What I Did Over My Summer Holidays - A recap of the last neglected weeks

No.More.Industry.

The last few hours of being shackled to my desk was such an exercise in patience. Pure and utter misery, leading to boredom tears and sighs of frustration. Like any other day, really.

Unofficially, Fridays are half days. Officially, we’re on call, but conveniently out of mobile range. However, my boss’ boss is in town, (for one whole miserable, terrible, angsty month) so we have to do the whole 8 – 5 thing and work, or pretend to work to justify our paycheques. This includes staying until 4pm on a long weekend Friday. This is nothing short of torture.

Today, my timesheet, if I had to record a daily timesheet, would look like this:

25 minutes preparing coffees, teas and opening cans of drink

90 minutes eating verrrry sloooowly. No one bothers you when they think you’re eating lunch

30 minutes on ‘business related industriousness’

45 minutes talking to boss about weekend plans

30 minutes hiding out in the ladies, attempting to pull back from the brink of frustration based hysteria

This means that I spent a hell of a lot of minutes G

oogling shit. And that loses it’s charm after the 325^th minute.

A recap

To potentially make up for the entirely unreasonable length of time since posting (I have located the source of fault to be the laptop. I don’t like the Mac version of word. Word.) I would like to present the following offering:

I went camping for the first time in 2+ years a few w

eekends ago. Only one of the five of us that went is a regular camper and he’s a bit of a princess, so I made fun of him and his 48 cubic metres of camping accoutrement until 12.32am the first night. That was when the heavens opened and I fell deeply in love with his kitchen tent.

The rest of the weekend reads: rain, rain, no sleep, rain, walk on the beach of death, rain, rain, no sleep, gunfire at 3am, rain, pack up, wait dejectedly for the ferry, collapse into bed, discover slug in the car, weep.

Notable moments include: Hodge getting soap on his contact lenses in an improbable and unlikely fashion, discovering that he didn’t pack his glasses and ferociously rinsing said contact lenses until he could get at least one in. This resulted in zero depth perception, which led to a fractured finger. For Realz.

I suffered a second degree burn on my finger as a result of my own stupidity involving a cigarette and a card game. Too zealous? Perhaps.

After two weeks of healing!

Sleeping (rather – not sleeping but laying awake listening for gunshots – to scare the bears away, I shit you not) in a tent designed for infants and not two adults as the label says, with a man who smelled pretty badly. I don’t know what it is about men and camping and the utter refusal to bathe. Next time, if there is a next time, I am sleeping in the car.

Walking on the beach of death. The only living beings on it were ourselves, the dogs and the carrion eaters that threatened to fly off with the miniature dachshund. Not so miraculous, Miracle Beach.

I did a City Chase last weekend. We didn’t finish, but we came close. Next year, that bitch is ours!

We are not great route planners, but what we lacked in foresight, we totally made up with misdirection and enthusiam.

Luch, my beloved mental doppelganger, is 8’10” and has a rather long gait, if you can imagine. Those long legs required his teammate, Hodge, to trot a bit to keep up with him. Seeing Hodge running, Rob would start to jog and then they would be stirring up the dust and leaving Pumpkin and I, in a murderous rage, in their wake. I did manage to jog quite a bit of it, but the effort left me with several stitches and shin splints.

Aside from broken bodies and not finishing, we loved it and can’t wait to punish ourselves next year. We have vowed to finish this time. Also, beer has never tasted so good as after a full day of running and doing odd tasks in the sun.

In other news

My alley, usually home to urination and suspiciously-like-human excrement, was witness to slurpee vomits today. So was I, in an aural sense. Fortunately I didn’t see it, rather heard it (and assumed that it was water being poured out until I looked up and saw a young man doubled over holding his half empty cup). It was enough to make me queasy, but not enough to dry heave, so…WIN! It was a red slurpee, in case you were wondering, so somewhat-but-not-really like the excorcist. The young man then washes his mouth out with slurpee and, presumably, carried on with his day.

Since I can’t really leave you on red vomit stories, I am taking another cooking class at the Dirty Apron. It is cocktails and canapés, and I intend on getting really, really, unreasonably legless and stay in bed all day Sunday.

Chin-chin, Anna xo

Here and Back Again

What is that I hear you* ask?

'Where the eff have I been??' Here and there and nowhere in particular.

Life is good at the moment, and when things are good, it would seem that I have nothing at all to say. So, to summarize, Good Life = Boring. And even I don't care to read about the ordinary days of myself, so I have refrained from posting.

Or, perhaps, I'm simply uninspired. I set this ridiculous goal for myself and even wrote it down, on actual paper with an actual pen, and though it's niggling in the back of my mind, I have managed to successfully ignore it. That goal being to write a little bit, every day, up to and including this here blog, which has been sorely neglected.

So, now that I've started wiping out the cobwebs of this journal/diary/log/whatever, I have to run. I've started rowing classes, you see, and I don't want to be late.

See you back here soon!

-A

*You, of course, being the extremely interested and slightly nosy internet

In Which I Sleep and Wonder About Dog

Sleep of the innocent?

I am a very deep sleeper. Once I am out, there isn’t much in this world that will wake me. Storms, parties, snoring (lucky for all those boyfriends present and past). It is a fear of mine that Ed Mundy will somehow find his way into my apartment and murder me in my sleep. Silver lining of that scenario*: I’ll never know since there isn’t much, aside from a bomb (not sure as this one is currently untested), that will rouse me from my slumber.

*uhhh, is there ever a silver lining to a homicide?

Hodge suggested that I try a sleep cycle alarm clock, and wouldn’t you know…there’s an app for that.

I downloaded it last night onto my iPhone and slept with it under my pillow, in spite of the warnings to not do that….but, I remain a rebel at heart and rules be damned – take that phone, you're not the boss of me! The idea behind the clock is that it monitors your sleep by movement, since we all (that is, you and I, internet) move differently at different phases of sleep, and purports to wake you up when you’re the least asleep so you’ll be more refreshed. Sounds good right?

