Christmastime in the Emerald City











{December 28, 2007}   Vomiting Can Be Fun!

Okay! Here we go, as I promised Romi, she inspired me with all her poo talk to write a tale about vomit. I have several stories, all of them amusing and disgusting to various degrees.

My first vomit story occurred when I was just a wee child. I was a flower girl at my uncle’s wedding. And I was then, as I am now, and forever shall be, an attention grabbing whore. Fuck your wedding, it’s ME TIME!!!!!!! So I went running up and down the aisle in perfect glee. Up and down the aisle. Until I puked. Yes, it’s true. I ran so fucking hard and fast and for so damned long that I made myself puke, right in the middle of the aisle if I’m not mistaken. The details are a bit hazy though, I may have been ‘removed’.

Fast forward a couple of years to when I’m at that age where I drink, even though I’m not quite legal. And my parents have always been cool with me drinking a bit. They figured if they made a big deal out of it, I’d go fucking crazy when I turned 19. And I always looked older than I really was (thanks, tits) so it was no huge deal to go to a bar with my dad to see above mentioned uncle play in his band and have a pint of beer when I was, say, 17 or so.

Now, my mother’s side of the family lacks a bit of….class. My mother can be quite classy at times, but the poor thing is stuck in the suburbs so I can’t give her any points whatsoever. The rest of her family….well, there are a disproportionate number of truck drivers and missing teeth. So, unsurprisingly, we went up to the trailor park one summer for a weekend of fun. We stopped at the liquor store. The man at the counter struck up a conversation with my stepdad, who was in front of me, about all the ‘townie’ kids who were coming up and trying to use them fake IDs. Oh, he was putting quite a stop to all of that, yessirreebob. He then rang me through, took the 37 dollars from my 16 year old pocket, and called me ma’am when he thanked me. Thanks, tits.

Well, this naturally led to my first experience in blacking out. There are no gaps in my memory; I have a clear recollection of their being gaps in my consciousness at the time. Sitting. Black. Standing. Black. Table. Black. Clamato. Black. Pour. Black. Vodka. Black. Pour. Black. Pour. Black. Spill. Black. Curse. Black. All over my jeans. Black. Walking. Black. Tripping. Black. Sitting on the side of the open minivan. Black. Realizing how lame it is to be sitting in a minivan. Black. Vomit between my feet on the ground. Black. Mom, stepdad, aunt, uncle all making fun of me because at least they were able to make it out back to the woods to throw up. Black. Mumbling some excuse about food poisoning. Black. Waking up and wishing for the first time in my life that there was no sun. Cleaning up own puke. Black.

Naturally, we all woke up at about 4pm and started the whole thing over again.

Fast forward another year or so (because I don’t do this very often). It’s my friend Natalie’s 19th birthday party. She is the first of our group to turn 19. Sadly, we have since lost her to the Jehova’s. Anyways, her mom was a bit of a lush too, so we were all fucking plastered. Let me tell you: Sunny-D + vodka = BAD FUCKING IDEA.

Several highlights of the night:

– one friend taking off her shirt and yelling ‘the power of christ compels you!’ which was made infinitely funnier because she’s an athiest.

– one friend deciding to walk the mile and a half to the grocery store to tell the boy she had a crush on who worked there that she was in love with him, and the rest of us having to drag her back through the wet streets. I think bunny slippers were involved in there somewhere.

– Natalie’s mom tripping over one of the girls, landing in a pile of shoes by the door and putting  her elbow through the cheap fibreboard closet door.

– another friend disappearing for three hours, only to return with bruises on her chest from the force of thunking against the toilet bowl with every hurl; apparently there were a lot of hurls.

– another friend just cries when she gets drunk, which is just plain unfun (she also once vomited in a cab back from St. Patrick’s day after less than three drinks.)

– and yes, I cursed my own existance the following morning as well.

Sidebar: When my own 19th birthday party came around I did not get drunk to the point of illness because by then it was old news. My mother also took me to one of the suburbs less classy joints where my uncle and his band were playing. So…not cool to puke in front of your musician uncle and his rather attractive bass player. However, upon hearing it was my birthday, one of my uncle’s groupies (yes, bar bands have groupies in the suburbs) who as it turned out had just gotten out of prison, went to the grocery store next door, went to the bakery section, which was closed, walked behind the counter, and stole me a birthday cake. Yeah. I had stolen cake for my birthday. Awesome.

