Are we seriously still talking about this guy?!? Holy God, it’s been over a month since this whole Eliot Spitzer shiznat barreled its way onto that unavoidable little tv in my corporate elevator, and while the coverage has decreased to the status of satire on This Hour has 22 Minutes, it’s still hard to believe that the squawking box hasn’t tired of this yet. Are you guys in need of a little more excitement maybe? Hmm? Not getting enough in the bedroom? It seems that as soon as a political figure admits to having a dick you go absolutely apeshit, and I just don’t understand.

Now don’t go thinking I’m defending the idiot. There’s nothing I love more than seeing the life of a douchebag go up in media flames. We all love car wrecks, we slow down to gaze at the carnage - don’t deny it - and at the end of the day, I get a certain sick little kick out of all the shebang. Does that make me a bad person? Well, maybe, but my ass isn’t on the news now, is it?

My question is why does it always have to do with sex? I know other shit is going on, but with my ongoing attempts to avoid a steady influx of political crap, only the most outrageous incidents filter through. It’s a decent gauge, I find: if I know about it, then holy crap it must be a HUGE story. And it’s not as though we Canuck’s don’t have our own scandals. It’s just that they’re not about sex, so why would the American media notice? Not that they notice much about us, a fact that sometimes pisses me off and sometimes makes me grateful that the world doesn’t hate us. If anything, our scandals are far more interesting. Everybody knows what hookers are all about, but how about a political party trying to gain the support of a certain important figure by offering him a million dollar life insurance policy? The catch – the guy’s on his deathbed. I know, freaking Days of Our Lives or what?! Now that is awesome.

But no, you settle for the humdrum. Oh wow, look, another public figure who claimed that he was SO not about the paid-for poontang up and got himself caught with his dick in a borrowed pot of honey. Fantastic. And on Valentines day too! Double trouble! I bet all those years of sneakily ruining people lives, stock value and reputations in the press instead of in the actual courtrooms looks pretty regrettable now, doesn’t it you two-faced douchebag? And when you settled things out of court, effectively beefing up your own reputation while still letting people you called criminals go free, why didn’t anybody call you on your douchebaggery back then? Because you managed to keep your dick in your pants, that’s why. America loves a good dick story. Don’t you have better things to worry about? For example….hey, do we have that clip of ANYTHING GEORGE BUSH HAS EVER SAID?

But admittedly, there are a few things that caught my interest. The story did, after all, manage to worm its way into my consciousness. Firstly is the bill he footed. Holy fuck. If you have that kind of money, good for you, but in all honesty, there are only so many tricks Cosmo can teach you, and only so many orifices on the human body. Unless her pussy was gold fucking plated, I’m not buying. And even then I’m not buying because who wants to fuck a gold plated pussy? Was it stuffed with blow? Small children willing to do your gardening? Elves? I’m not only assuming she swallows, I’m assuming she swallowed several balloons worth of peruvian heroin to be marked up and sold on the streets, because that is only justification I can see for spending thousands of dollars on one overused funbox. What the hell?! You can get it cheaper!!! I’m not saying go for the Costco version but shit dude! Maybe if you spent a little less on the hookers and a little more on paying off the press you wouldn’t be in such hot lube right now. And maybe if you spent a little more on your wife’s Valentines Day present, you might have had a little more support from her – something the public tends to appreciate, we women have funny little powers that way – instead of winding up in this memorable photo, in which she is instead very clearly plotting his demise.

 

It’s a patient, smug, cold look. It’s the kind of look I like to think I wear whenever I succeed in getting someone fired. It’s the kind of look that let’s you know you’re in serious, serious shit. Obviously, she got a card. Obviously, he lost his testicles later that evening.

The other thing that caught my attention and honestly bugs me the most, as immature as it may seem, is that he was known as Client 9. Why? There’s nothing impressive about single digit numbers. I, for example, live in apartment number 3 in my particular little flat. You didn’t think apartments came in single digits, did you? That’s because they usually don’t. When you live in a real apartment building with things like elevators and fire escapes and garbage chutes and laundry rooms, you get numbers like 103, 1408, 217, fun things like that. When you go to a hotel, you get suite numbers of the same variety. When you go to a shitty motel, you get room number 4, maybe even 11 or 12. You get the idea. I can’t imagine such a high class escort service wouldn’t have hundreds of clients, so why such a low number? I don’t suppose he happened to be their 9th client, this is the oldest profession in the world we’re talking about. Seriously? 9?

