some time, and the general ideology has been around since well before Dashboard Confessional pissed and moaned all the way to mainstream. But now it’s reached a very special point. Now one can be emo with zero recollection or even curiosity about the origin of a subculture. Yes, it’s true. It has gone the way of the goth, the vegan, the punk. 

You can buy emo at the mall.

Mopey, stripey scarves. Unfortunate haircuts. Ridiculously skinny jeans. Chunky glasses. Obnoxious tshirts. All can be had with the allowance you earned working at the trendy coffee shop. Oh no, not Starbucks. That (some political jargon about human rights and working conditions and economic blah blah blah) eco friendly free trade something or other place up the street. Because you’re so not about the establishment until you need a new studded belt.

Oh, but it’s not so simple. This new accesibility has started an all out war for scene points! Why, now that you can get a “vintage” tshirt anywhere, it’s simply not enough! You see him, that skinny young fellow with massive muttonchop sideburns, or ribs that portray his inability to survive a winter without medicare? He’s had that carebear tshirt since the first time it came around. So THERE! And his girlfriend doesn’t have to go to Wal-Mart for skinny jeans, because she sews and was able to alter her mom’s set of jeans from that unbeknownst-to-her fateful Bon Jovi concert seventeen years ago. They’re way more hip than you, poser.

Soooo, yeah. You know, with the time I save not having to consider the cool-power of my tshirts, I tend to find the time to buy more than one colour of clothing, and usually get home in time to eat a full meal.

But why are they my favourite kind of loser? Because I am inherently lazy. You really don’t have to try very hard to make fun of these kids. And when I reach my lazy hand into my grab bag of possible ridiculees, there are just so many fun possibilities.

Which one is your favourite?

"I'm Too Pussy To Be Goth" Emo

"I'll Dress Like This Until The Day I Die, Or Until I Have To Pay Rent And Can't Afford These Accessories Anymore" Emo

"I'm A Slave To My Accessories And Yes I'm Wearing A Tiara" Emo

“Hair Meticulously Done in Mom’s Bathroom Mirror in Front of Standard Suburban Door” Emo

"I'm Only Doing This Cause Mom Won't Buy Me A Car" Emo

 

 

  

"I Was Meant To Be An Anime Character, And I'm The Only One In The World To Thing Of That" Emo

It’s like a very depressed box of chocolates. Awesome.


By now we should all know that I love animals. What sane individual would transform the itty bitty bedroom of an already itty bitty apartment into a wire-free, outlet-free, toxic-free safehaven for four bunnies? This girl. I don’t love all animals though. My cats were smelly assmonkeys. All my life I’ve loved cats, lived in houses full of them, but as soon as I rescue a pair of my own they turn out to be the whiniest, smelliest sonsofbitches you ever did see. I loved them enough to make sure they’d be taken care of elsewhere, but out the door they had to go, followed by rounds and rounds of detoxicating bleach and the disposal of about half my wardrobe.

Fucking cats.

I also dislike small dogs. Lapdogs, to be more precise. Because despite Paris Hilton and her dog-in-a-handbag trend, Chihuahua’s aren’t really the kind of dog you’d describe as a lapdog. They’re kind of…bony? Being a lapdog has less to do with breed or even stature, but more to do with whining, clinging, yippy spoiled behaviour more commonly seen in your elderly woman’s terrier. I call these ridiculously overloved little shits “Mother In Law Dogs.” You have to pretend to love them, don’t you? But when it comes right down to it, every little squeak out of their traps makes you kind of want to puke.

Their owners are worse. My grandmother, not the awesome one, used to share her ice cream with her damned dog. I wish I were joking. I don’t know what the hell happened – she used to be a perfectly sane women with a house full of about twenty something cats before they got that damn dog. My mother and her brother have long been convinced that their mother would have left the money, house, everything to that little brat except they’ve all outlived it.

My parents have fallen into this trap. Not my mother, who is well versed in the idea that if you’re eating knock off Mac’n’Cheese there’s no way in hell the fucking cat is getting name brand. My father and stepmother, a well established pair in a nicely appointed renovated house, decided about a year or so ago that they would purchase an $800 puppy from a local breeder they found at the mall. It’s a shi-tzu poodle mix. Literally, a shitpoo.