Back up just a little bit to just before I turned 19. Drinking at a bar for one of the first ‘real’ times, ie: out with friends, chatting up the boys, namely a group of Irish fellows staying in Canada for a few months. Making out with a guy who was waaaay too short for me (but he had long hair, so it was okay in my books) and realizing I had to throw up. Excuse myself daintily, go to bathroom, start hurling. However, I hadn’t managed to lock the door behind me. So it kept swinging open. I’m not sure if you can picture this, but there I am, mule-kicking the door behind me between bouts of spewing, only to have it swing back and smack me in the ass. Kick, spew, slap, repeat. Unpretty. I finished up, rinsed out my mouth, and went back to sloppy makeouts.

Fast forward to just a couple of weeks ago. Okay, yes, there have been times when I’ve puked between turning 19 and turning 23, it’s just that none of them are very exciting. We’ve discovered my body doesn’t like Shiraz. There was a bumpy cab ride back from last years corporate holiday deal, before which I had been totally fine. But nothing particularly exciting. Until just a few weeks ago.

I was at a friends house and used her husbands grinder to grind up some weed I had just purchased. This is rather ironic since I had bought him the grinder for his birthday and I don’t even have one of my own. Loser with a capital L. Anyways, also like a loser with a capital L, I put my pipe in the baggie with my nicely ground up weed. Therefore, when I got home and lit up, I inhaled not just smoke, but several very potent and tickly bits of weed that had wound up in the mouth piece. Right down my throat. Instantly I felt nauseated, but thought “I’ll be fine”. I took another puff, it happened again, and I didn’t even make it to my kitchen sink, never mind my actual toilet.

I . Puked. Right on my floor. Right on my floor, between my feet, oh my god. I can’t believe I just puked on my own floor. How the hell do you clean up puke? While stoned? Especially when you don’t believe in paper towels and wouldn’t want to use them anyways? You take your least prized towel, scoop and smoosh as much as you can and just toss it. Then you spray your floor with bleach and sacrifice a facecloth. That’s how.

So yeah. I’m a retard. And in the spirit of sharing embarassing moments with all of you, there it is. I have vomited in many amusing situations, including hurling on my own floor while sitting on my own couch getting stoned by myself watching cartoons. I am a winner.

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{December 28, 2007}   a little bit more on stupid doctors

an-apple-or-four-a-day-keeps-the-doctor-away.jpg

courtesy of nataliedee.com



WARNING TO ANYBODY I WORK WITH, I TEND TO GET REALLY PISSED OFF ON MY BLOG SOMETIMES, SO EITHER STOP READING OR YOU HAVE TO PROMISE NOT TO HOLD IT AGAINST ME.

SERIOUSLY….LIKE, I’LL BE USING THE WORD ‘MOTHERFUCKER’.

A LOT.  

******************************************************************************* 

Okay. So you all know that I’m nice and medicated to keep me from jumping my desk and throttling retarded fucking morons who do things like ask me to call a cab for them while I have seven lines ringing and the courtesy phone is right there on the table or even worse, try to engage me in a less than enthralling conversation on the benefits of living in fucking Richmond Hill.

So for anyone who cares to know, this is what I’ve been prescribed. By my doctor. You know, the one who actually has conversations with me, knows my symptons, general distaste for people, etc:

50 mg of Sertraline (knock-off Zoloft) split into two doses. 25 mg in the morning, 25 mg at night. You know, spread it throughout the day, no giant whop of meds all at once.

.5 mg of Clonazepam with the Sertraline, just to sort of even it out and prevent any nasty side effects (the first medication we tried was Citalopram – knock-off Celexa and it was baaaaaaaaaaad….like heroin-withdrawal teeth-chattering vomiting hair-made-out-of-razor-wire bad. We put a stop to that in a hurry.)

All in all, I wouldn’t say I’m on a lot of medication. I certainly don’t *feel* medicated. However, I also have Lorazepam (Ativan) for those *special times*. General day to day usage: nil. Having trouble falling asleep: 1 mg. Have to go to Wal-Mart for whatever reason: 2 mg. Christmas with the family: 4 mg.