I know you’re all thinking it. Why the fuck wasn’t he Client 007? COME ON!!! How cool would that have been? If absolutely nothing else, it would have given him a clever out by way of the good old Section Eight*. Clearly he’s got some delusions of grandeur, right? And we all know that politicians need only the most transparent of excuses to get away with downright murder, so why the hell didn’t he think of this?

Really, to be completely honest, if he had been known as Client 007, I would totally have been on his side, because that is just plain rad.

*By the way, if this image didn’t come immediately to mind when I mentioned Section Eight, then you suck and Alan Alda is coming after you in your sleep.

 

You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?

Welcome to my daily grind: I wake up on a crappy futon because I haven’t gotten around to getting a nicer one even though I can easily afford it. I am greeted with the scent of bleach because ever since putting all the rabbits in a room of their own I have become slightly obsessive about keeping the rest of the apartment clean (let’s all take bets on how long that will last, huh?) I watch a bit of news on one of my five fuzzy channels, get myself in some sort of hygenic state, and put on some relatively clean clothes. I don’t even bother with makeup until I get to work.

I’m supposed to get to work at 8:15am. I get to work at 8:22 on most days. And my boss doesn’t notice because she usually rolls in far later than I. On the rare occasions she shows up earlier, I get some mild faux-friendly chiding about my arrival time. I snort to myself and ignore. My first task is to tidy up the boardroom for the daily 8:30 meeting for one of our clients. I change the newspaper in reception, make sure it’s all tidy. Then I go to the kitchen to clean up after the slobs that apparently don’t show up until well into the wee hours of the night to dump disgusting grime covered dishes into the sink for me to touch. The dishwasher has usually been run overnight, so it’s my job to empty it, put away the clean dishes and put in the herpes-riddled mounds of bacteria left for me. All this while, I’ve also got a fresh pot of coffee brewing and forcing polite chit chat with the early morning seekers of clean mugs, trying to figure some way to determine those that rinse their dishes and those who surely leave spit in the sink. There must be some telling sign of such gross disregard for civility: a twitch, surely, perhaps a tendency to drool? Alas, nothing so far. One night I’ll snap for certain, and end up camping out in fatigue gear with an infrared camera to catch these perpetrators.

Also, right now, I’m pretty sure there’s black fax toner in my coffee. Super.

Right, coffee. I usually end up getting a grande at some point during the day. Because once I finish cleaning the kitchen, turning on my computers, putting on makeup and reading my morning email from my super sweet boyfriend (seriously, retardedly adorably sweet – more on him later when I’m in less of a foul mood), there’s really not that much for me to do. Sure, I’ve got phones to answer, maybe an email or two. But nothing that really requires very much attention. And so it doesn’t take very long for the inevitability of last nights insistence on staying up to watch The Hour to kick in, and I start feeling that doziness.

I needs mah caffeine.

Here’s the kicker: we HAVE coffee here in the office. It’s free. It’s better than free: it’s paid for by the same bastards who leave their slime covered flatware in the kitchen every night. Well, it’s actually paid for by all of our clients, even the ones kind enough to rinse their dishes or *gasp!* actually put them in the dishwasher with a grain of courtesy. The coffee used to cost $1.25 a pop, but now every client pays a flat monthly kitchen fee, and that’s just how it goes. The downside is the constant pissing and moaning from some of the less gracious of our inhabitants. The upside is free coffee for me.

But I don’t want it. I might frothy up myself a hot chocolate in our wee little nook, perhaps even an herbal tea or two. But I don’t want a hazlenut flavoured cup of cheap. I’m not interested in some ‘House Blend’ or some other signature series of whatever-the-hell. I want Starbucks. I want my overpriced goddamned status symbol. Why? Because I woke up on a crappy futon with crappy cable, and put on expensive enough clothing to convince those around me that maybe I’ve got my shit together. I feel the need to add that one little extra accessory to complete the ensemble: a ridiculously complicated sounding helping of overpriced steamed milk with that zealous little green logo on the side to make sure everybody knows that I can afford to pay four dollars for my beverage. That’s right people. Look at me go.

