When I Spell S-M-R-T, You Say Me!

When I come home and find my answering machine blinking the assumption is made that someone left me a message while I was away from my humble nest gathering twigs and leaves, to make a living. And hey, if you make more than I do and live in a house that costs more than mine the message tonight is to sod off. Tomorrow I'll probably find the only person who still qualifies to talk to me is Humble Bob from down the ways... he lives in a tent made of turkey feet and squirrel tails. I have no idea what my fingers are typing right now. Why doesn't anyone stop me when I do stuff like this?

Imagine my surprise when, on a regular basis the messages aren't even for Mr. Stinky or me. Ha! You thought it should be "Mr. Stinky or I" didn't you? You thought you'd caught me in some grammatical flub but you didn't because it's not. Shut up and just read OK? Tonight I received three messages, two of which were specifically addressed to Jason something. When my machine clearly enunciates "Hi you've reached Mr. Stinky and Stinky T. Please leave a message, we'll get back to you. Thank you!" I'm not joking, it means exactly that. I didn't record a generic, nameless message, it doesn't say "the Smiths", "Santos and the clan", or even "Isaac, Lloyd, Muriel, Jennifer, Wing Tse and Jack Jr.". Just two names. Which means two people in the household and neither of us are there to pick up the phone.

So why then are these neanderthals disregarding my cheerful greeting to leave full and detailed messages for nonexistent Brandon Johnson or Sally Waters? I. Don't. Get. I realize you want to discuss banking options with your clients, or find available workers for tomorrow but you grossly overestimate my altruistic nature if you think I'm going to hunt down these people to pass along your plea for a return call. You're also confusing my powers of identity transference, all those people you're asking for... I can't become them just because you asked, nor do they live in my head. If you want to get into my schizophrenic world you're going to have to do better than that. You'd need to get the names correct for that too.

Finally, dear telephone operating people, spruce up those listening skills. Whether it be by cleaning the gunk out of your ears or understanding my simple command of the English language, leave a message for the right person. It's not that hard to match up the name on the paper in front of you to the one you hear on my machine. Thank you and have a nice day. Beeep.

B-I-T-T-E-R

Sooo, yesterday was Valentine's Day. What'd you dooo? Didya do the romantical dinner for two and make googly eyes at each otherrr? Didya go kissy kissy and get all mushy mushy?

There was none of that here, in the Stinky household yesterday was just another day. I was told by Goose that I must be bitter because I didn't "celebrate" the day or do anything special. This is my forum to let you know that of all things to be bitter about, Valentine's Day isn't even on the radar. Allow me to explain my indifferent position.

Unlike New Year's, birthdays and Easter where there is cause for an actual celebration, I just don't see what February 14 observes. It's a sham event created by corporations such as Hallmark to cash in on the concept of "you must prove your feelings for me by spending your hard earned money to buy me such uselessly trite and recycled gifts like long-stemmed red roses, stuffed toys and chocolates which by tomorrow won't be worth half the amount you spent today". Believe me, I worked for a florist on Valentine's Day and the mark-up is astronomical ... especially near the end of the day when stock is running out and there's a line of desperate men lined out the door willing to pay anything to walk out with something.

Does it make me bitter to prefer the other 364 days of the year when Mr. Stinky surprises me at random just because he can? Or when I pick him up an extra box of candy because I know he'd enjoy them? And sometimes on a weekend we'll decide to get in the car and just drive to wherever, returning whenever just to do something special by ourselves, something different, something spontaneous. To be reminded by the radio, TV, stores and other people that for one arbitrarily picked day of the year you should "show how much you care with that something special" just seems incredibly forced and patronizing. I much prefer to let the rest of the year speak for itself. Would you still call me bitter because I don't believe that love can be defined by 24 hours of sugary commercialism?

This isn't to attack Goose Poo for what he said to me. His birthday's coming up so I thought it'd be a clever way to give him a shout out and besides, he hasn't made an appearance here for awhile now. However, if you've got your own reasons to start burning effigies and egg his house let me in on the plans. Let it be known that the Stinky girl will always partake in reckless acts of abandon in the name of fun and immaturity! In no way is he alone in this train of Valentine's thought, after all everything is subjective and people do like to find reasons to celebrate stuff. It just doesn't fit for me, this hyped up non-holiday of sorts. Maybe we're just not as ostentatious, maybe we're cheap. Maybe somebody can be objective and let me know if I really am bitter about Valentine's Day.

Soulmating the World

Jem and I recently had a brief discussion on the topic of soulmates. Not sure how it came up… oh right, we were making fun of the pathetic and perpetually “Confused” losers who write in to advice columnists describing how their partner is full of infidelity, children everywhere, sometimes there’s physical abuse and don’t forget the constant lies but “he swears he loves me and says we’re soulmates and I love him and couldn’t live without him so please tell me where this relationship is going….” He and I both know that we’ll never be hired on as advice experts because we’d respond with as much warmth and compassion as a stapler or a bowl of coleslaw but we like to dream.