Now heeeeeeeeeere’s the fun part kids. None of these medications are considered narcotics. They don’t dope me up (although it turns out 4mg of Lorazepam is enough to knock me out if I’m already tired and generally disinterested, which is precisely what happened at Christmas), I don’t get high off them, and it also means that if I’m running low, I don’t have to make an appointment with my understandably very busy family doctor. I can just walk into any old clinic, shake the empty bottles at them, and be on my merry way having wasted less of our provinces medical resources.

Except this past weekend. I had some jackass of a medschool newbie look at my charts and start asking me questions, such as ‘why are you splitting the dosages?’ Um, what the fuck do you care? This is what my doctor and I have found works best. You are not here to adjust my dosage levels, fucktard. You are here to carry out my doctor’s orders.

This…..ASSMONKEY….then proceeds to question with great concern as to why I am taking Clonazepam and Lorazepam. They are, he says, THE SAME MEDICATION.

I’m sorry, WHAT?!?!?! What did you just try to tell me?!?!? Do you have a medical dictionary I can use to break your face with?!?! Do you think they just randomly handed out seperate names for the same medication? Yes, they are in the same family of benzodiazepines. But so are a plethora of other obviously different medications, such as Valium, which is a tad too hardcore for me.

I can’t imagine anybody will follow any links to medical resources I happen to post here, but rest assured I am not relying on Wikipedia. The chemical formula for Clonazepam is C15H10CIN3O3. One does not feel an immediate reaction when taking Clonazepam. Or Sertraline for that matter. It builds up gradually, which is why you have to give any medication a couple of weeks before deciding whether or not it’s right for you. The desired anti-anxiety effects may take up to six weeks to kick in. In my case, I just kind of realized one day “Hey…I’m not as irritable as I used to be. Oh good!” And it’s different in every case, which is why a WALK IN CLINIC is not the place to do diagnostics.

The chemical formula for Lorazepam is C15H10C12N2O2. It’s sedative effects can be felt within ten minutes to half an hour. It is not meant to be used as a long term solution. It is a quick ‘bandaid’ fix for possibly escalating situations (ie: when I can’t breathe, feel chest pains, or seriously think I might snap and stab someone, or am heading into a situation where that might be likely – such as holidays with the faaaaaaamily.) Extensive use of Lorazepam followed by an abrupt cessation may cause withdrawal symptoms.

So. Thank you very much Dr. Jackass for 1) proving that you are a moron 2) pissing me off when CLEARLY that is not good for me 3) being WRONG and 4) treating me like a retard who just wants her candy, you condescending motherfucker and 5) leaving me with the lingering fear (again, not a good idea) that you are going to fuck hundreds of other people over with your misinformation. I was lucky enough to find a good doctor and not have to deal with a lot of bullshit. Others have been less fortunate. Others, with problems FAR greater than my post-adolescent parental shit-fit have to deal with YEARS of this bullshit, and some have not-so-happy endings because of it. So if you could just kindly follow MY doctors orders and stop wasting EVERYones time, it would be greatly appreciated. Merry fucking Christmas, you cocksucking asshole. I hope the next patient you see happens to be Hitler reincarnate and that you accidentally kill them with a wrong prescription and lose your license.

This incompetant sonofabitch is a fucking menace to society. And yes, I know I’m ranting and raving, but this rant and rave is particularly important because it’s not just about me. There are millions of people suffering from mental disorders or even just mental difficulties that have to wade their way through years of this crap and suffer the stigma surrounding it because of stupid fucking jackass doctors who seem to have won their degrees from a box of fucking Crackerjacks.

As was the golden rule in university when having to go to the nurses station, always remember: They are working here because they couldn’t cut it anywhere else.

Mother. Fucking. Assholes.



Okay…so I kind of have to be careful here because as soon as I say “I’m sort of seeing someone” I jinx myself and the whole thing goes to shit. So I’m not going to say anything of the sort. There’s just…this guy…that I know. We met in a rather creative capacity, have worked on a few projects together, and through the magical power of facebook have become pretty decent friends. Naturally, since he is so awesome, I started up with the glorious scheming machine that is my “I’ll take some of that, thank you” tendencies.

Now; we’re buddies and things are awesome just the way they are, so neither of us is in any particular rush to go changing our facebook status or anything crazy like that. I do not have a toothbrush or stash of Tampax at his place and don’t plan to sneak any in. We do not ‘go out’ really, except for breakfast that one time. More about the hanging out, watching the game, sexy times, etc. So it’s all one big cool, undefined ‘whatever the hell’.