I’ve got issues with paying $800 for a dog while hundreds are dying in shelters, but whatever. Some people want purebreds I guess. Or almost purebreds. But this past weekend put things a little further beyond that.

This past weekend, the parentals were off for a drive to pick up my sister from her yearly bout of Pioneer Camp. They couldn’t bring the dog. Something about how if they stopped along the way, one of them would always have to stay with the dog while the others went inside, and this wouldn’t be very fun. Leaving a small dog in the car with the windows slightly down for twenty minutes on a very comfortably cool overcast day is an apparent cruelness. I call it “owning a dog”. Either way, they needed me to make the trek out to their place to let the dog out to pee sometime during the day and were willing to leave $25 on the table for my time.

Normally this would be super fab. A bit of almost-free money, spend an hour in front of the Nintendo-Wii, enjoy the home wi-fi, kick my feet up for a bit and let the little fuzzball out back for a bit. The dog is annoying, but one can’t generally be annoyed to death, no big deal. This weekend, however, it was a huge fucking deal. In all his godly wisdom, Murphy kicked me in the face with this shitty Law that’s been hanging around for a while, and I ended up with a ridiculously dysfunctional Sunday afternoon.  

It was suggested that I arrive at about 12:30 for the dog’s initial exodus to the backyard. This requires me to leave my house at about 11:40. Yeah, they’re nice and conveniently located on the subway line, except their particular stop is at the easternmost point, in ghetto-dreaded Scarborough. I live slightly west of right downtown, where everything you see below is in walking distance. And Toronto is a very wide city. It’s a long trip.

 

Toronto also stretches north, for about half an hour on the subway line until it ends at what we downtowners consider the end of the universe. This northernmost point is the general proximity of my work. (I don’t have a problem giving these stalkerlicious facts out, by the way, because ‘North Toronto’ is huge and you’d have to be a retard to try and find me.)

This is North Toronto, or as us downtowners call it, Fucking Ugly:

This northernmost point is also where I had removed both of my parents sets of keys from my rapidly growing set of work and home keys, and stuffed them in my desk drawer for oh-so-convenient safekeeping. Fantastic. So now I have to take a 45 minute trip to the middle of nowhere north to fetch my keys, and then reverse my ass back to central toronto only to transfer and take another 45 minute trip to the middle of nowhere east. Fanfuckingtastic. I love doubling my travel time to a destination I really don’t care about, how about you folks? *big enthusiastic smarmy thumbs up*

The subways are broken. Three stops short of the end of the line where I need to be. They’ve broken out the shuttle busses, so you know its bad. Well fuck it, I’m not waiting for a cramped and smelly shuttle bus. I used to live in Scarborough, I know the bus routes. Or so I apparently think, because whatever platform I went to I have no idea what bus that was. I know what bus it was supposed to be. It was supposed to traverse south Scarborough and graze the neighbourhoods by the bluffs before heading north and reconnecting with the subway at the end of the line. But that’s not what bus it was. It was the bus that navigates every individual side street down by the bluffs before going right back to the same motherfucking station, thereby adding ANOTHER FORTY FIVE MINUTES TO MY TRIP!!! Grar!

Why didn’t I get off? Because I’m in fucking Scarborough. There aren’t any cabs, the bus is the only way to get anywhere. We’re not even near the subway line where this bus is going, and this bus is the only way to get back to it. I could have gotten off and connected with the bus that was going where I was supposed to be. But given that it’s Sunday and the service in Scarborough is shitty, the wait time could have made the trip just as long. That and it’s pouring.

Mmmmm. Scarborough.

On top of this, I’m so blindsided by raging fury and the effort it takes to not lose my shit in these circumstances that I get my subway-expert ass turned around and get on the wrong fucking train. Sure. Why not?