I still woke up like a bag of ass this morning. It was rough and much the same as most mornings. Punishment for having slept on the phone despite manufacturers warnings?

No, this is the reason:



I have two issues with this situation:

1. That I was, in essence, in a coma for most of the night.

2. That this app provides daily (ahem, nightly) statistics so you can monitor your sleep. This in itself is not a problem, because I’m sure the designers of this wanted to prove that we were getting our $0.99 worth from the alarm clock, and super geeks can totally compare and contrast each others sleep patterns in the night**. The problem that I have, and I realise that this is specific to me and me alone, is that it’s so disheartening to know that I will wake up groggy for the rest of my working days.

**Dating compatibility by sleep cycles?? Next new thing? Yes? No?

And yet another that offends:

I did a career ‘test’ a couple of days ago and it’s still irritating me. My results were that I was an organiser and that my ideal profession was being an administrator/accountant/boring. Whaaat?

When I was in junior high school, my classmates and I all had to take one of these tests and it was meant to give you an idea of what you were meant to studying toward. It was pretty exciting, mainly because we were excused from an afternoon of regular classes and anything that I got out of regular classes for seemed illicit and exciting and dangerous.

That was true right up to the moment I got the results back… Holy mother of Sean! My would-be professional goal in life, my ideal career, the job that would make me the happiest: Director of a summer bible camp. Seriously. I couldn’t make that up, my imagination stretches only so far.

There were many things inherently wrong with this career path, the most obvious being that I did not attend any church, and I was moderately aware that I was well on my way to being a slightly agnostic, mostly atheistic person that is highly critical of any organised religion.

The second being that I was never baptised into any faith, because my mother had a fight with the pastor/minster/whoever was in charge of doling out G-D and walked out, tiny me in arms, before I could be baptised and surely no bible camp worth it’s salt would let someone doomed to purgatory*** run a bible camp.

There are many more reasons, that in the name of tact, I have decided to omit from this pious b-log.

The point, which has gotten away from me, is that these career tests can be so limiting. I’m still faced with the same dilemma at 29 as I was at 13: I don’t know what to do with my life. Or rather, I haven’t been able to find a job that will pay me to sleep, read and eat yet, but I’m looking. I’m in love with possibilities and think that most things (astrophysics, neurosurgery and dentistry excluded) can be attempted and attained by anyone, should they desire only to try.

***Though I am confident now that there have been reservations made in my name in all the circles of hell. It’s how I roll.

-Bedfordshire bound Anna

Where I Accidentally Share Too Much With Everybody (Including You!)

In Which I am Utterly Alone

All of my colleagues have flown the coop that we typically call the office*. They’ve gone to drink beer and champagne in other (warmer) parts of the world, leaving me to languish here, alone, bored and disinterested in anything that even remotely resembles work. As such, I have seemingly exhausted my usual supply of interesting internet fodder and decided to write to you, fine internet.

*Collectively, it’s called the office, I generally refer to it as ‘that place’.

This is the point where I curl up and die, right?

Sooo, last night Hug came by bearing a borrowed plate and some news.

The Plate:

Randomly, and quite charmingly, he returned my plate with a box of crème brulee mix and a tube of garlic bread crumbs. Crème brulee I get, because, honestly, who doesn’t like being the recipient of boxed tasty goodness**? That was a really sweet gesture. But, bread crumbs? In a lifetime of strange gifts, garlic breadcrumbs take top (odd) spot.

I gave him a look that was meant to impart, ‘thank you, but what the fuck’? He said, well, I know you like cooking with bread crumbs. Err, I admit to having a conversation with your friend about bread crumbs, but I have never, ever cooked anything with bread crumbs. But, thank you for the very sweet, if bizarre, gesture.

The News (or Oh Sweet Jesus, take me now):

Hug is moving next month into another apartment in our building and the layout of his apartment is exactly the same as mine, just two floors up. Naturally, in preparation for doing a serious purge of A-Lot*** of stuff he asked if he could take a look around mine to get a feel for space.

In a move that I hadn’t anticipated, though on reflection makes sense for a gay man (priorities!), he headed straight for my bedroom. As soon as he was at the door, I realised that it was a mess; there was a mountain of clothes rivalling Mt Kilimanjaro in size, bras hanging off lamps, a layer of dust covering my chest of drawers. .

I did what any person would do and beelined it to the bedroom, attempted to sneakily remove undergarments from light fixtures while pushing mounds of dirty clothes under the bed. Until… I noticed the industrial sized box of condoms beside my bed with a bottle of lube on the window sill. Oh man! I tried to usher him out without being too obvious and even shut the lights off while he was still in there (subtlety, thy name is Anna) – perhaps to distract him with my strange behaviour so he wouldn’t notice the Costco amounts of sex I’ve been having.

He didn’t mention it, nor did I. I hope in five years or so, we can share a belly laugh about that awkwardness. Or not.

**upon reading the packet, I think I have been gifted a white elephant. It takes milk AND cream AND time to prepare it. Please note: next time, bring wine.

***Hug is an amateur hoarder. He currently owns no less than four coffee makers, various once used kitchen gadgets and tons of food. It will be great for when the apocalypse comes, but not so much for moving this month.

Til later, internet. In the meantime, I'll be flaunting my sexual life in front of all of my celibate friends! Yay!

-Anna

In Which I Win, Lose and Commit a Crime

Win! Or was that Lose?

If I were a man, my behaviour towards my apartment would be easier to reconcile as I have limited furniture and stuff in general, my walls are bare and I haven’t washed the floors in three months. In short, I live like a male college nerd, minus the nudie posters in the bathroom.

However, the times, they are a-changing.

You are reading from the blog of a soon to be owner of a couch. After 9 months of living solo (plus 3 months with my last housemate) I have decided to do something out of character and get some sort of seating that is not the queen size inflatable mattress in the middle of my living room floor.