Anyways, there is a point here, I’m not just rambling about some guy I’m crushing on. See, in that sort of ‘whatever the hell’ situation, what do you do about birthdays and Christmas and shit like that, especially when it’s all relatively new and possibly weird? I don’t know because I don’t date and don’t know how to date. I mean shit, the last ‘whatever the hell’ guy I was seeing knew me for five years and didn’t even know when the hell my birthday was. I suppose after five years, you get used to inattentive assholes, right?

Well, whatever. So I’m chilling with this guy and I’m wearing the wig, because he thought it was awesome when I posted a picture on facebook and I thought it would be hilarious to show up at his place with it. I even wore it on the bus. The looks were fantastic. But of course it’s Toronto, so nobody says anything. I walk in, the wig is awesome, I plunk my ass down to watch the hockey game. Without too much ado because, hello? the game is on and I’m not retarded.

I am, however, half blind. No, not by love or any such nonsense. I broke my glasses a while back and have been wearing my grade nine prescription for the past month or so. So the conversation goes something like this:

Me: “……are we winning?”

Him: “Um, yes. The score is 2-0.”

Me: “Oh, good……………..who are we playing?”

Him: “….Atlanta….”

Me: “Oh. Which ones are we?”

Him: “The…light ones?”

Me: “Ah. Um…I broke my glasses. I can’t see anything.”

Him: *nods knowingly*

I then confess to being an utter tool and whip out my knitting during the hockey game. I would normally never do this, but I seriously had to get this scarf finished. Christmas knitting, and I’m way behind. So there I was, knitting, wearing my emo wig, and wearing what I now realize is a probably pretty emo outfit. And apparently emo kids knit these days, so I was just rocking the look, razor scars aside.

Naturally, he felt the need to snap a picture of my rather shameful but adorable predicament:

 emwig1.jpg

That’s right. Fucking adorable. Hard to the guilty knitting core. Who doesn’t want a piece of that?

So then he busts out my birthday present, a little belated because he’s crazy busy what with his cool job and plethora of other artsy side ventures. But seriously, he got me a birthday present? Dudes, remember, I’m used to jackasses who don’t even know when my birthday is,  let alone actually get me something. So now I am friends with a guy who acknowledges my birthday, gets me something (something totally adorable, details in a moment), and isn’t just in my circle of friends but down with the smooching as well. Awesome! Fingers totally crossed, no way in hell do I want to jinx that!

Anyways, I know you are all wondering what I got. Well. Let me tell you. Another totally awesome aspect of ANYbody is the ability to be perceptive, right? When someone gets you something, it’s sweet, but when it’s something totally perfect it’s like “You actually pay attention to me?! Woah.”

So, Awesome Man has gotten me this super cool Family Guy thing. A big fancy box with a tshirt and matching bobblehead. The character? Evil Monkey. That’s right, I now have a shirt that says “obey your inner monkey” and an Evil Monkey fucking bobblehead!

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Awesomeness! And on top of that, he remembered that I like the Clash, but I sold my copy of London Calling a year or so ago for some extra cash when I was really fucking broke. His comment at the time was “I dunno, I might have considered turning tricks before selling my London Calling album.” This was at the aforementioned breakfast, at which point my brain was too sluggish to come up with any sassy reply. But at any rate, there was a copy of London Calling taped to the back of the Family Guy box. Sweet overload, no?

Naturally…..

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But with less claws and not so yellow teeth. I even brushed my teeth first because he is not down with my cigarettes. See? I’m considerate.

Anyways, afterwards he was complaining about the fact that he had to work fairly early the next morning. In his general line of work, weekends are free. But holidays bugger things up. This obviously let to the best post-sexy-times statement ever:

“I blame this all on the baby Jesus.”

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why this guy is awesome. Am I right? That and the fact that I always get to drink my morning coffee out of the Frankenstein mug. He drinks from the Black Lagoon. Well, no, a mug featuring the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

😀



{December 14, 2007}   Picture Memes!

 I stole this idea from Cowgal! It’s a fun picture meme, where you type the answer to all the following questions into Google image search, and post the first picture that comes up. Cowgal’s are pretty self explanitory, but I think some of these ones need a little bit of extra info.

 So, here goes:

My next birthday: 

Um, yeah, I’m going to be 24. Which means I was greeted with tons of pictures of Jack.