It’s three o’clock by the time I actually stumble, half soaked into my dad’s house. The dog is waiting cross-legged at the door, and rushes outside to take a teeny, tiny, miniscule, solitary squirt. Back in the kitchen, I am greeted with three full voicemails on the machine with instructions on how to care for the dog and tips on unlocking the new patio door that I have no intention of even looking at. I also stumble upon the dogs grooming schedule, taped to the fridge door with appointments made until the end of the year. An hour of collecting my wits later and I’m rummaging through my old coat closet to find a jacket with a hood, sans-umbrella as I am. The coat doesn’t quite fit, and does very little for the part of me that gets wettest – my feet, in their summer slip ons, sloshing through the bacteria-ridden wasteland that is the backed-up mess at the foot of the stairs into this shitty, shitty subway station, incidentally known for stabbings.

For a few brief moments as it leaves Scarborough, the subway line ascends above ground. There is light and trees before diving back underground for the ninety minute trip to the next above ground station way out in the west end of what probably isn’t even considered Toronto by that point. Above ground, briefly, but long enough to see that as soon as I left Scarborough it had stopped raining.

Well fuck this, ladies and gentlemen. Downtown, the subway is the way to go. Fast, convenient, affordable, clean, even trendy. But no way in hell am I taking the subway to Scarborough ever again.

Besides, with a damn mother-in-law dog that tiny, I bet you wouldn’t even notice a piddle on the rug.

Stupid dog.



{August 8, 2008}   This Bud’s For You

Alright. Celebrity has-beens. We all love them, we all love to make fun of them, and we all occasionally wonder where they are now.

During our last episode, I was particularly impressed with Macaulay Culkin’s social slippage into Marilyn Manson’s makeup brush licker, a fate only surpassed by being Michael Jackson’s makeup brush licker. One would never have guessed, all those face-slapping eons ago, that the cute-faced, freshly scrubbed little child wonder would grow up to wear tu-tone eyeshadow with an atrocious shade of lipstick and a wild assortment of feathers.

But what happened to the rest of that busy holiday household? As I recall, there were far too many of them to count, the premise behind young Kevin’s criminal abandonment in the first place. (Yeah, did anyone ever wonder about that? Why wouldn’t you call the cops to check on your abandoned child? Fear of criminal charges no doubt. If I were that kid, the wonder of having my family home for Christmas would soon succumb to the intoxicating power that is blackmail.)

So fuck the majority of those kids. The only one that stands out is Bud, the tarantuala weilding assmuncher of an older brother/cousin/vague relative of some sort. He was slightly chubby, with mildly bucked teeth and the safely spiked hair that told us he was a cool kid without giving us any ideas that could possibly lead to midnight escorts home in the back of a cruiser.

Oh snap, the kids name is actually Buzz. Bud, Buzz, whatever. Buzz cola, still has that nice product-marketing jingle to it.

This was him then:

Ah yes. ‘Phlegmwad’. Excellent choice of words for the juvenile mudslinger. We all know Buzz hated Kevin for being such a quote-unquote ‘phlegmwad’, and gunking up his cool status by trashing his room no doubt spiffied up for some hot chick with neon ankle warmers. And Devin Ratray, as he is actually known, no doubt disliked Macaulay to some extent for being the ridiculously overpriced child actor that Devin never was.

Personally, I was completely expecting this young boy to grow up and get an actual job, no doubt involving his protrayed fetish for tarantulas and subsequently getting fired for trying to cross his own genes with the creatures, resulting in either a suspicious death or at the very least a new strain of venereal disease blamed on monkeys for the first twenty years of its existence.

Turns out I’m right. Peep this:

No wait, that’s not him. That’s his understudy.

Buzz himself has actually been getting a fair amount of work on Law and Order, Third Watch and the like. Not that anyone cares, because he never accidentally smeared his face with aftershave and yodelled humourously through an empty house. Either way, here he is now:

Wow. Not looking too thrilled with his latest gig. It seems that despite having more longevity than his overpaid counterpart, Buzz is still pretty pissed at not being afforded his own personal groomer. That unfortunate side part, limp and thinning hair and creeping obesity are nothing more than stinging reminders that if you don’t bust onto the scene with a quick gimmick, you’re pretty much fucked.

Yep, old Macaulay had it all, the style, the entourage, the widely recognized public appearances.

  

 

Uh….yeah.

Bud, Buzz, whoever you are. Any monetary/attention bitterness aside, I’m pretty sure you’re counting your blessings. At least you should be.