To do it in my own awkward and slightly irreverent way, I have got a couch from a friend of a friend*, who I have yet to meet, and am buying his sofa, that I have yet to see. I’m putting all my faith in Jez that he’s not misspent my $350.

Also - I, on a whim, bid on a couple of paintings at a gallery on Saturday. I won!! Huzzah. They’re super cute and (me thinks / me thought) a bargain at $170 for the pair. Until I went online and found them for $75 each of 3 for $200, so that kind of sucks. (I got gub and neutron…gub is my favourite)

*This might turn out to be an urban legend couch…it happened to a friend of a friend of mine … true story!

Panic in the Laundromat

Confession: I am a lazy laundress. I don’t like the communal laundry room in my apartment building (2 washers & 2 dryers for 40 units!) because, frankly, I am a lazy, lazy person and I don’t enjoy scheduling a night to do my laundry. I would much rather toss in a load before work, forget about it for 2 days, then have to re-wash 4 times to get the smell of mildew out of my t-shirts.

BUT

It became necessary for me to do my laundry since I *almost* had to resort to the bathing suit bottoms for lack of clean drawers. Erm…almost.

I’ve worked out a system to minimise the cost of laundry day ($2 wash, $2 dry) and maximise the efficiency by staggering loads and using the dryer once for two washes. (Summary 2 wash = 1 dry). I just have to time it right, and since my preferred dryer runs for a looong time, I rarely have any issues.**

Last night, though, someone fucked with the system. And if I ever find out who it was, we will have a discussion about laundry etiquette before I mash his face into dirty underwear whilst making him wash his mouth with liquid laundry detergent.

I went down to do the swap, only to find my dryer usurped by a load of mans clothes. He stole my dryer, and by extension, my money. I found my clothes sitting in a slightly damp heap on top of the dryer.

I contemplated putting food dye or a couple of damp tissues in to teach him a lesson, but dismissed it as silly (I wouldn’t want to permanently damage my favourite dryer), so I turned the machine off. Put my second load into the vacant (!) dryer and gave the world the finger, with a message to pass it on the thieving asshole.

I had a slight attack of the guilts when I picked up my last load, so I turned his machine back on. Which gave me a thrill because he’ll wonder forever about that dryer and it’s lack of drying ability, hopefully leaving me and my damp clothes to a clean and happy (and dry) future.

** How OCD was that paragraph??

I dare say Old Cock:

On my walk to work this morning, I saw a real live, honest to Jiminy deerstalker!! I imagine that the man who was wearing this lovely hat is an English gentleman, as a Canadian man only actually stalks deer, in camo apparel lined with day-glo orange.

Swagger Like John Wayne:

A friend invited me to take a yoga class with her on Saturday, and because it’d been approximately 42 years since I’d done any exercise, I decided to go. Ohmygad, two days on and I’m still sore. I’ve been broken by Hatha.

During one part the instructor had us do this move: Squat and place our hands on the inside of our feet, so both the feet and the palms were flat on the floor. In this position, we were supposed to take a turn around the studio, because the Taoists think that doing this ungainly walk for 10 minutes a day is the key to perfect health***. I did a small circle, realising with alarm that I would most certainly be the last person to complete the circuit, so I did a teeny circle and went back to my mat (hoping that I did a passable job of faking it). The whole thing was (a) far too reminiscent of school gym classes (where I tried to fake it but always got caught), and (b) not very yogi at all of me, but I can honestly say that this girl doesn’t care.

***Google let me down on that, too. Suspect that she made the whole thing up, sadistic bitch.

-Anna

Kitchenland Nightmares

I am, for the most part, completely useless in the kitchen.

Last week, I attempted a vegetarian stroganoff with tofu, and it was hideous. Disgusting, even. To be fair (to me) the recipes were ‘healthy’, which stroganoff isn’t, so much. So, what I created wasn’t really stroganoff, but it wasn’t really edible, either. Instead, it was a congealed mass of egg noodles, low fat yogurt and tofu with spices.

Again, to be fair (to me), it was the day of the flaming, intolerable tooth pain and, potentially, I suppose, could have coloured the dining experience. In any case, that recipe has been exiled to the never, ever again pile.

One area where I do tend to be proficient in the kitchen, however unlikely that might be, is baking things. I can usually turn out a decent cake or batch of cookies.

I typed a really self-righteous post glorifying my baking skills over the weekend, while I had a cake baking, and it turns out that it was slightly premature. The cake in question, a moist yellow cake, was fucking atrocious. Not due to the recipe, but the supposed baker.

Steps to baking fail:

1.Not having a mixer, stand or otherwise, of the electric variety, I had to use my body as such

2.Being lazy and not being bothered about actually spending 70 minutes creaming the butter and sugar

3.Not understanding the significance of having the rack in the right spot in the oven

4.Using the timer on the stove to time the baking properly.

The recipe called to cool the cake in the pan for 10 minutes, then wrap it in cling film for the rest of the cooling time. Trying to wrap a still very warm and very crumbly cake is an impossible feat, as I found out. This is he area where I excelled: throwing mostly inedible cake all over the kitchen during cling film wrapping theatrics.

After giving a slice to my neighbor, the new official taster, we determined that the cake was really, really unusable and that I should, perhaps, destroy what was left of it. So I did, but with a tear in my eye, from the concrete-like shards that pierced my skin as it shattered in the bin.

This left the dilemma of needing to make another of the super moist (ha!) yellow cake for the birthday Hodge for tomorrow (now today - lazy posting).

I would like to state, for posterity, that creaming butter and sugar with a dinner fork is a wonderful way to ruin perfectly good shoulders. And fore arms. And wrists. But, it is done. I baked a perfectly edible cake that is very, very moist, though still quite crumbly - which seems unlikely, but is true none the less. And it is delicious, particularly when paired with the chocolate cake that turned out perfectly (the first time)!