“But that’s retarded!” I can hear you all thinking. Yes. Yes, it is. So why do I do it? Because I’m a girl and therefore allowed a certain amount of irrational behaviour. I’m not heavily medicated anymore, I haven’t even used the word fuckbag in this post (yet), and haven’t made any stabbing gestures in a fairly long time. Let me have my crazy fucking coffee, okay?

One of the reasons I like my fancy ass coffee is that I’m really not a fan of the taste of coffee. I know, I know. More irrational chick shit. But it’s like alcohol - you may want to get yourself good and toasted, but that doesn’t mean you want to be sucking down some sort of gasoline-and-cinnamon flavoured mixture. I want the caffeine without the taste of some Ethiopian nation or another, thank you very much. And yes, I’m willing to pay for it.

Now Talea, being my best bud and all, usually scores herself a coffee by the mere fact that everytime I get myself one, I grab her something because that’s just how I am. In return, she often fills me up with Chilean red wine at her less bleachy smelling abode. She also doesn’t have a mouse in her kitchen (but I bleached!!! I BLEEEAAACHED!!!). So, fair trade. We both tend to go through phases in what we order, myself moreso than her. She’s more likely to switch it up, whereas I am a little more steadfast. For several months I would order nothing except a Grande Non Fat Extra Foamy Vanilla Latte, until I realized the majority of their foaminator monkeys sucked ass at their trendy job and couldn’t whip up a decent foam if their self-aggrandizing art school documentary or the proper healing of their most recent piercing depended on it. So I switched to a Venti Caramel Apple Spice avec Whipped Cream. This ceased immediately after realizing that I was drinking over 400 calories worth of warmed up apple juice every morning. What, I asked Talea, should I drink now? Her latest thing has been a Grande Triple Shot Caramel Macchiato for those times when she reeeeaaally needs the caffeine. That sounds good, I commented, but does it taste too coffee-ish? Even without the extra shot? Well, she explained, a Grande usually comes with two shots of espresso, but you can ask for just one – called a Solo, apparently. More jargon to make my order sound even more complicated? I am so there!

So down I go to get this more-caramel-than-coffee cup of sweet sweet wakefulness. And I enjoy it, and decide to make this a regular purchase.

This ends today, and makes for my shortest Starbucks trend yet. Perhaps one of these days I’ll kick this foamy monkey off my shoulder and suck up the free shit in the kitchen.

Today, you see, I actually paid attention to what they were keying in on their fancy little machine before I paid. Two grande caramel macchiato, check. A bit extra for Talea’s extra espresso shot, no problem. And then! The BASTARDS!!! You’d think maybe, just maybe, they would knock a few cents off for the fact that I only wanted half the espresso. But no, that would not be in accordance with the ass-raping ways of the Starbucks we’ve come to know and love. Okay, regular price then. Oh no! Not so! Those sons of bitches actually keyed in AN EXTRA SHOT OF MILK AND CHARGED ME EXTRA FOR IT.

Are you retarded? Did you think I wouldn’t notice this and perhaps find several shots worth of fault in this logic? You are charging me extra for my decision to use less of your core ingredient and more of your cheap filler? Your cheap filler that doesn’t even come in shots, but is simply poured until full? No. No, no, no, no, no.

You know what? This is the last straw. Three strikes and you’re out. No more Starbucks. I’ll spend that money on a manicure and a fancy ass haircut and find other ways to convince an uncaring public that I’m all swank and hip and whatnot.

Starbucks? Fuckbags.

I stole this from cowgal because I saw it while doing my rounds of reading and it looks like fun.

1. If you were to attend a costume party tonight, as what or whom would you go?

I don’t really have much in the way of costumes just laying about, so I’d probably have to improvise with my makeup. This would probably lead to something horrific, like “sex games gone terribly wrong”, which was my Halloween costume a few years ago, or another botched abortion, which was the costume last year. Probably something involving sex, zombies, death, or whatever is causing unrest in the media that day. Cause, you know, that’s how I roll, yo.

