Christmastime in the Emerald City











{January 31, 2008}   Because I’m a Meme Whore

 I stole this from the Queen! No, not the dumpy old one who runs a country, the sassy cool one. 

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40 Secrets About Yourself
Be HONEST no matter what!

1.What’s your natural hair colour?

Yeah, you know that not-really-a-colour shade of mousy-ass brown? Yeah, that garbage.

2. where was your default pic taken?

My avatar thing? It’s not a picture of me, it’s “The Emerald” by Alphonse Mucha. Next tattoo, hopefully.

3. What’s your middle name?

Irene. What the hell kind of shit is that? Irene?!?! Thanks for wasting all your creativity on my first name, mom. And Irene is her middle name too – extra uncreative!!! (But here’s a fun fact: Queenie’s middle name is Elizabeth, which is my grandmother’s middle name. Not the one who threatens to crucify people though, the other one.)

4. Your current relationship status?

Single single single! I mean there is Awesome Dude, but that’s all new and up in the air, just the way I like it. We’re all “I like you, you like me, but neither of us is in the mood for anything long term right now, so let’s just keep doing what we’re doing and figure out as we go along.” Sounds good to me! Good for the sexy times, but I still get to leave my panties on the back of my toilet and stay out as late as I want without having to call anyone.

5. Honestly, does your crush like you back?

Well, I did just mention the sexy times, so I’m assuming he does…the boys tend to get tired of my antics around the three month mark though, which is today….and he’s been hellof busy for quite some time, which makes me nervous…but I’m trying not to be such an insecure neurotic freakshow, so I’m going to say yes, he likes me back.

6. What is your current mood?

Fucking cold! Bring on summer!

7.What color underwear are you wearing?

Black with red lacey trimming. Drool away boys, drool away.

8.What makes you happy?

Weed. Sex. Family Guy. Beer. Motley Crue. Venti Caramel Apple Spice from Starbucks. Watching fat people fall down. Ugly children. Old people that are still cool. My rabbits. Being told I’m the most crushable girl on the internet. Um….making cookies for cute boys. Yeah, I know. I’m perfect.

9. There wasn’t a number nine when I stole this one. Not sure if there was one when the one I stole got stolen. 

10. If you could go back in time, and change something what would it be?

Not a goddamned thing, people. Not. One. Thing.

11. If you MUST be an animal for ONE day- what would you be?

Motherfuckin’ dragon, yo! Torch that village! Don’t tell me they don’t exist, I’ve read Jeremy Thatcher Dragon Hatcher. 

12. Ever had a near death expeirence?

Hah! Yes, hence the scar.

13. Something you do a lot?

Smoke weed, obssess about things that get on my nerves. Sweep up rabbit shit.

14. What’s the name of the song stuck in your head right now?

Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” Thanks for telling me Prince was on the radio, Talea. Jerk.

15. Who did you copy and paste this from?

Queenie!

16. Name someone with the same b-day as you?

His name was Norman Osbourne, and he was in my daycare.

17. When was the last time you cried?

Ugh. Okay guys, you should know by now I’m kind of an emotional basket case crazy person. The last time I cried was a few days ago when one of those prevent-animal-cruelty commercials came on. I apparently ‘lack the emotional clotting mechanism’ which is why the tiniest things piss me off so damned much and I cry at the drop of an ugly damned hat.  

18. Have you ever sang in front of a large audience?

I don’t think a bunch of drunken old people at a trailor park is considered a large audience, so no. And grade school Christmas pageants don’t count.

19. If you could have one super power what would it be?

INVISABILITY!!! Oh man, I am so nosey, I would be a fly on the wall EVERYWHERE!!!

20. What’s the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?

Smile. A guy with a cute smile knocks me on my ass.

21. What do you usually order from Starbucks?

After they failed at my grande non-fat EXTRA FUCKING FOAMY vanilla latte, I switched to a venti caramel apple spice with whipped cream and caramel topping. Except those bastards happened to mention the calorie content. Way to go, are you TRYING to lose my business?

22. What’s your biggest secret?

Hmmm. I’m such a loudmouth, I really don’t have very many, except that I’m far more insecure than you’d think. That and I’ve got a total Lolita complex. Former Awesome Dude (who is now Touch-My-Metal-Goatee Sonofabitch) was all about the voyeurism and I was all “Oooh! Ooh! Can we get a cute little barely-legal skinny girl in a kilt?” He was all “But I don’t like skinny girls!” and I was all “But IIIIII do!”

You’re WELCOME.

23. What’s your favorite colour?

Green, DUUUHHH!!!!!

24. When was the last time you lied?

Um, my entire job is a lie. I answer the phones for about fifty different companies and it’s supposed to look like the entire place is theirs. Not true. I’m also supposed to be really professional and not do my retard dance in front of clients or answer the phone “Heeyyyy, ‘sup?” when they call to ask if they have mail. But I do anyways, and that’s precisely why everyone loves me.

25. Do you still watch kiddy movies or TV shows?

I. Love. Cartoons. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles all the way, man! (But only the retro one, none of this new crap where they don’t have pupils. That’s just creepy.)

27. What are you eating or drinking at the moment?

Um. Water.

28. Do you speak any other language?

I’ve got a few catch phrases in other languages, but I’m not fluent in anything. Wo est de nacht toiletten and such.

29. What’s your favourite smell?

MALE!!!

30. If you could describe life in one word what would it be?

Multi-faceted

31. When was the last time you gave/received a hug?

Two nights ago my friend Cait took me tanning to get some Vitamin D into my winter-blah’d self and gave me a big ole hug before I got on the streetcar. Bitch is taking off to some island for a week or so of fun and sun. I lub you Cait!

32. Have you ever been kissed in the rain?

No, and I don’t really think that would be as romantic as it sounds. Ugh, you’re clothes are wet and clingy and itchy, and curly hair doesn’t look good when it gets wet.

33. What are you thinking about right now?

I’m hoping Mr. Awesome Dude gets a friggin’ day off work soon. In want of the nookie! The sloppy makeouts! GRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!! 

34. What should you be doing?

Pffft. Getting nookie more often.

35. What was the last thing that made you upset?

Ugh. EVERYTHING. Hello, we’ve had this conversation.

36. How often do you pray?

Hmmm. Other than using the Lord’s name in vain or in some form of profanity, I really don’t. I’m all about the occasional meditating just for the sake of feeling connected to the world around me.

37. Do you like working in the yard?

Ha. Downtown living, suckers. There ain’t no lawn to mow in these here parts, and that’s just the way I damn well like it. I love the green and all that, so long as someone else is doing the tending. I’m good with plants though. But mowing and raking? No thanks.

38. If you could have any last name in the world, what would you want?

Hottentots. That would actually be kind of ridiculous though. I know a cute guy with the last name Winter. How cool would the name Emerald Winter be? Eh? Eh? Yeeeaahhhh.