{August 4, 2008}   I Heart Free Shit

Not literally, though I came pretty close today with free coffee grounds to be used as fertilizer, and shit being another form of fertilizer. But you know what I mean. I fucking love free stuff.

Okay, I know you’re all dying to know what happend to Bud, but I’m getting to that (I’m actually thinking of a Bud themed post, because I’m now curious about Bud from Married with Children. But I can’t think of any other Buds, so help me out if you know of any.) In the meantime, this thought struck me today, and I feel like telling you about it.

You see, I’m saving up like an absolute lunatic (or at least I was until I blew $400 today on a proper work wardrobe that I have desperately needed for about a year) because one fucking way or another, Josh or myself is going to cross the goddamned expensive border. And I’m not a very patient person. These legal type people don’t seem to understand, I’m above waiting for shit: I’m just going to hold out my hand here, and you’re going to fill it with green cards and fucking cookies. Alas, I’m still coming to terms with my inability to manipulate time, space and humans beyond a certain extent, and so I’m saving my pennies.

I never thought I’d be the one to say this, but I’ve come to fucking HATE spending money.

Because I’m so used to winning at everything I put my hand to, I turn everything into a battle. It’s not entirely healthy, but it gets the job done nine times out of ten. Wake up in the morning after a lazy smoke filled afternoon to the crunch and rustle of several empty Doritos bags: FUCK! I dropped the ball. Stumble upon a sale at Shoppers where that fancy ass thai-rice-in-a-box shit that’s normally $3.50 (and OFF the shopping list) is clearanced at a buck? Oh sweet mother of all things good and holy, PAYDIRT! I am stocking up. That’s half of two dinners (or one whole dinner if I’m really lazy, but I try to avoid that) for one frikkin’ dollar! I win, oh push those tanks across the map fellows, I am on my way. Have the absolute gall to tell me that I might benefit from some three-times-more-expensive carb free pasta? Fuck you and your horse range rider, get the fuck off my lawn.

You see where this is going.

I figured I’d share with you a fun list of all the free shit I’ve managed to get my grubby little paws on. My grandmother would be proud to see her own resourceful genes carried on in the wobbly weak arms of her eldest granddaughter struggling to carry an abandoned dresser up a narrow flight of stairs. I don’t care what the hell you think or how retarded I looked. My tv is now sitting on a free fucking dresser yo, and it stores all the shoes I bought before I realized that money is kind of important. All my knitting is in a large blue trunk dragged up from my curb with the help of Talea, who seriously wanted to take it herself but alas lives further away from my curb than I. All the knitting, by the way, is intended for projects to be sold online and in consignment stores, thus making a profit of my hobby.

Cable? Free. It’s called sticking a wire out the window and creating a decent schedule around seven free channels, three of which are often foreign. Fuck paying for that shit, I get a decent dose of The Simpsons, Family Guy, American Dad, King of the Hill (I like cartoons, fuck off) Friends, Two and a Half Men, The Rick Mercer Report, a variety of vaguely humourous Canadian shows (not including Rick Mercer who is always hilarious and correct) as well as my apparent other boyfriend George Stroumboulopoulos of The Hour (I never authorized this title, but he introduces himself every night with “I am your boyfriend George Stroumboulopoulos” and CBC stopped taking my calls, so I guess I’m stuck.) Free cable is the shit.

Today at Starbucks (I know, I failed again, but a girl needs caffeine sometimes) they were giving out bags of free coffee grounds to dump in your garden. How awesome is that? My neighbourhood is so green, even Starbucks plays along. Anyways, I didn’t take them because I didn’t feel like carrying them, but I’ve recently started indoor gardening, so I will definitely take them up on their offer in the future. Two of three plants, by the way, were taken from work after it was determined that we had too many plants kicking around the front desk.

My sweetest nab so far has been a free router. No, I didn’t steal it. It was a case of finders-keepers-one-month-and-still-no-claims-to-ownership-later.