2. What are your choice of toppings on a hamburger? And do you prefer gas or charcoal grilling?

Oookay, well, vegetarian, but I do have veggie burgers. Usually grilled onions and mushrooms with honey mustard and mozarella. Sometimes avocados if I’m feeling adventurous. Pesto and goat’s cheese are really good too. As for gas or charcoal, ha! I live in an apartment, you think I have a barbeque? Frying pan, baby. If I did have a BBQ, though, I would probably have Talea over very often, so I’d have to use whatever was most environmentally friendly or she’d yell at me. If the boyfriend was over, he’d get full reign of the grill, yelling Talea or no.

3. You are chosen to have lunch with the President. The condition is you only get to ask one question. What do you ask?

What fucking drugs are you on and where can I get some?

4. It’s your first day of vacation, what are you doing?

Studying maps furiously so as not to look like a tourist when I step outside.

5. What is your concession stand must-have at the movies?

Nachoes with shitbuckets of that fake cheese crap, and salsa and jalapenos if they’ve got them. And a ginormous bucket of iced tea with no ice. Yes, I get the joke.

6. Which do you dislike most, pop-up ads or spam email?

Pop-ups. I can ignore spam email, pop-ups get in the goddamned way. Rollover ads are even worse. 

7. What do you think Captain Hook’s name was before he had a hook for a hand?

Dr. Barnswell A. Lovingtouch, registered massage therapist.

8. Rock, paper, or scissors?

A shot in the face beats all three, sucker! Ha!

9. How long was it from ‘the first date’ until the proposal of marriage?

Um…I’m not married yet.

10. Which is worse, being in a place that is too loud, or too quiet?

Too much quiet is not always a terrible thing. For short periods of time. If it was total silence for too long, I’d start thinking I’d gone deaf and start gibbering like a lunatic. Too much noise can be good if I’m in that kind of mood. If I’m not in that kind of mood, I start hitting things and screaming. So…it depends on which version of crazy you feel like dealing with.

11. What is one quality that you really appreciate in a person?

Hey, if you can deal with my neuroses, psychoses, loud mouth ways and tendency to recite comedic monologues or bust out into interpretive dance moves at any given time…well, I can appreciate that.

12. At the good old general store, what particular kind of candy would you expect to be in the big jar at the counter?

Um…I live in a city? The only ‘good old general store’ I know of is in Pioneer Village, where you can get bits of chewable wood that tastes like black licorice. Cause, you know, that’s probably where it comes from. I keep getting that shit every time I go there even though I don’t really like it.  

13. What is the most distinguishing landmark in your city?

CN Tower, yo! Formerly the tallest freestanding building in the world. Recently outdone by some tower in Malaysia. Fucking Malaysians. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a crap country if you didn’t spend all your money trying to compete with our bad asses. We would totally make out tower taller if we weren’t spending all our money on more important things, like, you know, being a first world country, bitches! In your face!

14. Everyone hears discussions that they consider boring. What topic can put you to sleep quicker than any other?

Pretty much anybody on the subway talking about their day, and how, you know, John in accounting is just *so* unreasonable, and oh my gawwwwd, where did you get that purse? And then, so, like, anyways, OH MY GOD SHUT UP!!!

15. How many times did it take you to pass your drivers test?

None, suckers! Nobody drives in downtown Toronto, there’s too much traffic.

16. If you had to have the same topping on your vanilla ice cream for the rest of your life, what topping would you choose?

Sex. Wait, what?

17. What food item would need to be removed from the market altogether in order for you to live a healthier, longer life?

Canned soup, believe it or not.

18. You are offered an envelope that you know contains $50. You are then told that you may either keep it or exchange it for another envelope that may contain $500 or may be empty. Do you keep the first envelope, or do you take your chances with the second?

I fall on the floor in a panic attack. When I get over it, I take both envelopes and pants you.  

19. If you had to choose, which would you give up: cable TV, or DSL/cable internet?

You mean give up my five fuzzy non-foreign channels?!?!? Never! Ha, and I don’t have internet at home, but that will soon be remedied. I’m willing to pay for internet, not tv.