39. Name 5 things in your closet.

My closet is difficult to get into, and isn’t even as deep as the hangers are wide, so things are on an angle. It’s in the bedroom, which is being turned into a bunny room. So right now it holds clothes I never wear. Soon it will hold gigantic stashes of rabbit food, rabbit hay, rabbit pine shavings, extra rabbit accessories, and other rabbit paraphernalia.

40. Do you act different around your crush?

Awesome Dude is just as anal retentive as me. We went to breakfast a while back, and while we were waiting for the food, he rearranged the cutlery while I sorted the sugars and sweeteners. However, I do try to be less of an insecure weirdo around him.

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There you go, hope that was fun!

And because I’m super nosey, I want other people to do the same meme!

Tag, you’re it Talea, Josh and Romi!

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Alright, if your kid has polio or something, this may not apply to you. However, something occurred last night that pissed me off. I know, me? Pissed off? No way! But yes. I was pissed. Miffed, even. Not outright homicidal, I’m getting better at that. But miffed.

As we all know, it’s not that I hate kids so much. Sure, there are a few tubby chocolate-smeared bastards out there that I wouldn’t think twice about pushing into traffic, but it’s usually the parents. Parents have this thing about how *their* child is far more important than any other child, the Dalai Lama, and all the polar bears in the world combined. Sorry, but this is simply not the case. If it comes down to a choice between your snotty nosed bastard and some endagered form of blood sucking insect, it’s the gallows for little Jimmy-Bob I’m afraid. Sure, blood sucking insects are a pain in the ass, but there’s the whole web of life to consider.

Kids get motherfucking EVERYTHING. They have their own special doctors, we coddle them and fuss over their education. We guilt trip ourselves for not playing enough peekaboo with them or doing Rembrandt flashcards before the crucial age of five, six, or whatever random number they’ve chosen this year. We cry when we have to vaccinate them even though they get the goddamned lollipop afterwards! Oh, I’m so sorry I had to give you that life-saving medication!

Shut. Up.

Kids are more resilient than you think. A bop on the head isn’t going to kill them, a mosquito bite is not the end of the world. So unless they’ve consumed a bottle of Drano thinking it was candy (true story – the same kid, now 42, also fell into a sewer, which may explain his current metal-goatee and ‘smell my fist’ t-shirt…) then there really isn’t all that much to worry about. So unless some polio-riddled school-ager comes toddling onto the subway, why the hell are people leaping from their seats to make these kids even more comfortable than they already are?

This is precisely what happened last night. On the subway, some oh-so-exhausted mother came in through the crowd with that same limp hair and lack of makeup they all sport in what I perceive to be a failed ploy for sympathy. And along with her came her two kids. Two seperate people immediately jumped to their feet and gave their seats to these kids -who have probably done nothing more exhausing than recess all fucking day!

Fuck you! You get to wear sneakers! And you don’t even have to tie them with that velcro shit nobody over the age of eleven can get away with! I’m SITTING and my feet hurt! Sure I’ve got a bit of a shoe fetish. I’ve even got a shoe-a-day calendar. But as pretty as my pink crushed-velvet bow-tied pumps may be, they fucking hurt. I would far rather be wearing my dirty-ass flip flops. But no, I’ve got to look nice and pretty because it’s an apparent factor in one’s suitability for the workforce. (And don’t give me that garbage about comfortable shoes. You all know exactly what you think when you see a killer pair of corporate heels next to a dumpy pair of loafers. You think us chicks like the idea of an early hip-replacement? It’s all a game to see who can last the longest before giving in to the gramma-gear! And it’s vicious!)

Right, so at the end of the day, my ass wants a seat. And no way in hell am I giving it up to some ten year old whiney bastard with more energy in his little bones than a friggin’ atomic bomb. No. Fucking. Way. You can stand! You have the energy to stand! You don’t have the weight of life on your little bill-free rent-free recess-getting shoulders.

And no, I did not suddenly take up this philosphy once the spikes wedged themselves under my rat racing heels. I have always been this courteous. Last nights incident brought back a fond memory of early righteousness. It was the summer after highschool and I had been out for the day with my kid sister. As a touch of foreshadowing, this was the day I bought my super ass-tastic corporate skirt, completely oblivious to the fate that awaited me. (On that note, HA!!! I still fit into that skirt!) We then went to the candy store, oh glorious day! Then, as evening set in, we made our trek home.

This is the noble part (I know, such a change): When we got on the bus, there was an empty seat. I did not go for it. I didn’t need a seat. Sure, I worked at a daycare at the time, and that was pretty tiring, especially in an inner-city daycare where I had to go through the teen-mom’s impromptu send-along breakfasts for PEANUT M&M’s, keep run-away Jade from flinging herself down the stairs, and inform know-it-all Carlton that we are in fact allowed to use physical force, we just aren’t allowed to leave marks – and I am quite adept at phonebook justice. But at the end of the day, things were pretty decent. I got to sit cross legged on carpets, I still lived at home with University still a month away, and my shoe fetish back then consisted mainly of sassy wedge sandals. In other words, I sure knew I didn’t deserve that lone seat. So when my ten year old sister dove for it, I yanked her back by the ponytail with a sharp “YOU are the LAST person on this bus who needs to sit. You’re a kid. You can stand.” I later conveyed this to the parentals lest there be any tattling – and she got ‘the look’. NICE! That means I win.

Obviously, I can’t go around yanking kids out of subway seats by their ponytails. I believe they arrest people for such helpful maneouvers these days. But dirty looks have a surprisingly strong impact. So by all means, be courteous. Leap out of your chair for that elderly old man, that pregnant lady (unless she’s wearing Baby Phat brand clothing or hooker hoops – then you’re on your own, sister!), or even that tired looking young woman in attrocious heels. Several months ago, some middle aged trucker type fellow offered me his seat because he said a young lady such as myself deserved it more. See?! My faith in humanity can be restored so easily! So thoughtful! No way would I have expected that had I been wearing my jeans and flip flops, but I am all about the courteous gestures from random strangers. It makes the world go ’round.

But do NOT, I beg you, DO NOT give your seat to some kid who’s got less than fifty pounds weighing on his strong little ankles. You are robbing that kid of the character gained through years of knowing his goddamned place! Which is standing! You give those dirty looks, you mutter under your breath, you do everything you can to teach that jerk-face kid and his jerk-face parent/guardian that the spawn of adults do not deserve to sit!

Unless he’s got polio. In that case you can give up the seat. And if the mom looks tired and poor, give her the seat too. If she doesn’t, give her an outrageous scoff of ‘and why are you making your ill child ride the transit when you can clearly afford the taxi?’

The world will thank you. And vicariously, me.