However, because there certainly wasn’t enough cake failure in my recent past, I had to do a quick cover up when Hodge stopped by unexpectedly. The tea towel disguise bonded to the cake and they stuck together like glue. Only a minor disaster this time, and I’m still using the cake, cloth fibers be damned.

Beating well after each addition, AM

Lofty Goals

I had a dream last night that I won an award (from the Ace of Cakes crew) for this blog.

The prize?

A book about Venezuela, signed by…me! (seriously! Also, what a random prize for my subconcious to award, well, anyone.)

WIN!!

-AM

Mouth Rape – warning…some graphic content involved:

To preface, I don’t mind going to the dentist, as such, but I loathe the lectures about proper dental hygiene from the 14 year old hygenists. They are the sole reason for my irregular visits to have my mouth checked and teeth cleaned, and by extension, my bad teeth. How’s that for the North American-style passing of the buck?

I had a dental appointment yesterday since I’d had a toothache (haha – liquid, dripping pain) the night before, brought on by a wonderful loaf of French bread and cheese. Which is pretty sad itself since I'll be associating intense pain with french bread and smoked cheese for a time, I'm sure. I told the dentist this (not about regretting that it was bread and cheese, just the facts) and he came up with:

MY OPTIONS:

- remove the tooth (the very last one)
- root canal with a crown and post

PROFESSIONAL RECOMMENDATION:

- remove the offending tooth

I have been a bit bewildered for the last 24 hours, solely due to the quick decision (approximately 18 seconds) I had to make regarding its status in my mouth. Upon reflection, I know that I would have removed it in any case, because it’s apparently a ‘useless’ tooth – with a cavity, and no lower tooth to keep it in place* - but I can’t help but feel a teensy bit bullied into having it out. I made the call, but trying to decide if you should keep your damaged tooth with an expectant dentist and his assistant waiting for your answer with their heads cocked and syringes of novocaine in hand is unnerving.

Is this weird? They asked if I wanted to see the x-ray. Of course, I'll finally get to see the result of wearing a lead apron. They asked if I wanted to see the tooth. I hesitated, but in the end, how could I not. Then they asked if I wanted to keep it. Uh, no, but...thanks?

Later that evening:

I was watching tv, eating room temperature tomato soup that was so not satisfying, when KB called, which began the flow of blood that would not stop. I looked like a cage fighter, bloodied mouth and all, which was pretty cool, but on the second hour of bleeding, I had some genuine concern that I would bleed to death, alone, in my apartment and no one would find me until the scent of decay alerted passerby that something was wrong…

I'm fairly alarmed about having teeth removed with no intention of having fakes put in. In my case, there would be no point, but how fucking hill-billy is that? I might have to start eating road kill and marry my brother if they find me out. Fingers crossed that those wisdom teeth will come in soon.

It’s fine now (but I managed to get mouth blood all over my cream sheets, so that’s annoying), I did come into the office today, but am planning on taking the afternoon off because all my good drugs are gone. And that is as good an excuse to watch a movie as anything, no?

* I had the lower one removed years ago from a tragic pillow fight incident.**

**haha, not really

Further cementing the notion that this just ain’t my week:

I find it impossible to peruse a grocery store in an orderly fashion. I will walk kilometres in grocery stores, even if I have a list, because that’s how I roll. Inevitably, I spend a lot more time shopping for groceries than I would like to, but, there you have it…I just can’t shop any other way.

During one of these trips earlier in the week, I managed to slip (it was more of a skid and slip) in the produce section. It was about as graceful and comedic as a slip can be, I have no broken bones and I didn’t even spill the milk or break the eggs. But, worse than that, I had a witness…gah…a witness that I see regularly. The shame, the shame!

It was so slippery, I thought I must have stepped into an oil slick or puddle of greasy water, and I was so very surprised to find that it was a spinach leaf that tripped me up. A fucking spinach leaf. I was completely undone by a speck of green on the lino.

The highlights of this unfortunate incident:

The very concerned, very masculine Olga that asked me in a deep, gravelly, breathless voice if I was ok. (I was)

The look of shock on Hodge’s face when he realised that I was not where he expected me to be, rather on the floor in a yoga-esque position, 3 paces behind him.

And the confused expression on both Hodge and Olga’s faces when they searched for the giant puddle of cooking oil that was my undoing. ‘Ummm…there’s a bit of green there…?’

Oh…remember the dream.

-remember to floss twice a day, A

The Thrill of the Zipper

The Mumbler has a business trip. He’s leaving shortly, or so he promises. I’ve heard all of his zippers being zipped, unzipped, re-zipped, ad infinitum. Every time I hear the zip on one of his many bags, I am buoyed, but am deflated again when I realise that he is still at his desk, on the phone or elsewhere inside the hallowed walls of this office. He’s only going to be gone for one day, but it will be the sweetest day in this new year of this new decade.

Tomorrow, I will be spared of his presence in the office, specifically my office (coffee mug in hand, signalling to me that he intends to be stay awhile, even as my heart sinks [and my fists ball up into impotent white stumps]).

I will be spared of his incomprehensible and utterly devoid of humour anecdotes, which only reinforce his standing as king of the asshats. He can grin until his face paralyzes and becomes gangrenous, every word-like utterance that passes his thin, lizard lips hardens my intense dislike of his mumbling ways.

I will be spared expending valuable emotional energy attempting to translate what has come out of his mouth into actual human words from the dialect of a yet-to-be discovered animal hidden deep in the wilds of Borneo.

I will also be spared his need of conversational reciprocation, which (this does not make me proud, but is an essential coping mechanism that I cling to) has descended from actual sentences to yes, no, a simple grunt or furious wag of the head.*

I will be spared the stupid questions/requests (which take approximately twenty three minutes to translate and understand what exactly it is he is after, leaving him thinking that it is, in fact, me that is the moron, when it so clearly is him and his inability to form words. With his mouth. Like normal people.) that he so generously heaps onto my desk without a second thought, because he is very busy and important being busy and important.