Place I’d like to visit:

This is in Russia, in the Gulag concentration camps. I’m kind of weird.

My favourite place: 

My bed, obviously! Though this isn’t my bed. My bed right now is a crappy half-broken futon that has become rather unsightly after spending a few months surrounded by two cats and normally-kept-in-the-currently-being-renovated-bedroom five rabbits. Five…territorial….rabbits….

My favourite object: 

How the hell else would you expect me to put up with so much crap from the little monsters?

My favourite food:

Too bad I couldn’t find a pic of the green tea creme brulee I had in NYC. Droooooool.

My favourite colour (duhhhh!):  

Okay, I cheated a bit here. This was NOT the first image that came up. The first image that came up was just a green screen. However, these…are fucking fantastic. I mean, my GOD people! If anyone finds a pair of these, I will make sweet sweet love to whoever buys them for me.

My nickname: 

Pretty self explanatory. But apparently I’m big in Japan. Or China. Or wherever.

Place where I was born: 

Alright, clearly I was not born at the Toronto Eaton Centre. I was just born in Toronto, and this was the first picture to come up. This is actually rather unfortunate because I was here Christmas shopping with my dad last night and I forgot that my anxiety/homicidal issues spike in crowds. Shit, this place is stressful even when I’m NOT in need of meds. Too many humans!!! Anyways, the night did not end well. Really, I should have just gone to the psych ward and asked for a panic attack on a plate. I hate malls.

Anyways, on that cheery note, this has been rather fun and has distracted me from the giant box of chocolates sitting on my desk. I promise that one of these days I will actually open up my replacement digital camera that’s been sitting in the bag since I got it and take more fun pictures of my actual self as opposed to things that just relate to myself.

Though I can’t promise anymore giant chocolate penises, that’s out of my hands…so to speak.



{December 12, 2007}   Sexy On SOOOO Many Levels

Seriously. For those of you who haven’t seen “I’m More Domestic Than You” (’cause she totally is) Crafty Friend’s mom makes ‘naughty chocolates’ and some of them are in stunning detail. This one just happened to be ginormous. And crooked. I thought I would share with all of you.



Alright, I woke up late again today. Again. Because winter…is not my season. It’s cold, it’s dark, I don’t give a fuck about the hot shower, it’s just going to make me feel colder when I have to get out. I…HATE…winter mornings.

And I’m not feeling that great. So I text Sassy Friend and tell her that I’m feeling icky and running behind, but I should be there before or shortly after the phones start ringing. I walk into a fucking nightmare because we’ve got a shitload of training room/boardroom bookings and they’re all fucked up. Apparently, even though my boss has my password and can open all my fancy programs, it didn’t occur to her to check who was booked where and what the difference is between a projector and a projection screen. With that polite “well, everyone makes mistake” smile of hers. No, we do not. YOU DO.

But it doesn’t make a difference, because all I know is I’ve got a fat red head yelling at me because the lights won’t dim, I’m fucking starving, I’ve forgotten the pills that keep me from snapping or crying under duress, and I have knitting kneedles in  my bag. The fax machines are down, everybody is pissed off, I just got handed a mess of useless filing, and as usual, everybody on the phone and at my desk is a fucking idiot. Someone also keeps trying to send a fax to my ear, probably for some exotic getaway.

I. Want. To SCREAM. I want to kick the motherfucking holiday happy bouquets of pointsettias across the room. I want to smash my heavy blue crisp corporate water glass onto my Ikea-esque desk ensemble and push the jagged edge into the nearest piece of face or ballistic gel (they have equal satisfaction ratings). I would sincerely like to grab some sort of holiday branch and brandish it over my head while screaming down the street after the motherfucking  tourists who make getting anywhere such a goddamned fucking pain in my ass. I want to turn around to kick my boss in the face for asking me to do some inane task while my phone won’t stop ringing and for TOUCHING MY SHOULDER AFTER I EXPLAINED THAT I HAVEN’T TAKEN MY FUCKING MEDS AND I WANT TO KILL EVERYTHING!!!!!!!!!

So, what, that’s it? I miss one little pill and my fucking day is ruined? I mean, I know the deal with Seratonin and blah, but seriously?! Me? Dude, I kick ass. I take on the fucking world, I put on emo wigs and tell my own clients to go fuck themselves. I need to beat this day. I need to beat this day brutally, with like, I dunno, one of those retractable antennae from a cheap little radio that really hurts if you break it off and whip someone with it.