Okay, I’m really not in the mood to write much today. My last post was about how Murphy’s Law is kicking my ass. It’s still kicking my ass. The subway was a 45 minute delay nightmare this morning, Starbucks ran out of apple juice for my daily caramel apple spice (since I’ve given up on their shit-ass latte making capabilities), and one of our clients has a job posting in the paper, which means I’m getting a ton of garbled calls asking if I speak Chinese. (Shouldn’t they know that Chinese is a nationality, not a language? The language is either Cantonese or Mandarin. Why do I know this and they don’t?) Also, I’m generally hitting that Intimacy-vs-Isolation crisis if you want to be really clinical about it. What’s the point of dating? – either one of us will dump the other and I’ll be pissed, or we’ll fall in love, get married and be fucking boring. Ugh. Piaget’s theory, I believe, not that I remember much of Psych anyways.

But right, remember that I’m supposed to be kicking these funky moods in the ass? And that generally speaking I’m a sexy-ass narccisstic rockstar? Right, okay, let’s get on that bandwagon. Also, work is really slow and boring today, so I feel like posting a bunch of pictures for shits and giggles. In this post you will be treated to the glorious glimpses of:  my awesome purple hair (fuck you corporate mentality, I can swing the purple…even if it fades to red pretty quickly), my awesome cooking skillz, and Super Mom Crafty Friend! Super Mom Crafty Friend is also my sister-from-another-mister because holy cow do we ever look alike sometimes.

Anyways, random ahoy, here we go!

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It’s purple, okay? Don’t try to tell me it’s red or brownish or whatever. The box says “Deep Purple” so it’s purple. It’s pretty and pop-culture-reference sassy. I’m at a photo shoot here, one of the models snapped a pic of me in motion.

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So this is kind of an oddity. I’ve got some scarring going on here. One scar looks boring but has an interesting story: It’s a six inch scar running vertically through my belly-mah-button. Story? Dropped into convulsions when I was 18 months old. Turns out I’d been stricken with Meckles Direticulum, which is a big fancy way of saying “my intestines told the rest of my body to fuck off, they were too busy trying to kill me.” Obviously, I won. Anyways, the scar on the left is the result of lying in a chair for an hour being cut with a scalpel. Obviously by someone who knows what he’s doing. It’s an azalea, and it’s unfortunately faded quite a bit (damn healing abilities!) I’d get it re-done and maybe get a matching scar on the other side, but 1) it’s expensive and 2) it fucking hurts.

Now before you start going on about me being a wuss and “oh, just suck it up and deal with the pain if you really want it to look good”, here is how you get a flower-shaped scar in the first place:

1) Pay out the ass for the best piercing artist in the city.

2) Lay on a table and let him slice your skin with a scalpel for about an hour or so – extra points when the other artists wander in saying “Is she okay? Wow, she’s not even screaming or nothing.”

3) Realize that Benzocaine does fuck all.

4) When done, rub scented vasoline into wounds and cover with saran-wrap. Keep this on for several weeks. Basically, the point is to get as infected as possible for as much scarring as possible without going into horrible toxicity-induced shock. Natch.

5) When in shower, rub wounds with facecloth and whatever irritants are handy – cinnamon toothpaste works nicely. You will bleed and you will LOVE IT, and take pride when coworkers literally throw up upon seeing your saran wrapped bloody crater of an open wound.

6) After shower, for extra colouring, soak paper towel in balsamic vinegar. Press into wound as hard as you can for as long as you can. Pass out from pain. Wake up. Repeat.

7) After a few weeks, start dousing the entire area with rubbing alcohol to dry it up and start the scabbing process (mmmm!) Once wounds have scabbed over, pick to your heart’s content!

8.) Several years later, you will be rewarded with your own personal colouring book for your pseudo niece to colour in with scrapbooking pens.

So if any of you are up to the challenge, be my guest (Josh, they’ve got some pretty manly scarring patterns out there…my ex has a scorpion on one arm and a flaming skull on the other. And it makes you instantly uber hardcore!)

I’ve got better pics of this when it was fresh, but they’re on a cd somewhere at home…I’ll have to take a look. Moving on!

Mah sister! From anothah mister! Mrs. Super Mom Crafty Friend!

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Me on the left, her on the right. (She’s normally more smiley, you’ll see. This is just a horribly late hour after a horrific attempt at getting cabs.)

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In the glow of the knitting lamp! You know what knitting looks like, no pictures of that today. I’m probably pretty stoned here, but I don’t remember. Hah!

And most recently:

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Loving the shirt. Sassy Friend Talea got that for my birthday. It says “I am crushing your head.” And I usually am.

Alright, what else can I rustle up here?…hmmm.

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If you don’t get this….well, I recommend YouTube…but replace ‘Kittehs’ with ‘Girls’ and be VERY, VERY CAREFUL. (If any of my coworkers are reading this, you did NOT get it from me. Seriously.)

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Me at the El Mocambo (if you’ve never seen Stevie Ray Vaughan’s ‘Live at the El Mocambo’ you suck) waiting for my then-boyfriend (with the scarring) to play his set. He was a drummer. I should have known better. Check out my funky ten-guage earrings! Funky without being pop-can sized hideous. Hardcore meets girly. No, my hair is not purple here. This was years ago.

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This is true. Toronto Hydro will go for nearly a year without you paying them before you get one of those scary little orange cards taped to your door. (I pay my bills online, and forgot the change the account number when I moved. I was paying to my old apartment for a good long time before they caught on.)

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I need one of these at work. Seriously.

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I make the best motherfucking broccoli and cheddar soup ever. You will eat it. You will love it. You will worship the ground I walk on.

Ummm…yeah. Well, that’s pretty much it. I’m kind of bored now, I’m gonna go dick around on the internet for a while. It’s not like I’ve got work to do or anything. Seriously, I don’t. I hope you found this enlightening, enjoyable, and whatever the hell else. I feel less pissy, but the phones are still ringing, so who knows, right? I’ll come back in a day or two when I actually have something interesting to write about.



Okay, you know that whole “Murphy’s Law” business? Whatever can go wrong will? I used to think that was retarded. My mother would work herself into hysterics with the whole “I’m running fucking late, why do I have to get EVERY SINGLE RED LIGHT!?!?!?” schpiel. And I used to think “Well, chances are that you’re only noticing it more because you’re running late.” So smug in my seven year old ways.

Well, I’ve unfortunately reached that point in my life where I’m starting to realize that my mother was right about an awful lot of things. Having kids ruins your life, getting married is a pointless and expensive waste of time, once you get to work you forget to make any of the personal ‘my kid is at home sick today’ phone calls because your brain just fries, the smell of cat piss will never come off those antique pearl christmas decorations, and most importantly THE WORLD CAN FUCK YOU UP AT RANDOM INTERVALS. (I love you mom!)