And now, in awesome full circleness, I get free Doritos for my lazy smoke filled evenings. Because we stock little bags of chips, cheesies and the like in the office I share with Talea, you see. We sell them to our clients, just one more little bit of convenience offered as part of the corporate package – now you don’t even have to wait for the elevator. A lot of people prefer the elevator, it seems, or maybe they just don’t like Doritos. But either way we’ve got Doritos to spare, and as soon as they hit the expiry date corporate compliance demands we get rid of them. And before you go green on me, shut up. They’re DORITOS. Maybe a month from now they’ll be a bit stale, but they don’t grow mould overnight or ever.

Free. Shit. Rules.

Unless it’s actual shit. Again, not interested. Thanks.



{July 31, 2008}   Oh, the Inevitability

So when I initially started this blog, or more like later on when my ratings were at their best, most of what I wrote about was shit that pissed me off, and other forms of snarky ass humour. Nobody, I figured, is going to be much interested in happy boring things like “today my rabbit was adorable”. But lately, a lot of happy exciting things have been going on, most notably with Josh, and our adventures in trying to get together across the miles and legal brouhaha.

And so I’ve created another blog. I’d like to keep this one open for those times when someone is being enough of a fucktard to warrant a nice Auntie Em lashing, or the current whereabouts of various has-beens becomes too much of a curious mystery to leave unsolved. This here page is returning to its sarcastic humourous roots.

That second blog, by the way, is actually a joint effort between Josh and myself, which we both thought was a great idea. So far it’s getting good reviews. Feel free to check it out here. Right now I’m probably on there more often just because that’s what’s most often on my mind, but not to worry! The sarcastic, snarky mood will strike again soon! I feel it brewing as I type. Nevermind Macaulay Culkin, what ever happened to his annoying cousin Bud or whatever his name was, the one with the pet tarantula? I’ll get to that in a day or so. But in between snarky outlets, if you feel I’m far too absent and you happen to miss my awesomeness and don’t mind me bitching about shitty MSN connections and the complications of crossing the border, feel free to check it out.

Love! And stabby gestures. Cause that’s how I roll, you know.



(editors note, WordPress appears to be fucking up, and I can not reformat this post to have any spaces between the paragraphs, this is not because I am retarded, it’s because the internet is retarded. Thank you for your time)

There’s a lot of damn things out there that make me happy, but I think I’ve been spewing enough lately about how awesome my boyfriend is, how cute my rabbits are, and how I’m so awesome my farts smell like Cinnamon Buns (seriously, Josh made a shirt telling me so.)