So, similar to my “at least I’m not O.J., but oh right, he actually got to stab someone” spiel, I am doing my best to ignore the negative parts about today and focusing on the positives. Here’s a list of positive things today.

1) I’ve seen a lot of flattering pictures of myself today. Thank you facebook and 3D friends with cameras, wigs, and children.

2) I spent a good twenty minutes in the same (if rather large) office as my boss while she conversed with a client. I farted the entire time.

3) The fat redhead complained about the lack of dimming so much that she agreed to switch to a smaller room. I don’t care about the whole ordeal, possibly losing money, looking bad etc.  I just like to think of her with twenty other people crammed into a boardroom made for ten. She’s sweating right now, probably very self conscious. And still very fat. Also, they had pizza for lunch. You know what that means, right? She’s even fatter.

4) In the bathroom, I got the last piece of papertowel, which means that the smelly bitch next to me had to use the crazy handdryer machine that can actually blow accessories from your face from the sheer noise and force of the wind reflecting from your flapping, helpless hands. Seriously, that thing has to be fifty feet away and if the bathroom door opens while someone is stupid enough to use it, can hear it from here!

5) I convinced my boss that every time she books someone in a boardroom, she has to fill out a little form I made to make sure she doesn’t forget to tell me anything. That’s right, I’ve got the boss doing paperwork. Which might explain the pile she just dropped on my desk, but whatever. I like organized paperwork.

6) Almost, but didn’t quite have the time to print out pictures of Trent Reznor and go shit-house with my otherwise useless little happy-face stamper.

7) Sat on floor under desk while Sassy Friend covered for me, stuffing my face with a lemon tart from Second Cup, and occasionally poking my head up for beverage purposes. She commented “you used to do this as a child, didn’t you?” I did, and still do.

8.) I got paid Friday, but the month works out funny where I got paid right at the beginning of the month, and still have one more paycheque before the end of the month. That means this whole paycheque is for the blowing. And yes, I know Christmas is coming up, but we all know that while I love my family…..I would rather get an adorable set of gloves and the emo secretary-core haircut seen below.

9) I’m seeing a friend tomorrow night for dinner whom I haven’t seen in over a year, and I’m looking forward to catching up. Sounds kind of sappy, but she’s actually kind of ‘anti blogosphere facebook, all that junk kids these days get sucked into’. On the one hand, she is an obvious freak. On the other hand, kudos for her steadfastness, even if it does technically mean that by my standards she doesn’t exist and I am just going to dinner with an imaginary friend.

10) There is a very good chance that my Lovely Friend (not to be mistaken with Sassy Friend or Crafty Friend, we are all intertwined) may be working with myself and Sassy Friend shortly. Nothing is for certain yet, but lets keep our fingers crossed.

Lastly, meds or no meds, I have pot at home. And that just makes my holiday nights a little brighter. Sweetbombs.



secretary-me.jpg

How…fucking…sweet…is that? That’s a fucking wig dude. I’m walking into House of Lords with that wig A.S.A.P. and saying ‘make this fucking happen, I don’t care how much it costs or if I have to get up at 4am every morning to do it. Make it happen.’

I WILL BE….Hard to the Secretary CORE!!!!!!!!!



{December 6, 2007}   My Holiday Spirit, Yo
You Are Vixen
Sexy and sultry, you’re the one all the other reindeer dream about.

Why You’re Naughty: That fur pulling spat you got into with Dancer over Santa.

Why You’re Nice: Because even when you’re nice, you’re still delightfully naughty!

Is anybody surprised?

Didn’t think so. Thanks cowgal for the idea!



{December 3, 2007}   My Birthday Shennanigandery

Alright, so my birthday was actually a couple of weeks ago, and I had planned to write a post all about it, but I forgot. I forgot because I spent most of my birthday stoned, as should anybody, really.

My Awesome Aunt calls me up first thing in the morning, picks me up, we pick up her kid from piano practice, all while she explains that she has to fire the piano teacher. Why? Because the teacher is stupid enough to tell her kid that he can play certain Beatles tunes on the piano that are just plain meant for guitar. My Awesome Aunt is absolutely aghast at this.