Now really, none of this story is horrific. Nobody is dead, I’m still employed, and I’ve managed to laugh most of this off. Because really, it’s gotten to the point of hilarity. I’d say it started with the addition of a second computer at my reception. I’m supposed to use the phone-answering program on one computer, and do everything else on the second computer so the powers that be can watch everything I do. Right guys, sure thing. So I give the new computer a try – ordering up and printing a Purolator waybill for a client.

The tech dude didn’t install my fucking printer. Fuck me! Alright, fine, cancel the order, sign out, log in on my old computer, redo the order, print. My printer runs out of ink. Right then. And I had JUST placed a Grand and Toy order. Fuck! Okay, save the waybill, email it to my boss so she can print it. That doesn’t work. Running out of time. Purolator has this retarded thing where shit has to be in the box by 5pm for pickup. Hello??!! What person in an office gets off before five? Ugh. Okay, boss sits at my desk while I run to hers to redo the order again. HER FUCKING COMPUTER FREEZES ON ME!!! GAHHHH!!!! I make an attempt to run downstairs with a manual hand-written thingy, but of course I don’t know our account number so it’s pointless. We miss Purolator. Not my fault at all, nobody is pissed. Except me. Ugh.

Alright. Survived that day. Yesterday, have to do a bank run for work. No biggie except it means taking the subway. Normally I have my head phones to drown out the idiocy, but more on that later. I run into a client along the way, one of my favourites, and we get to talking about our mutually shitty weekends. (His involved bowling and a pissed wife, so he has my sympathy.) Get to the subway, I need to buy a weekly pass. And of course, the little ‘swipe your debit card and skip the line’ thing was broken. UGH!!! They’ve got a debit swiper at the booth itself, but the line….and I need to buy lunch, so let’s just head back to the lobby and hit the ATM. Not very far.

The ATM has disappeard for construction. DAMMIT!!! Alright, go back up to the mezzanine level, hit the ATM inside the real bank, go outside, back down the stairs, into the subway to hit the line up. I hate lines, this is why I have a metropass! When I get to the window the following conversation ensues:

Me: “Weekly pass please.”

Her: “I don’t have any at this window. You need to go the other window.”

Me: “He’s not there!”

Her: “He’ll be back in just a minute.”

Right. So more than a minute later this retard comes back. With a bag of potato chips. I don’t take fucking lunch when it gets busy here. But of course, IIIIIIIII don’t work for a UUUUUNNNNNNIIIIIIOOOONNNNN!!!!!!!!! Grrrrrr. I give him my money, he starts talking like I can hear him through the glass, and is still talking when I go through the turnstile. Idiot. Go down to the subway, and everybody is confused because there is a train there but it’s got the doors closed and is obviously not going anywhere any time soon. Of course, a good portion of these people don’t realize that we are at the end of the line and that the train pulling into the other side of the platform is just as good and going in the same direction. Stop standing there like confused cattle!!! I’m actually getting pretty damned hungry, and I have to hit the bank before I even think about lunch. It’s 3pm.

Issue at the next stop as some crazy old lady who just missed the train decides to start whacking on the doors as though the person who opens them can hear her from his little cubby at the other end of the train. Crazies now, awesome! Ugh. Get to the bank, the lineup is retarded and the person in front of me has struck up a conversation with the person in front of him. The laugh. This….laugh. I can’t describe it in words. It’s an onomatopoeia, and an ugly one at that. Try to make a gurgling hissing sound in the back of your throat. Now imagine that for about ten minutes. Then he turns his head over his shoulder and COUGHS INTO MIDAIR!!!!!!!!! What?!? What the hell does that do to prevent me from getting your damned herpes or whatever is making you sound like that??! You all know I’m not a germaphobe, but seriously, enough is enough.

Well, I survive the day and manage to make it home in one piece to my fabulous apartment. My apartment is tiny, inexpensive, not quite up to code, but in an awesome area, and I love it to pieces. I love it enough to renovate it so I can live in a pretty place for the next decade until I can buy a house. I don’t love my neighbours. At first it was just Jane, in number one. She has filed noise complaints because I play music at 10:30 pm. She goes to bed early. Too fucking bad, the law says quiet hours start at 11pm. Not my fault the walls are thin. By the by, playing your obnoxious jazz at 6:30am does not comply with said law, so BITE ME!!! Number four apparently has 23 different immigrants living in his tiny one-bedroom, at least according to his mail. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, is there a number I can call about that? Anyways, the girl in number two is actually quite nice. She’s the only one who says hello in the stairwell. However, she also leaves her door wide open, with her disgusting mess of an apartment on display. She has one cat. I have two cats and five rabbits. How the hell can you smell HER apartment even when the door is closed, and not mine? GROSS!!!

On top of not knowing the magical powers of bleaching your floors, she apparently does not know how to cook. For the second night in a row, she has burnt the shit out of something and set of the fire alarm. Incidentally, it’s right outside my door. Ugh. Well, last night, she set it off again. But remember, my place is not up to code. So am I surprised when the craptacular safety system REFUSES TO TURN ITSELF OFF AND BLARES FOR OVER HALF AN HOUR?!?!??!! No. I’m pissed, but not surprised.

It’s at this point that I figure I better rant away about it today and make a joke out of it. I don’t want to make any rash door-pounding phone-calling letter-writing decisions and get my ass thrown out for being a psychotic ranting nutjob.

Now the iPod thing. Backing up a bit. Anyone remember Awesome Dude Guy? The birthday monkey thing? Anyways, he’s hellof busy as usual, which is no biggie since we talk fairly often. But he’s also in a band. And on Saturday, he had a gig just a few blocks from me. So what the hell, it’s about time I see him play. I coerce Sassy Friend Talea into going with me. We get there, the place is packed, and it’s someone’s 40th birthday. Joy. Everyone knows each other and is elbowing me in the head. NOT GOOD!!! I can’t shove or be rude because he knows most of these people! (Plus, he’s super sweet and kind of makes me want to be a nicer person…I know!!! WTF?!?!?) So we don’t stay long, just long enough for him to take a break so I can actually say HI to the dude, then take off for Prailine Cheesecake and red wine and the bakery around the corner. Too much red wine = slept through Sunday Brunch with the Ladies the next day 😦

On top of that, it was FREEZING that night. How freezing? I had a can of mousse in my purse that someone at work gave to me. It exploded. In my purse. All over my stuff. Hence, my iPod being fucked. It’s better than it was…at least it plays now. I just can’t turn it off. At all.

So yeah….Murphy? Bite me.



Alright, my last post kind of left the fellers out. This one will actually do some expose type work to let them in on a few things. So here’s a bit of an intro. Myself (Awesome Friend), along with Sassy Friend, Lovely Friend and Crafty Friend all get together on a fairly regular basis to do fun girly things like knitting and needle point and making lunch for each other and entertaining Crafty Friends lovely two children. These are the ones who call me Auntie Em and are actually as close to perfect as two kids can get before it just crosses the line into creepy territory. So if you’ve ever wondered what a gaggle of cheek-pinching Aunties get up to when the boys aren’t around, you’ll see it here.