I will be spared of hearing his travel itinerary for the next 8 weeks in all of their ever changing glory, due to his being very busy and important. I honestly do not care wether he has a six or eight hour layover in small-town-wherever (for the squillionth itinerary change), except that it means that he will not be here, tormenting me with his incomprehensible gibberish.

I will be spared of my intentional bad behaviour. Talking with my back to someone, texting, taking personal phone calls and making white knuckled fists of rage are not things that I usually do while conversing**. However, his lack of ability to read body language is nearly as sharp as his speaking ability, forcing my hand and requiring me to be increasingly drastic in my non-verbal cues. Short of me telling him (in no uncertain terms) to Fuck Off, I don’t know what more I can do to demonstrate that I do not wish to speak to him.

I will be spared his speakerphone which he insists on using at full volume. I don’t wish to hear the following conversation tomorrow, or ever again, for that matter (despite the effort to create privacy [?] by closing his office door):

Mumbler: Klefg Mmnomi!
translation: Hi Sexy!

Wife of Mumbler: Hi Tiger, what’s going on?

M: Prrrulg mennil ckronck druulger?
translation: what are you wearing?

WoM: ::giggling:: Nothing at all. Just waiting for you to come home.

M: …***

Instead, I will depart from my home tomorrow morning, feeling refreshed and light as a feather with a skip in my step, basking in the knowledge that I will have a quiet, peaceful day. I would rather be alone, worrying about serial killers or random acts of violence than share this office with him while wondering, ‘who hired this guy?’ I will not have to keep my office door shut, pretend to be listing to my ipod or on the phone and making many, many trips out doors to get some relief. I will be able to work at my leisure without the crippling fear and loathing that he will invade my sacred space for a ‘chat’.

Yes, I will love and cherish tomorrow with all of my being. I will marry tomorrow and carry its children. Tomorrow and I will be very happy together.****

From the very depths of a hopeful hell,

Anna

*I will need to abandon the head wagging as this seems to encourage him into prolonged interaction. This flies in the face of an action which is actually very similar to a shaking of the head, as in ‘no’; as in, ‘no, don’t talk to me, king asshat’

**Erm, except as evidenced by this post.

***I confess that I don’t know how the end of these “conversations” go. I make myself pretty fucking scarce (usually wretching in the toilets) because I don’t wish to actually have to fill the prescription for anti psychotics.

**** Until Friday, when he will clumsily destroy my carefully constructed fantasy of an office space filled with clear, crisp annunciation, and non retarded type folk.

Twenty Tenner...Over and Out.

Happy New Year, Internet! And happy new decade, as some jackass replied with earlier this week. Uh...right.

There’s been so much happening with me lately. The holidays were so nice…two weeks of sleeping late, drinking consistently more than my liver would like and catching up with family and friends, though maybe too much of the former and not nearly enough of the latter.

One of my distressing experiences: I broke up with KB. Because I am a bitch. And apparently, I think that Christmas is an excellent time to end a relationship, particularly when the other person is spending the holidays with your family.

I did talk with him about the break up before Christmas so that if he didn’t want to come he could make different arrangements. But come he did, and I confess that it was really nice to see him: in spite of the split, I do care very much for him and enjoy his company. We had made plans to go to San Franciso for new year, but I didn’t think that it was really appropriate for me to go, considering everything, so I flew back to Vancouver and he carried on to America.

Yeah, so that’s…fun…

Onto better things:

I went to Mt. Baker in Washington the weekend before going on holiday. It was mother fucking amazing…and that’s pretty amazing!! It’s inexpensive, it’s pretty quiet, it’s got a glacier to stare at while running small children over. What’s not to lurve??

Oh…right…this: Torrential rain on the second day. Sideways rain by the bucket. Ugh.

Injuries incurred since my (not so) triumphant return to VanCity:

Thlippery Thlope:

What: Tongue incident
When: Sunday last
Where: Mt. Seymour tubing hill, second bump from the bottom
Why: Because I was giggling (read: squealing) like a school child zipping down the hill with my mouth wide open and hit the bump, which caused me to hit my chin on the tube, which caused me to bite my tongue since it was caught in between top and bottom jaw. It’s still bloody swollen and I have been talking with a slight lisp since.

I might keep the lisp.

Mystery skin gouging:

The middle finger of my right hand, which I use all of the time to flip people off due to my bad assness, has a big divot taken out of it. I don’t know when or where it happened. All I know is the stinging, stinging sensation when I was applying moisturiser after a shower. It’s too deep to be a paper cut, but too shallow to be a knife wound. And I like to thing that I’m switched on enough to realise when I’ve been cut with a knife. Or perhaps not.

Moral: Take me out back and shoot me, I am done.

My new fucking haircut:

I’ve been watching MTV’s Jersey Shore…and I love, love, love it. Love it! This show is a total trainwreck, filled with incredibly vacuous, vacant, unfortunately hairstyled guidos spending their summer at the Jersey shore in a share house. The drama that these kids make up boggles my mind and I just can’t get enough.

That’s what’s been pulling me through the dreary days between Christmas and New Year. Hey, we all need a crutch from time to time and it was either this or illicit drug use. And, well, I can't afford illicit drugs.

Anna

Where Have I Been All My Life?

Happy December…ugh.

Christmas is only a few short weeks away. Actually, it’s 15 days away, which is pretty alarming, actually, since I have done simply nothing in regards to it. I had dinner instead.

To be honest, I am looking forward to Christmas this year. It’s been awhile since I’ve been home and the last visit was more of a whirlwind whistlestop where I tried to cram seeing just about everybody I ever knew in Edmonton into five hours. True, this time I will only have a couple of days to catch up with my somewhat nearest and dearest, and one of those days is dedicated to my mother because she is going to take me shopping. Which is a happy fucking occasion, am I right?