We stop at her house, and grab a quick breakfast before we head out. My Awesome Aunt and I are going on a girl’s day to Home Depot to grab a whole bunch of fun things to remodel my renter-white apartment. My Awesome Aunt and I love pretty things and painting pretty things, and all sorts of artsy good-looking stuff and funky home decor. So this is going to be fun.

It’s especially going to be fun because breakfast included a pot cookie, and by the time we get to the lighting department, I am completely convinced that I want my kitchen and living room light fixtures to look like boobs. So I’m prancing around with box upon box of various semi-globes, holding them up to myself and judging their realism. When satisfied, we go to the window covering department, because I now believe that a terracotta and saffron coloured apartment would go great with dracula-black curtains.

Of course, that’s just the living room/kitchen. The bedroom (who am I kidding, it’s being given up to the bunnies) is an avocado green, with a painted brown floor. To keep the rabbits from chewing at the walls (again), I’m nailing up slats of wood to about halfway up the wall. Cottage-like. So we go looking for pretty wood.

Now at this point, we are in the back of the Home Depot, where the hardcore frequent visitors know how to navigate. I’m a girl, and while I’m pretty handy with tools, looking at all these giant slabs of lumber is a little intimidating. But we wander through some aisles and find some pretty pre-sliced, pre-packaged stuff that should do the trick. So we pick up a few packages, try to find the cart we left somewhere near the drywall, and wander off to find floor paint. Except I can’t remember which direction we’re facing. Oooh, and I need some nails.

At this juncture, we meet a hippie Home Depot character. You know, an older guy who actually cares about what he does there and isn’t just waiting for a paycheque to blow on a PS3 or whatever the devil it is you kids do these days. And he’s explaining to me how to find studs in the walls with a tape measure, and all about the nature of the wood I’m using. I need to hammer gently at first, you see, or else I’ll split the wood. And I need a certain type of nail. I’m pretty sure he either knew I was stoned, or was stoned himself. I was expecting him to call me young grasshopper at any moment.

So now, right, floor paint, where the hell is that? Oh, shit, right here. Okay, there’s this big colourful chart thing with all these effects. What does that mean? I like this one here, they call it a Venetian finish. And the paint is, like $40 a can, so does it, like, do the finish for you? Like those trippy nail polishes that do crackle effects on their own? It seems to imply so….I’m not sure. Well, whatever, lets just get it.

Shit, you know what? We need to get more of this wood stuff. Because math makes sense all of a sudden, and I don’t think this is going to be enough. Okay, says my Awesome Aunt, I’m going to go find you a saw somewhere. You go find the wood.

I can’t find the wood. I swear, I went up and down every aisle until I found myself looking at plumbing fixtures. It’s not here. Where’s my Awesome Aunt? Uh-oh.

In fact, I can’t recall for certain if it wasn’t at this point that I found her talking to the Home Depot sage, and not earlier. But she did find a saw, and figured out that the expensive floor paint did not magically swirl itself into a Venetian plaster. Okay, so, normal paint. Where do we get that? There seems to be a kiosk thing, right past where the Home Depot sage said to find safety goggles, as though I’m going to pay attention to him. Forget the goggles, we need paint.

They ask what kind of paint I want and list a whole bunch of variations like I know what the hell they are talking about. I don’t know, just…floor paint! I’m painting my floor, what, is this a huge deal? And I need it non-toxic, because I’m making a room for my rabbits. What?!?! I have rabbits, and they chew at…you know what, nevermind, just…this colour here, just mix it up, will you? Jesus, where the hell is the exit?

We find the cashier, and park the cart somewhere in between two queues. Because we forgot something. I can’t remember what, but we had to go find it. I was certain someone was going to take everything out of our cart and we’d have to start all over again, but we wandered away anyways. It was only after we had paid for everything (or rather, she paid for everything because it’s my birthday and she’s my Awesome Aunt) and were ready to leave when we realized that she had accidentally bought that super-expensive not-very-magical paint by accident. So I had to stand by the cart near the exit while she went around to return the stuff. I’m sure it didn’t take as long as it seemed to.

Anyways, I can’t remember much of what happened afterwards, except that I ended up at Crafty Friend’s house for deliciousness and more weed.

Since then, I’ve nailed up four pieces of wood to my walls, and the boob lights are still in their boxes. Because, you know, I have to knit right now. A lot.



et cetera