Before I jump in, one side note: I just want to remind everyone that I am in fact a pot-smoking 23 year old who head bangs to the preview of Rambo everytime it comes on because that song kicks ass (someone please tell me who it is) and not heading down the path of unshaven legs and spandex. And I don’t pinch cheeks. Also, Crafty Friend is probably one of the craziest, most awesome characters ever. She got married/pregnant/domestic around the same time I was still discovering super awesome mascara, and unlike every cliche, is still married/domestic/mommified and a general superwoman. AND she has a bazillion tattoos, including Bif Naked behind her ear. Hard to the core. And she lived in Parkdale, yo! She’ll kick your ass if you cross her! (Her quote: “Parkdale girls will just bite ya!”)

So. Let’s jump into a chronological pictogram of an average ladies-who-lunch day. (By the way, if any of the pics disappear later, it’s because I’ve given Crafty Friend veto power over what pics of her kids go up on the intarwubs because she’s also a hella computer geek and knows all the deep dark secrets of the web.)

Ladies who lunch! So exciting! Good food and wine and chattiness! But Crafty Friend had to run to the store for a minute, it’s just down the street. So me and Linds, another Most Excellent Friend are watching the kids and waiting for the others to arrive. Now the kids actually get along very nicely, share the Halloween candy, etc. However, they are still kids, and the wee one, known affectionately as Woogs, is…well, she’s something else. This girl will ninja kick you until your heart melts into a puddle of goo. Naturally, she got all of my mom-approved gummy life savers.

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And what else are you going to do with gummy life savers besides pop them on your fingers and admire them? By the way, that bruise? Nothing to do with Mommy Crafty Friend. Her nickname is Woogs, but her other nickname is Bruiser. She ninja kicks gates down, flips over chairs when pissed, and while uber adorable and sweet….well, she earns her bruises and can dish them out as well. Cute kid, but hard to the core, just like Mommy. Also, she has this thing about wanting one item of food in each hand when eating. So, neurotic, just like Auntie Em. So she gets another life saver, and then crams them both in her mouth.

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Yes. Adorable. So Mommy Crafty Friend heads out to the store for about eight minutes or so. And of course, the shit hits the fan as soon as she steps out the door because that’s just the way Murphy’s Law works. Woogs and her brother are playing (no snaps of him on this day, they’re still on my camera…but he has long hair and rocks the transformers, so you know he’s just as cool as the rest of his fam) and to make a long story short, the planets aligned in such a way that she ended up with the corner of a plastic sword right in the corner of her eye.

Oh. My. God! What do I do?!?! I’ve failed as an Auntie!!! There’s blood!!! In her EYE!!! And I’m not a mommy, so I see blood on a kid and freak! But Crafty Mom is also Super Mom and not one of those irritating shriekers that brings her kid to the emergency room for a splinter. She knows when freaking right the fuck out is or isn’t necessary. And as luck would have it, she walks in right then, sees my look of panic, laughs and says “Alright, hand her over…let’s see….you’re fine….lemme see…closer….yeah, she’ll be fine, no emergency room. You’ll have a bruise, but what else is new?” Wipe the tears, and she’s better already. Three minues later? Pushing her brother away from the computer for Gwen Stefani YouTube rights, and wriggling out of her clothes because she dislikes fabric. Black eye? Pfffffft. Tough chick.

Anyways, at this point she’s looking a little wonky, but not really because of the eye thing. It’s more because it’s well past naptime, she’s teetering around on the brink of sleep with her blankie, but refuses to leave because all the Auntie’s are over and holy shit, there is PIE on the table. There she is, on the right, demanding her GODDAMNED PIE!!!

And holy pie it was, batman! Mommy Crafty Friend is an uber domestic goddess with her cupcakes and the knitting and all kinds of fun jazz! Look!

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Do you see that?! There’s frikkin’ angels and teddy bears all over the pie! Homemade EVERYTHING. Damned lucky kids, I’ll tell you what. My childhood? Pffft, I was lucky if I got to slice the pillsbury roll of premade cookies, the ones that even have premade knife marks so you don’t make them uneven. You know how good this pie was? It was this good:

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I lub you Sassy Friend Talea! (Don’t worry, there’s a picture of me licking a plate coming up at a later date. It was pumpkin pie that time, also homemade down to the handwhipped cream. Left the camera in between the couch cushions though…)

By this time, Woogs has toddled off and crashed on the couch with her blanket. And that’s when Lovely Friend breaks out her terrible Christmas gift from her crazy mother who clearly doesn’t love her very much. Seriously. Lovely Friend is fashionable and well-put together. Lovely Friend is not the type to wear, say, a shin-length cotton-type Laura Ashley dress that resembles the grandma-plates seen above. But that’s what her mother gave her. And so we busted it out and all had a turn.

Now, the domestic thing has kind of become an inside joke. And with her awesome Transformer genius of a son, Crafty Friend has started up a new theme that I like to call Optimus Domesticus. That’s right. She puts on the Optimus Prime mask and does domestic things with her kids. I know, rockin’ mom, right? Well, all us Auntie’s have to get in on it too. So we all take turns donning the hideous housewife-from-hell dress, putting on the mask, and having our pictures taken doing deliciously domestic things.

Observe:

Auntie Linds zesting some lemon…

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Auntie Talea enjoying some wine…

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Auntie Cait (Lovely Friend) swiffering the floor in the HIDEOUS DRESS and saying “My mother doesn’t love me”:

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Auntie Em enjoying a spot of lunch and realizing that my face does not match the Optimus Prime proportions and later commenting ‘My eyes!!! My eyes!!!’:

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(I also look like I’m about to clock someone in the face. Those are some skin-splitting knuckles dudes, I’ve been cracking them since I was five. And no, they don’t always look so manly….)

Then it’s Auntie T’s turn to don the hideous dress and put the pie back in the fridge:

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Snazzy!

And then, oh yes, I put on that dress. And I loved it! It was so hideous it was fantastic!!! And apparently, I rock it quite well.

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And yes, that is Auntie Cait Lovely Friend smacking my ass. That’s about as close to girl-on-girl action as is going to happen around here. But look how lovely she looks! Trendy! The shoes! The vest! The skirt! Look at that dress, what was her mother thinking?!?! Well anyways, off I go to continue rocking the dress.

Optimus Domesticus cleans the toilet:

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Optimus Domesticus makes like a pregnant smoking chick in a bad outfit (possibly a jab at my former highschoolers but by this time, I was drunk on hilarity and really don’t remember):

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In the wood panelled basement no less!