Since I am over the age of ten, and have forged some sort of style (Ha!), and my mother isn’t dressing me in pants of the stirrup and MC Hammer variety, things have gone much smoother for us in the shopping department. I remember having amazing, embarrassing temper tantrums about her choice of clothing for me, which I whole heartedly did not want to even try on, much less own. But these days, I don’t think I’ll ever get bored with my mom buying me things. Ever. Because they’re usually generous purchases that I don’t have to feel guilty for going into overdraft for. And, frankly, I’m not above letting someone buy my affection and attention. I am a product of my generation, thank you McDonalds!

Rage at the Chinese Takeout:

Hilarity at lunch was mine to behold at the Pacific Centre Chinese place today. To preface this, I don’t normally frequent this restaurant because I think they’re over priced and it’s just not that good. But, having survived for well over a week on nothing but fried food and cheese (and sometimes fried cheese), I needed some fresh food that wasn’t processed to hell and still looked like something that came out of the ground. I did order a greasy, greasy veggie spring roll to counter all the veggies, though. And it was pretty delicious, I gotta say!

So, imagine my surprise when a woman behind the counter points to my shoulder and tells me to “stop harassing my customers! GO! Leave now! If I see you again, I’m calling security! GO! Etc…”

This was totally baffling, as I’m pretty fucking sure that I don’t scare her customers away by ‘telling bad story about her business’. Maybe by scowling at them, or smelling bad I frighten them, but not by telling tales. Happily (?), she was talking to someone else, not me, and an epic one way shout match ensued.

By one way, I mean the woman who’s ‘business’ it was, ie: the one behind the counter, was yelling, shouting and carrying on in a very badly behaved manner. And I am the authority on bad behaviour, so trust me, it was pretty awesome. And the other, well, she looked pretty harmless in her winter wear, clutching her Louis Vuitton and speaking softly in Chinese to the angry one. The quiet woman eventually wandered off into the crowd while I eventually got my lunch, which was a bit of a cock up due to the angry woman having played musical chairs with our meals while she was yelling and we had to figure out what each one was, this way…*

Captains Log: Stardate – a million miles away

On my way back from lunch, there was a man having a very intense conversation with himself. And as I was walking up behind him, I stepped to the side to notice that this 40 something man was holding two toy models of the Starship Enterprise. And he was indeed captains logging to himself, which I admit I enjoyed immensely.

The best part, though, was the bit where he says: “I was kicked out of the shelter last night because they found me with a porno magazine, which is kind of a true story…” and then he went back into Star Trek speak, which made sense to no one but him.

It seems strange that he would be kicked out for merely possessing a porn mag, unless it was of a very, very naughty nature. And I wonder how that is kind of a true story. Everyone knows that you cannot lie when doing your Captains Log. Sure, you can omit stuff, but not tell half, kind of true stories (I can’t imagine Captain Kirk logging about getting busy with the alien life forms, he would have omitted that nugget).

So I have surmised, most likely incorrectly, that he was perhaps getting off where he (kind of)shouldn’t have been. Like, inappropriately. And that is where my entirely overactive imagination shall end.

As will as this entry. Till Later.

*I totally wasn’t going to actually link to the ball under the cup finding game, but how fucked up is that guy? I think I’m in lurve!

-A

In Which Several Cookies Die

War on raisins:

Dear raisins of the world,

I would really appreciate if you would no longer hide in my food. I have to say that when I bite into a delicious, delicious cookie or cinnamon bun (and/or countless other foods where you have no business), I really, really, really hate it. And that in turn makes me hate you. Just this afternoon, I was indulging in an oatmeal cookie, expecting chocolate chips, when you showed up at the party. Go back to the nursing home you’re too old to party here.

I thank you for your attention and care of this sensitive matter.

-Anna

Scoot-Scoot yourself outta my life:

I had planned, and half wrote, today’s post to be a bitter diatribe about fat people. Well, not just fat people, rather morbidly obese people, particularly the kind who ride scooters, and especially the kind who chase me around grocery stores and corner me for the last cream cheese danish (…almost true story. It was the mars bar she was after). However, I have decided that those people are bitter enough without me spitting venom at them, though I did give her the stink eye and an earful for blocking the aisles for a third time!

Instead, I shall give you the link to this wonderful, wonderful website that fulfils all of your creepy people watching (to clarify, that is the watching of the creepy people, not you creeping people by watching them. Got it?). Make sure you check out the hate section.* Also make sure you have ample time to be distracted for at least 30 minutes by the brilliance of this site.

*doncha get the impression that the haters have found themselves posted here?

Cookies, cookies everywhere, somewhere amidst the crumbs:

My wonderful, talented mother, crazy as she is, made this girl some delicious, raisin-free cookies. I received them today, and they are some kind of awesome…

…except…

…Canada post seems to have not treated my treats with due care and attention. They’re squished. Except, when you squish a cookie, they don’t squish, they crumble, as cookies are wont to do. They are still tasty and delicious, they just need to be eaten with a spoon.

I’m not feeling too upset about this, because of this:

Gingey's head and leg are missing. Mum used these cookie cutters to make them there cookies, and all but one of them have suffered tragic accidents at the guillotine. So, not only are they cripples, but they're also dead. Zombie cookie! Nom nom nom!!

Please note the mother fucking gumdrop buttons! ('Not the gumdrop buttons!, You're a monster!'... I could go on)

And, please pay special attention the the crumbs that are masquerading as fairy dust. I can smell you for what you are, fairy dust. That's a lovely brand of peanut butter you're wearing.

Stay Classy*, Internet,

*oh dear

-Anna

Jedi Mind ... Cider?

Hola, Internetters, I missed you!

I considered posting yesterday, but couldn't be bothered. My weekend was pretty blah and they were filming another goddamned tv show yesterday and I was worried. (but now I can’t stop it with the streaming of the consciousness.)

My boss hadn’t shown up for work, which is unusual and he hadn’t called, which is even more unusual. I knew that he was going to an island north of the big one, and I also knew about the storm* (hurricane?) that had come through the Seattle coast and did all sorts of damage, and I knew that boss was scuba** diving off said island. Add those nuggets together and whaddaya get? A scuba diving accident on the high seas. Naturally.