Yes, I am this awesome

Yes, I am this awesome

It is time, I feel, to get back on the rant wagon once in a while. It’s not good to keep all that well-worded rage bottled up inside. It wouldn’t be fair for me to clock a preppy blonde soccer mom in the face just because she reminds me of that bitchface in the Tostitos commercials. I’d at least have to clock her for the right reason – being a preppy blonde soccer mom in the first place. So lets get this show on the road.
The Tostitos Bitch
I can’t find anything on Youtube for this, mostly because only funny and worthwhile stuff is on Youtube, not mindless media propaganda. But I’m sure you can imagine it: some ridiculously well manicured preppy blonde is standing in her kitchen while a gaggle of healthy teens and doofusy dad barrel through – clearly she is super busy, just like EveryMom. Oh but she has the solution for that after school or mid game snack, oh yes! And it’s quick too, that’s the whole premise of these commercials: she finishes whipping up a Tostitos themed masterpiece with time left on the clock and cutely retardedly stands there looking at the camera.
Firstly, I don’t know about you, but it takes me a fuck of a lot longer than 30 seconds to blend expensive brand name shit in a food processor, pour it in a bowl and surround it by expensive brand name chips. Secondly, this attempt to appeal to EveryMom and give her the impression that she should be able to do the same pisses me off *almost* as much as the clear indication that she will turn into superefficientperfectlycoordinatedeverymom if she only adds Tostitos products to her next grocery list.
Fuck you! Do you know how expensive that shit is? Do you have any idea how quickly those three and a half dollar jars of fake cheese add up? Do you really think that once I squeeze out a few kids I’m really going to care about whipping out the food processor every day after school? Or quickly slicing up some buffalo mozarrella with a leaf of fresh basil and placing it daintily on a chip thirty times over? You better believe that if I have that kind of energy, it’s because I don’t have to work full time in which case I A) won’t be able to afford Tostitos brand products on a near daily basis and B) would rather spend the time, energy and money on something far more creative. Like a pie.
You want a quick and easy snack? Open a bag of chips you overachieving cow. Shut your thirty second face.
Middle Aged Suburbanites on the Subway
Okay, all you mommies and daddies that have to spend a fortune on a babysitter for your spoiled brats and then justify it by leaving your gas guzzling SUV in the driveway and taking the subway into the downtown core for the first date you’ve had since the drugstore ran out of condoms eight years ago, listen up: You’re not cool or hip, or whatever else you used to call yourselves back when you had a life. Your pressed jeans and new top freshly purchased at Winners piss me off, and you stick out like a fat chick at an anti-carb convention. Likewise your cheap highlights, fake leather jacket and tendency to compete for the SAME GODDAMNED HAIRCUT AS EVERYONE ELSE ON YOUR KIDS HOCKEY TEAM! Have you ever seen these creatures? These suburbanite flocks that all do the same weird over-the-age-of-30 shuffle on a bar-and-grill dance floor? Because that’s what they do on their big trip into town, and they talk about it ALL THE WAY THERE!
Pizza Pops
Because they go out the same way they go in. Orange and greasy :(
Beer Bottles Without Twist Tops
Do I really need another device between me and my beer? If I’m having a beer it’s because it’s been a long ass day and I feel like hanging out and being a lazy ass. Why is it necessary, so absolutely essential, that I now have to get up and get the fucking bottle opener that I forgot to get on the way back from getting the beer since it’s so unnatural to have to stop and fetch an implement to facilitate drinking the beer that I’ve already spent the effort on getting into my hand? That was a long sentence, did you catch all that? I’ve already spent all the energy I want to spend today on GETTING THE BEER TO MY HAND. And now you want me to do more stuff? Does this not crush the spirit of beer? Some of you are nice, some of you play by the rules! Them other ones, the ones I can just pop off with my sweaty little girl hands, those guys are alright. But you assholes who give me some excuse about how it affects the bottling process or flavour or some such micro-brewery connoisseur bullshit, you motherfuckers slice my drunken hand open with your sharp non-twist edges! I hate you guys.
And if you want to know why I don’t just get beer in a can it’s because I already feel trashy enough drinking beer by myself with dirty hair in an un-airconditioned apartment next to a bag of cheetos without the can of Pabst or whatever you get in cans. I might as well just prop a car up on cinderblocks in my non-kitchen.
Cars with Ridiculous SubWoofers and the Assholes Behind the Wheel
So what’s the first thing you think when you see that sweet upgrade on your tiny dick little ride? “Oh fucking sweet dude, now everybody I drive past is going to instantly hate me for interrupting their movies, sleep, conversation, and awkward sexual advances. I rule!” What the fuck? If you’ve got this sound system, you’re automatically an idiot. If you weren’t an idiot, you’d know that you can only hear to a certain extent, and below this frequency you can’t hear a thing – you can only feel it, and you can only feel it twenty feet away where you AREN’T! You’re paying for a system that does not much extra for you, but does fucktons to irritate people nowhere near enough to your proximity to have done anything to deserve your overpriced interruption. If you’re paying to be an asshole, you suck.
And lastly, my personal favourite:
Motherfucking Greyhound
I don’t have near enough energy to go into the precise details of how much I hate Greyhound, but let me put it this way. Greyhound kept me waiting from 1am to 5:45 am in Richmond, Virginia surrounded by blaring TVs going into incessant depth on the latest Hulk Hogan death threat. Greyhound doesn’t seem to understand how to tell crazy bitches who clearly just had their hair did that their tater tot kids don’t get to strut in front of the other 150 people in the lineup – some of whom also have kids. Greyhound apparently pissed me off enough in Washington that I can’t remember a thing about the city. Greyhound had me run around the New York City bus stop with unidentified gates and passengers trying to get to Switzeland. Greyhound advises their new drivers to wander away from the vehicle when it breaks down for two hours at a truckstop halfway to Syracuse to better facilitate the crazy toothless truck driver who feels like climbing aboard to tell everyone all about the horrible bus crash he saw three weeks ago where eleven people died, despite my insistent questions “Who are you and why are you on my bus?” Greyhouse likes to advise dispatch of the wrong directions, sending my driver into the wrong end of some asswipe of a town nowhere near where I’m supposed to be. Greyhound likes to say “‘Dat ain’t mah prawllum, ma’am” instead of “this query of yours does not pertain to my job description, please go to the help desk where nobody is waiting to assist you.” Greyhound throws your shit to the ground hard enough to send your lipstick rolling through the gutters of the US Border Patrol. Greyhound doesn’t clean their bathrooms. Greyhound likes to thank me for choosing them. Greyhound is how I kicked my hardshell suitcase hard enough to break my toe.
Greyhound, you suck.
*Shakes fist*