20. What is your highest level of education?

You’d think being so fucking smart that I’m some kind of well educated genius. Not so. I’ve done all kinds of crazy Mensa tests, but I couldn’t get through one year of university without going fucking nuts. This is what happens when I’m surrounded by jackasses and shitty architecture. So yeah, high school, extra credits, and one useless year of University.

21. How much is a gallon of gas in your city?

I don’t know, we buy them by the litres here. It’s over a dollar a litre now. For all you Americans, that is approximately “retarded”.

22. What kind of lunch box did you have as a kid?

I didn’t have a lunch box, I went to daycare until I was way too old because I lived too far from my house to go home for lunch. Then we moved, and I lived close enough to go home for lunch. Not that anyone ever had any actual lunch boxes. Oh wait! By the time I was in highschool, I went out of my way to use a lunchbox. I rotated between my Spinal Tap lunch box and my Ozzy Osbourne Bark at the Moon lunchbox. I’m hard to the core, yo.

23. What would you rather have, a nanny, a housekeeper, a cook, or a chauffeur?

I don’t need a nanny since I don’t have kids, and I don’t need a chauffeur since I think cars are retarded. You’d think I’d like a housekeeper with all the rabbit shit I’ve got to sweep up, but I have this funny thing about people I don’t know being in my space. She’d probably steal all my weed too.

24. Would you rather be trapped in an elevator, or stuck in traffic?

Traffic, because 1) I’m almost never in a car and it’s therefore less likely to happen 2) I can stay sitting 3) less likely to be surrounded by jackasses in ties 4) radio equals not going mental and 5) windows equal air.

However, I’m assuming I’m stuck in the car due to traffic. If I were stuck due to, say, rolling flames pouring out of the engine, I might choose the elevator. Unless that was on fire too, something tells me I’ve got a better chance in a flaming car than a flaming elevator.

25. Lets say a brick fell on your foot, and your kid is standing right next to you, what is your ‘cleaned up’ swear word?

I don’t have a cleaned up swear word. If I can’t say shitass motherfucker in front of you, then get away from me. My kids will learn to swear good and proper and learn when they’ll get a smack for saying it in front of the wrong people. And they’ll learn grammar too. The correct past tense term of shit is shat, not shitted. My brother got a smack for that one.

Alright, bitches!!! Time to celebrate! Actually, last Wednesday and Sunday were the times of celebration, but it’s taken me a while to edit the photos and actually get myself some time in front of the computer. So here we are, and this is going to be another delicious photo fest! So sit back and enjoy!

Firstly, the internet is a super awesome place filled with super awesome people. Yes, there are douchebags, but there are enough awesome people to make up for the douchebaggery. Like Josh (I lub you! He’s sending me BBQ sauce!) and Romi, our newest spicy cohort! That’s right, we finally got to meet Romi!!!!!!! The blogging trifecta is complete!!!

Firstly, Romi and I wore nearly identical shoes. That means, natch, we are soulmates.

 

How sweet is that. Second, she brought cupcakes. And booze. And gifts. And me? I brought sparklers for the cupcakes and a motherfucking PINATA! That’s right. I am the best friend ever. Who doesn’t want something to kick the shit out of on their birthday? Especially when it bleeds candy.

There it is, the giant lipstick. Okay, less explanation, more pictures.

  

Sparklers! A first for Talea!

And then we busted out the prezzies! Yayyyy! Romi was super sweet and got all kinds of fun stuff for Talea. Including her favourite oddity….CHEESE WHIZ AND JAM!!! EWWWW!!!

That’s right. Look how friggin’ happy this girl is to get two of the most disgustingly inappropriate-for-mixing toast-toppers ever. And yes, she made us try it. The result was unpleasant.

Yeah, it’s as awful as it looks. Dear god people, don’t EVER try this. Gnarly to the core.

Anyways, aside from the giant pinata, I got Talea a cute little wallet. The upside? It’s totally racist, awwww yeeaaaah (If you don’t like it, get the hell off my blog.) Observe.

 

Hah! YESSS!!! Okay, I know you can’t read it, but it says “I got you a gift” followed by “WHY YOU WASTE MONEY!??!” It’s funny because it’s true.

After the prezzies, we beat the shit out of the pinata. With a spoon. Romi was the tree.

 

Look how awesomely angry she is! Fun times! The face! Always with the face.

