In Which I Contemplate, Extrapolate and Masturbate

Black Day in the Office

Henceforth to be referred to as the Den of Industriousness (Ha!). We’ve just had some new ‘improvements’ to our internet connection and technical stuff in the office that I frankly don’t understand. These ‘improvements’ to my gateway to the outside world has resulted in corporate blocking of sites such as Facebook (typical) and its ilk as well as blocking any photos that are remotely interesting.

In addition to this travesty, the connection has slowed to a sails pace. It’s almost faster for me to write letters longhand and post them now. Dealing with a slow connection, like back in the ol’ dial up days, is the equivalent of sitting in traffic. There is nowhere to go (because that whole regular paycheque thing is kinda boss), there is nothing to see (because the screen is stuck on white until it’s reached it’s intended destination), and nothing to do. Perhaps I’ll try working tomorrow.

For the Love of Orange

I don’t know exactly what it is about fruit, but I struggle to eat it. I am a champ at buying it, ace at letting it sit in the fridge for a week or two until the stench of rotting food causes me to do a full fridge purge which sends me into a tail spin of guilt for all those malnourished kids in the world who would have enjoyed that bag of apples I so callously waste on an alarmingly regular basis.

That being said, I awarded myself a gold star this afternoon when I chose the orange over the chocolate bar. Unprocessed food, for the win! And, I have to say, it was satisfying and incredibly delicious. When I have fruit that’s as tasty as it was today, I wonder at my reluctance to eat it. I have two more oranges and a bag of grapes that I will endeavour to eat before their respective use by dates.

What Is That?

Apparently, I got dressed in the dark this morning (on reflection, I think I did). And when I got to work in the morning, I noticed this:

I have no recollection of eating any blue food, nor did I use Windex this morning, so I can only surmise that it is Smurf spooge.

-Going to watch smurf porn, Anna

If You’ll Indulge Me

Urine? You’re Out!

I have a few complaints that I would like to lodge with my body today, most of which have been plaguing me for the better part of the week. The foremost of these being peeing.

I don’t drink ‘enough’ water*. ‘Enough’ being the required 8 cups as recommended by water experts the world over. There are a few reasons (none of them good) for my lack of water drinking, one of them being frequent bathroom visits that are just really, really inconvenient. I’ve found that the more water I drink, the more I have to pee. Makes sense, right? Volume in equals volume out. What doesn’t make sense to me is the intensity and immediacy of need to pass water (as my grandmother would say). Excess water pees (or EWP) are sneaky, sadistic pees that will demand attention the minute they make themselves known, and I’ll go from not needing the loo to going to burst in roughly 12 seconds.

What I am finding unsettling for the last couple of days is that my number of bathroom visits has increased by quite a few more trips per day. But get this…My fluid intake has not been increased. What the eff, bladder, what the eff? Perhaps I am sleep drinking, like I sometimes do with chocolate, drinking litres of water while I am comatose. Very interesting. I will have to investigate this phenomenon.**

Crickles and the Back Spasm

I think that will be my new band name, if I ever start a band. Mmm, maybe RockBand name would be more accurate as my musical (dis)ability should only be forced on those that love me and not the public at large. My back has been aching for the better part of the week. Mostly in between my shoulder blades and, well, it’s just uncomfortable.

I suspect it has something to do with ‘Iron Hands’ Hug giving me a back rub over the weekend, during which he attempted to crush my breasts into the floor. I think that he’s had more experience massaging men, than women, so I’ll forgive him this time. But, honestly, if I had implants, I think they would have burst their saline seams.

The crickles are another (probably) after effect of the massage treatment. That or osteoporosis, but being an eternal optimist (HA!), I choose the back rub, ‘cause having brittle bones sucks hairy balls. The crickles aren’t too bad, actually. They just surprise when, for instance, I sit down heavily and feel that pop in my spine, which isn’t un-satisfying as such.

Kitchen Wonders

A couple of years ago, when I was a stay at home girlfriend, I was really, really bored and thought that I would try my hand at making pasta because I was hearing everywhere that it was SO!EASY! Despite my limited kitchen supplies, one crisp day when I was energised by possibilities, I made pasta. Or rather, tried to. Making the dough was pretty easy, if messy, but I ran into problems with the rolling. What I lacked in rolling pins, I more than made up in wine bottles and figured that a clean skin should do the job just fine (Resourceful!)! Except that I was afraid of pressing too hard on the bottle, in case it should shatter and turn a pasta experiment into a pasta nightmare***. So I rolled, and rolled (and rolled) for about an hour until I estimated that it was thin enough, cut it into strips and boiled it. Verdict: Pasta FAIL! It was so thick and doughy and chewy and weird that I wasn’t really interested in ever attempting homemade pasta again.

Until Sunday. I bought a pasta roller a million years ago, before I went traipsing around the world, and it's been with the mothership for roughly 5 years until I moved to Vancouver and the minx packed it in my belongings. Since then, it’s been sitting in the back of my cupboard, ever neglected and unused.

It was a joint effort between Hodge and myself, and after one false start, we made fresh, homemade linguini (or whatever). You know what? It was SO! EASY! I can’t wait to make it again, it was so delicious and EASY!

In fact, I shall bid you adieu and try again.

-Anna

*Just doing my part to save the world again!

**I have just foolishly googled urination, and there are 36 - 148 causes for frequent urination, up to and including diabetes and cancer. Fun.