I tried phoning, but it went straight to voicemail, so I started scouring the internet looking for articles about lost divers or tragic accidents, toeing the line between “should I be concerned?” and “OMG, they’ve perished and I don’t know who to contact!”. Anyway, I did get a call just before 5 pm to say, that he and his wife were, in fact, ok, but stuck on the island due to bad weather -- Thanks for the incredibly late update, asshat! I was just about to phone the coastguard on your asshatty ass.***

*Hug called me, well, a couple of times on Sunday, the first time being 10 am, which is not acceptable. On a Sunday, dude? No phone calls before the hangover is manageable, please. Anyway, Hug and his ex-boyfriend decided to take their sailboat out on Saturday, and got caught in the hurricane and almost died. He was beside himself when I talked to him properly. And I was all super sensitive and, like, you got an awesome story, Hug! Way to live to tell the tale! Take that Ocean...Is that all you got? He was not amused, but I’m confident that he’ll come around and realise that I am not one to seek sympathy from.
**I know that scuba should be caps’ed, but I am not bothered about that at all.
***Hahaha, not really, I only call him an asshat when he really deserves it, you know, like when he drinks the last beer and shit.

Oh, what’s that? You want to hear about my blah weekend? Well, I would love to tell it to you…gather ‘round and make sure your cup of tea is fresh and hot.

1. I picked up the Jurassic Park trilogy, which is the maximum amount of fun you can have for 19.99 plus tax. If it worked. Which it doesn’t. I hate my Jurassic Park free life.

2. My apartment was properly debauched again this weekend, which now that I’m typing about it, I don’t actually want to discuss the state of my place. I don’t even want to sleep there right now because I need to bring in a pressure washer and a cleaning crew of 12 to de-yuck it.

3. I did some arts and crafts that left me with super glue all over my hands that I tried to wipe off, but was unsuccessful, so I had super glue skin all weekend. Nothing gets that bastard off skin, or at least nothing in my apartment, so, I spent approximately 72 percent of my non-crafty time worrying glue (and skin) off the tips of my fingers.

4. I had to have a talk with a woman, who’s also a friend, about texting while in company*. I said, ‘put the fucking phone away before I break it! And your head for being so rude!’ Actually, I think I really said, ‘you’re sitting at a table with two awesome people at an awesome bar and you’re ignoring us for text messages? Dude, come on!’ And, with that, the phone was put away. I would like to interject that it wasn’t me speaking, it was the peach cider, because I am an old hippie, didn’t you realise? But, in the sober light of the weekday, if I can wield the kind of power that makes people bend to my will, I will be drinking peach cider** a lot more regularly!

*This is a chronic problem and a major pet peeve of mine. All focus should be on me, all the time.
**Or was it the super glue?

5. The same night was done early after some fake drama re-enacted from a telephone conversation that number 4 relayed to the table, which took the wind from our collective sails. (ps. what a shitty sentence that was! Can you keep up?) The short story is that number 4’s ex-ex boyfriend (double ex?) is moving in with a girl she doesn’t like. The long story took at least 30 minutes, and 1 cider, for number 4 to impart all the nuances and issues she has with the situation. To which I say: madam, what business is it of yours? None! And worrying about it is a waste of time. Furthermore, I cannot support this kind of childish behaviour. So, bring on the fart jokes* and pull my finger.

*I admit that while I do have the mind of an adolescent boy, I don’t like fart jokes. Let’s talk about boobies instead.

6. I went out with my cousin T for coffee and errands which wound up in a tattoo parlour. (are they even called that anymore?) She needed to have some jewellery fixed for her facial piercings and I was being supportive. And then…the buzz of the needles, the smell of disinfectant and the aloof receptionist made me remember the joy that is...a new tattoo. A new tattoo! Of course I couldn’t scratch that itch immediately, because now you have to make multiple appointments with the artists and book months in advance! Bring back the days of the safety pin and bic pen ink, ‘cause I want one now. Watch this space!!

Handy Tips For Surviving Your Week:

1. Don’t get on a small sailboat when there is a small craft advisory, because it most likely applies to you.
2. Call if you get stuck on an island, because there are people that are waiting to abuse you on the mainland.
3. Put the phones down for a bit and enjoy the ones you’re with. We’re pretty fucking cool.
4. Don’t name your business Koo Produce, because it looks and sounds like Poo Produce, which is neither tasty nor delicious.

-Stay Dry, Anna

Happy belated Halloween, Internetters!

Candy highs are the best! Soo good! Especially when combined with caffeine highs! I wish I had discovered that winning combination when I was still of legitimate trick or treating age. Wouldn't my mother have loved that?

True story:

I go to my local corner store pretty regularly, even though sometimes I get asked for spare change on the street, on the corner and … in the store. Inside. Seriously. The dude that works there is mostly cool, even though he usually rocks this heinous faux hawk, had a t-shirt that mimicked (and tongue-in-cheeked) Jon Gosselin’s bestie of hideous outerwear. His shirt was blue and had a dove on it, among other things, with the tag line: Fancy Mother Fucker. Yes you are, faux hawk, yes you are!

I had a dream, perhaps inspired by his fancy shirt, that I was a tattoo artist. How cool would that job be? So naturally, I Googled how to follow my life’s new direction, and found this article. I love this for so many reasons!

1. That it is found on about.com! Nothing says cool and bad-ass like about.com!!
2. That all those people who can’t colour within the lines have to find a different life path. Sorry guys. You suck and will have to take you untalented asses elsewhere. Try accounting!
3. That theres a “What You’ll Need” checklist!
4. The requirement to apprentice. It makes sense, but it does seem to be a bit straight and narrow. Don’t you think?

Things that are annoying me today:

People pressure washing* the sidewalks. Honestly, guys, there's a move to conserve water. Pressure washing a sidewalk is not conducive to that. There used to be a thing they used years ago...I think it was called a broom. Get it, use it, love it! Also, you always get the bottom of my pants wet.