Optimus Domesticus takes off her mask and does her best Jim Morrison pose:

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Me and Jim are tight. Too bad I straightened my hair two days before, because I can rock the curls. Also, much like Jim, I look better without a beard.

Anyways, yeah….that’s pretty much it. Wacky ladies! More pictures soon!

P.S. I know there is no pic of Crafty Friend Super Mom here. That’s because the only pic was actually a video of her wearing a different Optimus Prime mask that actually has voicechanging qualities!!!  Very exciting. But it didn’t make it off my camera. I will rectify at some point. However, the important thing here is that there are lots of pictures of me.



Alright. We’ve all had to use public washrooms on occasion. And we all know the joy of opening a stall to discover a piss fest of sprinklage all over the seat, mangled bits of toilet paper smattered here and there in some vain attempt at sterility, and some over-powdered joke of a character making that stupid face in the mirror while putting on mascara. And we all hate it.

Men, I know I’m kind of leaving you out on this one. I can’t honestly say that I’ve seen much of the inside of a men’s room other than that one time at the hockey rink when my brain just stopped working. But even then, it was empty and I only saw the sinks. However, I do believe it’s a known fact, stated somewhere at some point, that women’s washrooms are actually far more disgusting than men’s.

This may have something to do with the fact that we have to sit, but probably has more to do with the fact that we’ve been brainwashed into thinking we have to be neatly dressed, flippy haired, sweater set wearing icons of cleanliness, cutely wrinkling our noses at the idea of taking a leak while we scooch our dainty panties around our ankles to take a teeny weeny piddle.

Fuck that.

Oh my god, the germs! The germs you’ll get by actually SITTING ON THE TOILET SEAT. You’ll catch herpes, you’ll catch the plague, you’ll immediately drop dead and the television world will know that you dirtified yourself in the little girls room. (For that matter, why is it even called the little girl’s room. Really, are there that many of them in there? Are we trying to perpetuate pedophelia in our public washrooms?)

Here, do yourselves a favour. Go take a look at your ass in the mirror. Ignore the dimples and touch of cellulite, maybe a worrisome mole or two. Just take a look at it. Ever notice that you can’t really see the business aspect of everything you got going down there at first glance? Hmmm? Nope, just skin, unoffensive and Anne Geddes approved once upon a time. Really, it’s no different than the skin on your hands. Except for the fact that it remains neatly covered by presumably clean fabric for most of the day, unlike your far-more-germy-yet-still-not-lethal hands.

Now consider this: place your hands on something plastic, say a binder or clipboard or plastic water jug. Does the idea of picking up a binder after someone else has handed it over disgust you? Are you immediately going to rub your skin raw with sanitizer? If you are, you’re a basket case and responsible for the weakening of immune systems and general public sanity. Get out. For the rest of you, I would think the answer is no. So why is it so different in the ladies room? Really, the last time I checked, it wasn’t the norm to go rubbing your butthole all over the seat and handle, or doing weird vag things that should never be mentioned in a public forum. You are not going to die by sitting on the seat.

But no, we’ve been brainwashed to think that any public washroom is a filthy mire of running sores and that to touch anything will give you cooties. And okay, sure, there are a few public washrooms that are going to be a bit questionable. Stalls in any subway station or bowling alley comes to mind. But really, you wouldn’t want to even wash your hands in those places, so it doesn’t really apply here.

I’m talking about MY public washroom, the one I can see from my desk if I crane my neck a bit. In a nice office building, cleaned several times a day. This thing is a sanitation heaven. The toilets flush automatically, the taps turn on automatically, the soap dispensers squirt automatically, even that little bin for your girly bits opens on its own if you place your hand an inch above the lid and wait for approximately twenty minutes with your knickers blowing in the breeze between your ankles (said breeze likely coming from the hand dryer twenty feet away, capable of ripping your nails off).

Are you so in favour of one part of your skin over the other that you’re afraid to sit on plastic? Really? Okay, okay, fine. I know some people are ooked by it, and that I’m never going to change their minds. Fine. Put down some toilet paper and be the stereotypical chick who takes forever and a half in the can doing God knows what. (Boys, that’s what they’re doing in there.) But for Christ’s sake, don’t try to do that ridiculous squat business. Your legs haven’t been strong enough to hold that pose since you were eight and a half, and you know it. You whores are pissing all over the seats!!! And then I have to look at it!!!

I can hear you already. “But, but what if they wipe it up afterwards, and then you end up sitting on someone’s pee remains?” One: if nobody did that shit move, nobody would have that problem. Two: yes, if I accidentally sit on a drop of someone’s piss when I thought there was none there, I’m going to be pissed. Pissed enough to say, rant and blog about it. However, urine is sterile, is it not? So is it gross? Absolutely. Herpes riddled? No. So if someone pisses on the seat and then cleans it, hey, good for you for cleaning up after your own retardation. I’m plunking my ass down and taking a goddamned piss in comfort.

And for those who do the slightly less retarded routine with the toilet paper: same deal as with the piss on the seat. You want to be a jackass, fine. Just fucking clean up after yourself so I don’t have to look at it or worry about dragging a half-wet trail of grossness from my left heel, okay? Can we please give others the small courtesy of keeping your weird ass phobias to yourself?

People who worry about getting germs in the ladies room are selfish cows. They are selfish because they are willing to dirty the hell ass out of a perfectly decent room to feed their own insecurities and apparent belief that their piss is holier than mine. These people are also nutjobs, because a willingness to piss all over a seat and probably yourself due to your fear of plastic is not far off from locking yourself in your house in fear of all the murders that happen on a daily basis. Seriously? You’re going to shelter yourself that much due to the sliver of a chance that something bad is going to happen to you? Get a life.

So. In conclusion, ladies: stop pissing on my motherfucking toilet seat, you inconsiderate slutbags. People like you bring out a strong urge in me to walk up and piss on your leg. I mean, I might as well return the favour to you and you alone without having to involve innocent by-pissers, right?

Also, the one urinal buffer zone in the men’s room applies in the ladies as well. I don’t want to hear your girly tinkle or deal with the hell-ass smelly crap you seem to consider an appropriate side dish. One stall buffer ladies, get on the bandwagon.

If we all follow these rules, taking a leak will be a much more pleasant experience for us all. No longer will we live in fear of germs and thusly blow a decent lunch’s worth of money on a jug of pomegranate scented hand sanitizer. We WILL take back our designated feminine area and not have to curse those who came before us. One day, maybe in the future, we can truly claim our equality to men when we become comfortable enough to unabashedly bring the paper in with us.

Or a Cosmo. You know…whatever.



{January 4, 2008}   Mangled, Mangled, Mangled.

As I’ve mentioned several times, I’m sure, I have a lot of critters. Five bunnies, two cats, one me. I’m constantly sweeping up pellets, scooping shit, yelling at the cats to get out of the bunny cages, yelling at the bunnies to get out of the cat food, emptying dishes, running out of food, pellets, hay, pine shavings, litter, incense, febreeze, sanity. It’s a lot of work, but I love them love them love them.