{July 8, 2008}   Sex and the South

Hello all my patient readers, yes, all four of you probably remaining after I’ve been away for about a month. What the hell ass has been going on over here, you may be wondering? Jes?

Well. Let me tell you.

For those not in the know, last October someone who’s blog I read commented on one of my posts. He was thusly blogrolled, as is often the case. His name is Josh, going by Rotgut McCoy at the time, over on blogspot until someone told him how much better wordpress is. Anyway, we had fun reading each others posts, and then graduated to facebook and instant messenger, talking every day, sometimes for hours after work. It got to the point where we got along so well, we started wondering what kind of ridiculous cosmic joke was being played on us. You’d think we would be dating in the 3D world if it wasn’t for the pesky 800 mile difference. And then one day we realized that we’re madly in love, and 800 miles doesn’t seem that far any more. Well shit, that’s awesome, but what now?

For a number of reasons, a lack of vacation time being only one of them, Josh is rather stuck where he is. And so, when the timing was just right, I went down to see him. That’s right, I finally got my ass down to North Carolina to test the sweet sweet waters of internet love out there in the real world. The parental units were rather uncertain, what with me going all by my lonesome down to dixie land to meet up with a strange man in a foreign world. The friends, who know Josh as well and know that he’s not some internet stalker, were more cautious along the lines of “Don’t get drunk and run your ass to a drive thru wedding chapel.” But off I went.

How did it go?

I. Am. Smitten.

That’s right folks. As usual, my gut feeling was completely correct, and hauling myself down to the states via a 24 hour bus ride full of fried-chicken-brandishing toddlers, heinous levels of air conditioning and the wonderful border patrol officers just waiting for the chance to snap that rubber glove all led up to the most wonderful moment in my life so far:

First Kiss
First Kiss

There was no first meeting awkwardness, no “Oh…yeah, you’re not the same in real life.” No weirdness of any sort other than the fact that we’re both just kind of weird as it is. The only thing that sucked was the sickening dread of my departure date, and FYI I will be investing in plenty of anti-anxiety meds for the next trip because feeling like you’re going to die while you’re trying to enjoy your last few hours together is not very productive. But as for the trip itself, a better time could not be had. I love Josh, I love his family, I love his friends. I very nearly didn’t get on the bus home. I probably shouldn’t have considering the trip home, but that’s for the next post

 

So stay tuned for the regularly scheduled ranting you’ve come to know and love, particularly in regards to Greyhound and their raging ineffectiveness (go on, ask me how I broke some toes), anyone classified as a LaFawnda, and my incredibly biased anger towards the politics of moving across the border. In the meantime, however, some awesome photos.

Equally Weird
Equally Weird

 Shots in Dixieland
Shots in Dixieland

 

Yes, there we are in the first of many crazy adventures, licking blue icing off a scary one-eyed snaggletoothed pineapple man. Quite possibly the product of the tequila shots you see there, even though that clearly took place on another occasion. There were many tequila shots. Also, there you can see Josh’s brother Nate and his wife Sami. We stayed with them for the week, and they are unbelievably super cool rad. I heart them very much. They wanted me to buy a house there. I nearly did. 

Caught in the Rain

Caught in the Rain

 So we’ve got this thing about wanting to kiss in the rain, so when the downpour hit we were all over it. In that “Let’s not actually get drenched and instead kiss on the front porch about an inch from the rain” kind of way. It was super romantic and awesome.