*As a digression, which I so love to do, my Uncle calls his pressure washer a Hotsy. I'm not sure if that's a brand name or something that he made up, but it led me to thinking of a word he did make up: Gizunder. His kid, my cousin T, operated well into her twenties thinking that this was an actual word and even convinced ESL students that a gizunder is a very real kitchen implement. You see, a gizunder goes under things, and the modern world calls it a spatula. (or sometimes a flipper, which is a dolphin not a spatula. ugh.)

The people filming a movie outside my office. I'm pretty sure that I'm an extra in your fancy pants New York/London disaster and I would like my $5 for that. See me inside when you have the cheque ready.

That it is a beautiful, sunny day outside, which has prompted the air conditioning to turn on (Hi, it's November!) and am freezing at my desk as a breeze straight from the arctic blows down the back of my neck.

Things that are not annoying me today:

I am enjoying that the straws in my can o' Coke Zero keeps fizzing up after every sip, causing a volcano effect that is way more entertaining than it really should be.

The extra packet of plum sauce I got with my noodles and veggies. Thank you lady, you usually only give me one. I will enjoy this very much and expect that this is the new precedence that you're setting.

It's a beautiful, sunny day outside. I'll get to play out there in a few short hours. Wait for me!!

-Anna

Abort, Abort, Abort

I had planned this entry to be an interview with myself, a gift to you (!), complete with charming tidbits about me and my life, but, as I wrote and rewrote it, it seemed so affected and fake that I had to place it on the back burner for now. And I am nothing if not gen-u-wine, even if I have been accused of … embellishing (read: liar) … to improve upon … "The Facts" (read: pathological). Also, I don’t want to be That Girl! We all know at least one, and the world certainly doesn’t need another.

One day, one day soon, I will post an entry filled with all the minutiae of me, and, quite frankly internet, you’re going to enjoy it.

But until then, I’ll do what I do and ramble incoherently about nothing in particular.

See you shortly,

Anna

Some Things You Never Knew You Never Wanted To Know About Me:

or

The olbigatory self-involved post:

It occurred to me again on my walk home yesterday, where I have many profound thoughts - like how is pink lemonade made pink and I could so totally climb Everest, with no oxygen and how would I survive if zombies were real (I like to think I would find myself a cricket bat and mess those jerks up, Shaun of the Dead style) - and I decided I should introduce myself to the land of blog.

I’m 28 years old, which means that in 5 years, I will be 33.

I am roughly 5’8 and it says 172 cm on my driver’s license.

I have brown hair and big eyes that are bluey/greeney/greyish in color.

I very nearly (inadvertently) had my mother investigated for child abuse when I was a tot. I was so clumsy and all those hospital trips made the nurses suspicious. Sorry Mama. By the way, I’m still clumsy.

I wanted to marry Optimus Prime of Transformers fame when I was just a little thing. I have since realized the error of my lust…but what a man (er, truck)!

Anna isn't my real name. It's close-ish, but I don't know you well enough yet to give you the details to my bank account just yet.

My step-father was in the army, which makes me an army brat. I have spent a good portion of my life moving, living overseas and on bases (in PMQ's).

I have an older brother who I love, in spite of his inability to form cohesive sentences.

I once exposed my older brother’s junk in front of my mother, godmother and our mother’s best friend. The best friend has taken to calling him 'Magic' and he has since gotten the better Christmas presents.

Speaking of my brother, I got super duper drunk at his wedding and I don't remember much of it, but I do recall throwing up out of a moving car, which turned out to be my mama’s. I was not popular or proud for a time.

I sometimes go to the movies and just have popcorn for dinner. Healthy? Probably not. Happy? Absolutely!

I don’t like it when I get sucked into TV land. I feel very unproductive and it really bothers me.

I regularly start projects but rarely finish them. I’m more of an ideas person.

I enjoy coffee and probably drink more of it than is good for me. Or is coffee on the outs this week? I can't keep up. It doesn't matter. In my world, coffee is always in fashion.

I have an unnatural obsession with podcasts, of all description, and playing solitaire while listening to said podcasts. Seriously, I've lost days!

I like seeing people walking home on Fridays (why is it always Fridays?) with cut flowers. However, as proof that I am as contrary as I sound, I hate being the recipient of cut flowers. They're cool and all, but me thinks they would be better served being still on the bush/tree/stem where they belong, outside.

I enjoy long walks on the beach (Ha! Welcome to my cliché). I just enjoy walking, wherever I may be.

I don’t like taking the bus. I’d much rather walk/drive/ride a mule.

I like parentheses. No, I really like them. I want to marry them and carry their children.

I like, but am mostly compelled, to pick money off the street. The most I have gotten was $5 and a whole lotta luck from all those pennies. FYI: today is indeed a two penny day, and it's only 10.43! am! Woot!

I love to travel.

I love to travel places with no plans. That's just how I roll, baby. I'll usually sort out the first night and the rest is by the seat of my pants.

Denim. I love denim, but not in skirt, shirt or jacket form. So I should edit that to say Jeans. Please take this as my last will and testament and remember that I wish to be placed on my funeral pyre in my jeans.

To date, I own no less than three pairs of jeans that are ripped and mostly unwearable, but I wear them anyway.

My family. They should be closer to the top of the list, but they know how special they are to me, even if I don't tell them nearly enough. I luff youse guys!

My friends and neigbours. Again, they belong closer to the top of this inane list of narcissism. I do adore and enjoy you all. Even when you're being dickheads.

I don’t like tomatoes or strawberries. But I do like ketchup and strawberry pop tarts. Go figure.

I don’t like to cook and I don’t like to wash dishes. I do like to eat, though, so the solution: Take out!

I have always been, and probably will always be, a picky eater. I’m also a vegetarian.

You know what? It’s taken an hour to come up with this wonderful, if useless, list. It’s time for me to blow this popsicle stand and get on with my day and be, you know, a moderately productive member of society.