One day I will, despite my initial refusal to do anything remotely fuzzy or cheery on here, post pics of all my critters with brief amusing bios and whatnot. In the meantime, a synopsis.

I have a bit of an addiction to rabbits. I started with one, got him a friend and they don’t like each other. They stay seperate. My mom had this fantastic idea last spring that I should take my little brother into the pet store to buy sand for his hermit crab. They had rabbits on sale. I tried to tell her, but no. So out I walked with sand…and another rabbit. She’s female, and my first bunny fell instantly in love with her.

I don’t keep my rabbits in tiny cages and let them out for an hour a day like the pet store led me to believe. They need much more time out and need a lot of room when in. They are HYPER. So they live in rather large dog cages where they have tons of room. They’re even (mostly) litter trained.

The instantly in-love bunnies shared a cage with a divider to keep them seperate, unfixed as they were. This divider didn’t work. Riiiiiiiiiiight, rabbits, they can defy gravity and shit. So, naturally, two months later, six baby rabbits show up one morning. Gah!!! The only problem is that most of them were very small (the mom was still practically a baby), and as expected, four of them died within a few days. Also, surprise! most vets don’t know what to do with rabbits, so the emergency vet clinic couldn’t help me. So I spent the next six weeks hemming and hawing over the two remaining babies, obsessing over their weight and development.

Story, although I realize nobody cares; Most people have cats or dogs – who are natural predators. Rabbits are at the bottom of the food chain, so when they have babies, they behave differently. They actually stay away from their young so as not to get their adult smell all over them. This prevents predators from smelling the wee ones. Babies only get fed about once a day, usually in the middle of the night. This makes it very difficult to tell if your house-bunny has fed her young ‘uns unless you stay up all night or make yourself an instant expert on rabbit behaviour.

Anyways, blah blah blah. After all the work and fear and stress it took to keep the two little ones alive, I was not about to give them up. Hence, I now have five rabbits. One of the babies is named Brutus, as he was the biggest of the litter. The other was named Fortune, as he was smaller and therefore fortunate to be alive.

This was five months ago, and the babies are just about all grown up. Brutus has turned out to be a bit whipped by his smaller brother, which is hilarious. In fact, they cannot be allowed out together. In fact, Fortune is not allowed out with any of the rabbits, and the cats learned VERY quickly to stay away.

You know how normally, if you frighten a bunny, it runs away? Yeah…Fortune doesn’t do that. So he probably would be fucked if he were out in the wilds, but inside…the fucker rules the house. Any moving object is a target for his teeny weeny two pounder razor sharp mandibles. I know this because my hand is the most common moving object, especially while feeding him. He doesn’t like rabbit pellets, it seems. He likes human flesh.

And this is how this wee rabbit came to be renamed HANNIBAL:

One removed knuckle: check

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One painful probably-should-have-gotten-stitches fleshy-crevice: check

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One fucked up hand from feeding: check

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One leg, bitten through jeans: check

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One bruised up ankle: check

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ANOTHER removed knuckle that DEFINITELY could have used stitches: check

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One nipped finger tip: check

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Yeah. Murderous….little…bastard. And you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, wouldn’t you? But no. Because I still have to feed the bastard every day, and because he’s a rabbit. That means that he’s adorable. That means that every now and then he’ll sit nice and quietly and look up with his big wet eyes, and fool me into thinking I can pet him. This explains the missing knuckle skin.

To explain in more simple terms, my rabbit is a well-disguised murderer. But sometimes, every now and then, I catch him in his true form. The equation works something like this:

Reknowned flesh-eating (but still very respectable) monster

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plus

Super adorable small fuzzy animal

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equals:

MY BUNNY HANNIBAL!!!!!!!

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Look at the crazed whites of his eyes!!! It’s a perfect combination!!! He LOOKS like a psychopath, my GOD!!!!

Evil comes in very small packages. Watch your fingers, and I will keep you up to date on my own injuries.



Yeah, yeah, my Christmas was lame and pointless, just like most years. Really, I like the pretty lights and Starbucks seasonal beverages as much as the next person, but the whole shebang just doesn’t do it for me. Plus, malls? Hello? I hate them, remember? Shopping, ugh!

However, whilst in the suburbs, sometime between the trip to the meat shop and the Old Navy (I told you, there is no such thing as only hitting two stops when out with my mother oh NO. Make the most of it, you must, and nevermind the fact that her eldest daughter doesn’t like being OUTSIDE) we ended up at a dollar store.

This was not a gigantic, candy riddled organized dollar store where one can buy dishes and food and stuff. It was certainly no Honest Ed’s (if you don’t know about Honest Ed’s, either google it or fail). It was tiny and crappy, and I found the celophane right away. Good, great, let’s go.

Now here is where my brother made an excellent discovery. Side story on my brother: he was a lame-ass kid who’s face I wanted to kick for years. Then he hit puberty, got the word ‘Peace’ tattooed on his ass (of which I have many reminders, for I’ve often made the mistake of leaving my camera unattended…) and became an alright kid to hang out with. So when he fell over laughing, I paid attention.

Has anyone ever bought incense at their local convenience store? I don’t know how it is in the rest of the world, but for some reason, every time I go buy some, the cover of every package looks like a friggin’ soft core porn.

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Seriously, ‘Jamaican Rainbow’ and ‘Aphrodisia’ and all this nonsense. It’s actually kind of fun. Because, with my plethora of critters, I go through a lot of incense in my neverending battle against the smell of zoo. So I like to wander in every other week or so and stock up. Then I get to go home and play “what kind of sex scene do I want my apartment to smell like today?” Great fun.

Well, my brother found this:

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That’s right, that says fucking PUSSY. What incense company in their right frikkin’ mind would make a scent called PUSSY!?!? Is this a language barrier thing? I don’t think so, they got ‘Aphrodesia’ pretty well on the money. And what you can’t see because my camera can’t do close-up macro work for all it’s 6.2 megapixels is the black blob in the background that is actually a CAT.

Okay, so…what? Either you think someone wants their house to smell like pussy all day, or they want their house to smell like cat all day? What the hellass? I go through incense so my house does NOT smell like cat. Or pussy for that matter.

Now, I suppose that maybe an uber-effeminate lad in, say, his college years might be attracted to this stuff to impress his fellow dorm buddies into thinking he got some. Wow, his whole place smells like pussy, he must have gotten laid. But clearly he didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t be shopping for incense in the first place, Sherlock Homo.  Men who buy incense generally don’t get laid.

Did I buy it? Of course I fucking did, are you retarded?!? I bought three packs! How could I not?! Anyways, YES I lit some up and let it waft around. It doesn’t smell like pussy, sorry to disappoint. Nor does it smell like cat, really. It smells kind of…well, incense-like, you know that general….incense sort of smell. Hmmm? Do you, Sherlock Homo?