Grarrrrrrr! Don’t take Talea in a fight, she’ll frigging BITE YA! Hahahaha.

Now it’s my turn!

I. Totally. Kick. Ass.

And seriously, it took quite a bit of effort to get the candy out of this thing! Eventually we gave up on the spoon and Talea just smashed it into the floor until it gave up the goods.

 

Ah, the sweet, sweet entrails of a fine Mexican tradition. For some reason, this entire bout of shennanigandery struck us as retardedly funny, and we all wound up sitting on the floor giggling our asses off.

 

That’s right, confetti in the hair. And look at Talea all smiley and shit. Anyone who doesn’t think Talea smiles has never given her racist accessories, cheeze-whiz-n-jam, or projectile candies. That’s all it takes people! A few bucks at the dollar store for cheap thrills, I am SO down with that.

So anyways, at this point, we decided to roll around in the candy. Yeah.

 

 

With some interesting results…

 

 

And eventually…

Yes. Unsurprisingly, Romi ended up missing her bus back to butt-fuck suburban nowhere. But it was a delicious evening indeed! Romi now has a standing invitation to join us every Wednesday for America’s Next Top Model deliciousness. 

Disclaimer: pinatas will not be available every Wednesday. Thank you.

Well, Wednesday was only the beginning of the par-tay. Thursday itself was Talea’s *actual* birthday, which meant the celebrations had to continue. Thusly, I snuck into work early (by ’snuck’ I mean ’showed up’) and decorated her office! Wooot! That’s right, STILL the best friend ever. And? And? And? I got her a cake. Fuck yeah, bitches, that’s no shitty-ass Costco vanilla-that-really-just-tastes-like-sugar-and-cardboard nightmare. That’s a vanilla bean extravaganza made with real cream and pure essence of  excellence.

 

And fun was had by all. Well…not really. Just the clients we like enough to share the cake with. So that was fun. Actually…the half eaten cake is still in my cupboard here. Hmmmm. I think we may have forgotten about it. Well, there’s cream in there, so I guess it’ll start to smell when it goes over. Carrying on!

So THEN (yes, it’s still continuing, Talea is quite loved by all) we had a little bash on Sunday. This little bash was thrown by none other than our super-great Crafty Friend May! She is excellent. She is excellent because she could take Martha Stewart any day of the week, and do it all without that hideous blank expression. May is fun to the millionth degree, and because she has kids, she only knows how to throw little-kid parties. Little kid parties for adults? AWESOME.

Firstly, Talea and I met up by coincidence on the dreaded Dufferin bus and made our way to May’s house. And when we got there:

 

May and the kids had decorated the front window! And we were greeted with balloons! Seriously, I don’t care who the hell you are, being greeted with balloons is super awesome. And she got all kinds of awesome stuff!

 

  

Flowers! And loot bags filled with goodies of the homemade cookie variety! And for lunch we each had personalized pies (mine was veggie) with our initials on them! And crowns! Truly May is a kiddie-party hostess extraordinaire.

I got a crown too, we all did. And now a brief pause so that I may be narcissistic:

Look at me, I’m so excellent! And I’m wearing a shirt that Talea gave me, extra excellent!

Me and May! Another twin shot! May is famous for her ‘May and YOU!’ pictures, she takes one with everyone on every occasion, and we almost always end up looking like twins.

There was also continuing fun with the ongoing theme of Optimus Domesticus, with little Woogs joining in. (For those in the know, Woogs is also known as Baby Chuck Norris, because she will kick your ass harder than his secret third fist hidden under his beard.)

 

 

Top left, that would be May in the mask. Top right, that would be Cait in the mask, with May going “Ugh! Do NOT light that cigarette in my house!” And below we see Woogs threatening to kick ass in an upside down mask that’s just about as big as she is. Seriously though, don’t mess with this kid. She’ll bitch your face up. But then give props, so it’s all good.

The day was excellent, and we had an awesome amount of food and good times. And, of course, there is still cake in the cupboard here. So I would say this was a very successful birthday indeed! We got to meet our spicy new internet friend, candy was shed all around, and it was overall a half-week of celebratory goodness.

And yes, I wore a crown too. Thank you…and good night.