***Blood in lieu of tomato sauce. How macabre and dinner of terror like! PS. Don’t drink the red wine!

The Long Overdue...

ed note: I wrote this at work last week and didn't post it, due to requisite 'marination' time. However I took a super long weekend to recover from my two day work week, and, as much as I continue sharing the minutiae of my life with you, I was NOT going to pop into the office to post this. Here's to more responsible posting in the future.

Jolly Old England:

I loved London. There were the nasty bits, of course, that I didn’t appreciate – the crowds, the huge chunks of time that were spent in commute, the early closing of pubs – but overall, I really enjoyed myself. Certainly much more than the guy that was trying to fish his supa drunk girlfriend out of the gutter she’d passed out in on Friday night.* I bet that was a rough Saturday!

It helped that we were really central and everything was so accessible, if not walkable. I didn’t walk nearly as much as I do in Vancouver, which contributed to the roughly 12 kilos that somehow attached themselves to my midsection during the trip.

I have to gush about Hodge’s family, too. They were so lovely and welcoming (even if I was called by his ex-girlfriends name on more than one occasion [which would be three: cringe]) and generous with their time and space. They really made the trip incredible for me and I hope to return the favour when they’re in Vancouver next.

Re-Affirmations:

I don’t like talking in the morning. Or noise. I’m just not interested in chatting until I have drunk my requisite morning coffee(s) and I take offense to those who try and pull me into pre 10 am conversation. Some may say that I am cranky, I say, I’m simply accepting of my limitations.

I don’t enjoy mass transit. In theory, it works, much like communism, but in practice, it’s bound to fail (in my eyes). Also, public transportation in a new city causes so much anxiety, that I fail to see any of the merits of using the systems (like lower carbon emissions, cheaper [usually] than other modes of transport, faster [sometimes]) and I’ll have a panic attack and call a cab. Irresponsible? Definitely, but rest assured that my guilt and I have a terse discussion before, during and after the trip. Xanax, anyone?

I find it exceedingly difficult to sleep on airplanes. And, as an addendum, I burn with bitter resentment at those who do. If you are one of those people, like my mom and my boyfriend, then I am truly sorry, but we can’t be friends. In fact, if you could send me a lock of your hair, I will begin construction on your very own voodoo doll. Lucky you!!

Big, Big T*ttays

I have a love/hate relationship with shopping. I typically enjoy shopping for tops over pants, because, let’s face it, there isn’t anything that can destroy your self-esteem more than having to try on a larger size pant because your thighs are too big for the skinny jeans. Or having the outfit that you’ve envisioned for months dashed because it just looks … wrong on you, due to the unsightly bulges, tightness or sacklike nature of the item on your figure, etc ad nauseum.

Saying that, I was really looking forward to shopping in the UK because the media, at least, seems to be obsessed with ‘larger’ women and turning the screws of shopping outlets to stock larger sizes and have ‘realistic’ shaped mannequins on display in lieu of the size zero models designed to crush your spirit. I assumed that there would be shirts and pants to fit around my generous bust and hips.

I did find a shirt that I loved. Like, really loved. It fit really well, nicely swaddling my hips in creamy linen, flattering at the waist, but so tight in the bust that I feared I would bust open the seams if I breathed too deeply (read: at all). That, and they were squished together and propped up just south of my chin in a manner that was wholly unflattering and not particularly comfortable.

I know this seems counter-intuitive to mainstream society these days, but I would really, really appreciate smaller breasts. I find it really unfair that my boobs are an extra large while my waist is a medium. Not cool, genes, not cool at all (I’m looking at you, mother).

Tourist Time in LonDon

1. A bus tour of London. I went on a Friday afternoon with Hodge and his sister, Podge. We stopped over to get a live tour guide on the bus, and had to wait a bit, with much confusion over which bus we would be using. While the perspective was nice, getting to look around and up without feeling like an enormous tool in the crowds, the traffic was really bad and it took us two hours to navigate from Hyde Park to the London Eye (which I opted not to do – the Eye that is, the traffic I was stuck with). Our tour guide, Chris, was a relatively old guy, who seemed to be more interested in pointing out the pubs than the sights (in anticipation of a foamy drink post work?), and was slightly less than charming. Overall, I scored them a 4/10.

2. The London Dungeons. Also on a Friday afternoon. It was good fun, actually. They have actors that lead the tours around (you can’t proceed without them), and all of the parts are really well thought out and executed (HA!). The only criticism that I have of this trap is the waiting. There was a lot of standing, shuffling, rocking and waiting for the next part to proceed. If you’ve got good, supportive shoes, I heartily recommend a visit to the dungeons. They got a score of 8.5/10.

3. The Tower of London. We arrived just in time for a tour from one of the Beef Eaters, who happened to be one of the most charming people that I encountered in the UK, the family of Hodge and Podge excluded. A tip of the hat to you, sir, way to make history fun**! I didn’t check out all that there is to see in the tower, because it’s huge! I imagine that it would take a full day or two to really discover all that this place has to offer, and I have a limit on how much sight seeing I can do in a day. I would urge a visit to the vault to check out the 532 carat diamond that is in there, just because it is so ridiculous and covetous! The Tower scores 8.5/10.

Until the next, Anna

*true story...gutter troll!

*Nerd! Erm, that would be me, not him. He was lovely!