Ready, Aim...Fail

Ready, Aim...Fail

So I evidently forgot how to kiss, but at least I’m headed in the right direction. At dinner that night, Josh suddenly leaned over, kissed his own shoulder, and very quickly became puzzled. “I’m…not sure why I did that. I think maybe I thought of kissing you and my shoulder was just closer.” Best. Boyfriend. Ever. Also, I’m wearing his shirt. Best. Girlfriend. Ever.
Awwwww yeah

Awwwww yeah

So we made nacho dip one day after a barfingly cute trip to the grocery store where we stocked up on fun time American food (Sami, my oh-so-future-sister-in-law, is a fan of the Mac’n’Velveeta. She’s wonderful, though, don’t judge her by the cheeze.) FYI, please note that we kept the snaggletoothed pineapple for a few days before eating him.
YES PLEASE

YES PLEASE

That nacho dip? OHHHHHHH SO GOOOOOOOD. It was like a meal for the next three days, I even warmed some up for Josh when he came home from work for lunch. Apparently being domestic tastes good.
Le Maison LP

Le Maison LP

Josh’s little brother LP lives in an awesome old farmhouse out in what seems like the middle of nowhere to city slicker me. But it was rad getting there, cause we pretty much got around everywhere on Josh’s scooter. I love it cause it’s like being on a motorcycle, except not big and loud and scary to a girl who can count the number of times she’s been in a car this year on one hand. Sadly, we forgot to get a picture of us on the scooter. I think we forgot to get a picture of LP too, but he may have planned it that way. Either way, here’s us chilling in LP’s room.
Token Emo Shot

Token Emo Shot

Since Josh bought a fancy new digital camera for the occasion of my visit, we very obviously had to take an emo shot or two. I think we do a pretty good job. This was at Josh’s friends Kenny and Rachel (married and awesome, they met over MySpace because America has never heard of Facebook apparently), but they’re in a later picture. For now, cue the My Chemical Romance and a tragic haircut.
I\'m Adorable, I Know

Cute, I know :D

Our Picnic

Our Picnic

Mah Behbeh

Mah Behbeh

Squeee!

Squeee!

Josh worked his ass off to win a contest at work so he could get an extra day off. We celebrated with a picnic by the lake. I’ll give you a moment to get over the girly squeals…..okay, so guess how else we celebrated? No, besides that. To celebrate my entire trip and our general awesomeness, we also got….matching tattoos!
Super Bad Ass Love Tats

Super Bad Ass Love Tats

So everybody knows that even if you’ve been married for three thousand years you should never get each others names tattooed on you lest you spontaneously divorce in a brief time space continuum shift. So we went with matching tattoos instead. My stars are red, white and blue, a vaguely americana tribute to my awesome time in dixie land. His are green, natch.
Potato, potato, potato

Potato, potato, potato

Josh is very proud of the BBQ heritage of his state, so we obviously took a lunch date to Carolina BBQ, an adorable little restaurant filled with early morning churchgoers and small town news. The food was really good, although it took me a second to realize that everything on my plate was potato based. However, I really like potatos.
Sans Makeup

Sans Makeup

Josh felt the need to document my makeup application process. I don’t know why. But this was just before heading to a very delicious cookout. You may notice we do a lot of stuff surrounding food. That’s because food is awesome, and wherever Josh and I are, deliciousness abounds. You can see the deviled eggs in my eyes. And the “Chick’n” burgers…
Kenny and Rachel

Kenny and Rachel

Cookout Awesomeness

Cookout Awesomeness

There’s Kenny and Rachel :D Kenny is awesome. Rachel is also awesome, and also fun sized. Please also notice Angry Johnny Boulder Fists over the BBQ, he was our excellent host for the occasion. He’s actually quite mild mannered and I think was the only one who actually said “What are those?” when I mentioned the Canadian military’s latest secret weapon, the B-Double-A’s (“Bow And Arrow.” Thanks Rick Mercer.)
The cookout was on the day before I left. Since the day I left was somewhat tainted by, you know, being miserable at having to leave and a bit handicapped with anxiety, I think it’s perfect to leave you with a few more glimpses of an awesome day in what now feels like the other half of my life. Enjoy, you lucky people.
 
 
 
            
 


et cetera
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