Sorry…I’ve been watching way too many episodes of the Venture Brothers.

So, yeah. You could call it a waste of time, since it smells like neither pussy nor cat. Or you could call it the one amusing thing about my holidays that let for an awesome picture. Seriously, you allllllll know you want some of this stuff 😛



{January 2, 2008}   My Lame-Ass Christmas

Okay, you all know the drill. I don’t really like my family all that much. I mean, certain characters are pretty cool (like my grandmother who threatens to crucify children on her lawn and my Awesome Aunt), but generally speaking, I don’t do the family gettogether thing. Not my scene. I don’t like loud shindigs anyways, I have that social anxiety thing where crowds make me panic and I’m not very good at hiding my disdain for people who are acting like total douchebags (ie: everyone during the holidays).

So, here was my Christmas. My mother picked me up on the 23rd, Sunday. This was the day I dealt with that asshole doctor, who tried to tell my that Clonazepam and Lorazepam are the same medication. So I’m already pissed off. I’m also carting along one of my rabbits who may or may not be pregnant. We’re still waiting on that.

We get to the suburbs. I. HATE. THE SUBURBS. HATE THEM HATE THEM HATE THEM. If the suburbs had a face, I would stab it. But I’m here for the fucking holidays, and we still have to get back into the car after dropping off my rabbit and all the other crap at le mother’s house. My mother is a failed perfectionist and highly neurotic. I love her, but she sets me off like nobody’s business. Exibit A: the perfect Victorian Christmas tree.

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Wonderful, great, looks fantastic and the same as every other year, now I need to get to the pharmacy to fill this hard-earned prescription. She says fine, but she also needs to stop at M&M’s meat shop for snacky things. I’m vegetarian, and there’s nothing I love more about the holidays than being surrounded by dead, stuffed birds and shit. But fine, whatever.

By the way, it’s really gut-wrenching to overhear the pharmacists while you’re waiting for your prescription, especially when a barely legal young lad says something to the effect of “but I’ve never done this before!” Jesus Christ.

But, no, we’re not done after M&M’s. We end up at Old Navy of all fucking places. The entire store is a mess and the compulsive clothes-folder in me is going mental. Nobody can find anything and none of the staff care because they’re likely all there on holiday-hire and will never set foot back in that hellhole once high school starts up again. So I’m surrounded by cheap messy clothes and douchebags, AWESOME.

Now, if this were downtown, I could say ‘fuck this’ and hop on the streetcar back to my Charlie Brown christmas tree sitting on top of my fridge next to my mannequin head. (I have a legitimate reason for having a mannequin head, and a legitimate reason for naming her after my ex’s ex-wife, Sally.) But NOOOO, it’s the SUBURBS. Either you walk forty-five minutes home or you wait forty-five minutes for the bus.

Obviously, my mother and I end up fighting at some point on the 24th when I’m just about read to snap, so I decide to just medicate myself and sleep through the day. Wake up Christmas Eve, eat some cheese stuff or something, my mother wants to watch “It’s A Wonderful Life” because it’s, you know, incredibly cheerful. At least my mother’s new boyfriend is Jewish and would rather watch “8 Crazy Nights”.

Sidebar: my mothers boyfriend is five years older than me, and has the same name as the guy I’m-not-going-to-jinx-myself-by-even-using-the-word-dating. This non-dating guy is three years younger than my mother. Awwwwkward.

Whatever. Go to sleep, wake up, glorious coffee and the shredding of the paper begins.

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Clearly we appreciate the meaning of Christmas, and not just all that commercial jazz. My mothers boyfriend admits to being an absolute child, and proceeds to the kitchen to try out his new helicopter toy, which then immediately flies into the ceiling fan and crashes to the floor.

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Fun. So then my dad and stepmother and sister show up. I’m JUST getting back on speaking terms with them. Go Christmas visit!

Then we go to my aunt and uncle’s house where allllllll my cousins and relatives will be. But just the immediate ones. But we’re French-Canadian on that side, so that still means… a lot. Too much. But, of course, I have to be there, because my long lost cousin who lives in Vancouver will be there and goddammit, I HAVE TO BE IN THIS RARE PHOTO MOMENT. This is coming from the grandmother who threatens crucifiction, so naturally, I’m going. But that doesn’t mean I will like it, and it doesn’t mean that I’m not taking enough Lorazepam to turn me into a drooling, non-stabbing vegetable. I don’t have any of those pictures because I didn’t care to bring my camera. I didn’t care to do anything, really. I only went because my grandfather is not that well and I wanted to be there for him. He and I had a great conversation about how medication sucks (he’s on anti-anxiety shit too for his Parkinsons and the fact that he lives with my Grandmother). So as far as I’m concerned, I did what I went there to do, which was to spend time with him. Everyone else can go fuck themselves.

At dinner I didn’t speak because: a) I was exhausted from knitting myself into a coma to finish Grandpa’s scarf on time; b) because I didn’t have anything interesting to say (So Emerald, how are things with you? Oh great, love my job except for the retards…all of you drive me up the fucking wall, but other than that….); and c) because I was fucking stoned. Hello? That was the plan going in.

This is also why I: a) look like a zombie in all the photos; b) did not attend the post UBER cousin and relatives party; and c) escaped to the comfort of my mother’s empty house and my rabbit as soon as possible.

I ended Christmas with a drive home from my dad with all my gifts from them in the back. I opened them by myself without them around, which is just the way I like it. They were nice and thoughtful gifts, I called them to thank them, then I smoked a hell of a lot of pot and went to bed.

THE END.

Next year, sorry, but I am a grownup and I will start my own traditions, ie: spending Christmas with my friends who are like a family to me and don’t stress me the fuck out!

Highlights: my Awesome Aunt had to call me the next day to tell me that I took way too much medication. I don’t think anyone gave a thought to the ‘exhausted’ and ‘couldn’t care less about speaking to anyone’ possibilities. No, no, Emerald just took too many pills. Yeah.

Also, best gift of the year. My other grandmother got me some cat toys (awesome), a sweater (decent) and a calendar. Her calendar. Yeah, she’s a real estate agent. She wrapped up one of her calendars, complete with all her business contact info at the bottom. It features nice houses around Toronto. Except for some reason, it’s all Thornhill and Oakville. Right.

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Because we all know how much I love those suburban houses.

Merry Christmas to anyone who isn’t a douchebag!

(Oh, and before you ask about New Years, I just went to Crafty Friends house for some wine, cigarettes, knitting in of the new year, failed taxis and a bus ride. No pictures, so I won’t bother with a full post. But there are other funny things up ahead including porn references, sexy shoes, and an Optimus Prime mask. Stay tuned!)



et cetera