So then we moved on to this whole soulmate deal. I remember watching Dawson’s Creek and gagging everytime they used that term for Dawson and Joey only because they thought that by beating the viewer over the head constantly with it we would collectively understand and accept that, indeed they were destined to be together… only they didn’t and I was ever so happy about that because I very much disliked him and his gigantic head and preferred Pacey. Asides from the gay name, he played for the Mighty Ducks and they’re superstars… and he was so much hotter and cooler than Dawson. Where were we? So yah, I don’t recall why exactly they were soulmates other than the fact that Dawson was obsessively possessive of Joey but that to me does not make them… y’know, that word.

I don’t believe in this concept of soulmates, people destined to be together, sharing past lives and having their love written in the stars for several reasons. With a world population of roughly 6.5 billion, what are the chances your soulmate lives down the street from you? That would really suck if you lived in some back swamp Louisiana and she lived in a Derjiskistani yurt because the chances of you guys meeting are remote to the nth degree. If people are destined to end up with their other half, doesn’t that take away the idea of free will? Would you still qualify for a soulmate if you didn’t believe in destiny and astrology? And what if you don’t even like each other? That might make things complicated as well as her being 92 and you having reached the ripe old age of 16 last week which makes me think of something else. If your soulmate dies, will you be alone for the rest of your life? Or maybe life would just supremely suck because anyone else you hook up with will only be a poor substitute for the real thing. Like butter and margarine, sugar and sweetener, Chippendales and the portly neighbourhood flasher…

You can see that I don’t believe in a lot of things they tell me. As a highly skeptical person I’m more about needing proof first… another reason I don’t do church. So no soulmates for me, and none for Jem either. He’s jaded too, but it’s people like us who even the keel for the kooks out there who believe a stranger can magically fix their problems in the daily papers. What they need to do instead, is to extract heads out of ass, wipe poo from eyes and look reality in the face. How's that for advice?

Huddle Up

I don't know if the wind is just blowing the snow out from under my feet or if I'm actually being blown sideways. Through all the layers I've got on the icy air manages to drive through the weave with needlepoint precision, numbing and burning my skin at the same time. I'm floundering through the drifts, alternating between exposed patches of grass and deeper, ankle grabbing fluff which at the very least covers up the mucky, frozen manure underneath.

On one of the coldest and windiest days of the year so far, I'm outside but not trying to be one with nature. My eyes moisten from the constant wind and I watch fascinated as the frost builds up thicker on my eyelashes with every step. The boogies have long stopped running and now they've become frozen crispies slowly closing up my nostrils. It's that friggin' cold. In my mind I'm thinking holy shit it's cold. Who came up with this idea anyway? I've seen cows and cats before, I must be out of my mind to be doing this.

We were up in Dufferin Region having a long-delayed family Christmas lunch. It was great seeing everyone and catching up. It was not so great to make the trek to the two barns out back, first to check out the new barn kittens and second to see the new calves. The cats decided they didn't feel like company so off we headed to the big barn. This was the painful trek where one thought of survival and death on the Chilkoot Trail, and the insanity of leaving a warm, insulated house in the first place.

The calves were cute, some were only a few days old and wobbled around on their arthritic-looking legs inside the barn. A few cows dropped cow patties which temporarily added some warmth to the air and reminded me that my nose wasn't completely frozen yet. You're going to think this is gross but I actually like the smell of manure. It smells of country, fresh outdoor air, summer, nature and life. There aren't many things that are natural anymore, but poo is and to me there's a certain sense of escape when the manure bouquet hits my senses.

We lingered in the barn and talked, perhaps for longer than anyone actually cared to but nobody was eager to be the first to step back outside into the stinging winds. Barns are not enclosed structures so it was still super cold in there, but with three walls at least there was protection against the winds and the heat from the cows definitely helped. When we finally decided to leave the bovine sanctuary let me tell you, the return trip was just as painful. Next time they ask if I want to see the livestock I may have to gauge my sanity before making any stupid decisions.

Mr. Stinky's Shanghai

Mr. Stinky drew this portrait of me a little while ago and I've been meaning to put it up. Everytime I look at it it makes me giggle a little, which is why he did it in the first place.

This is what he thinks the love of his life, his darling princess and the hottest female ever, looks like. Notice the very stereotypical Asian features, I especially dig the modified bowl cut. Who doesn't want a little Shanghai? You'd be crazy not to be turned on now that you know what I look like.

Soul For One

I was on the bus recently and noticed one of the ads. Actually, it wasn't an advertisement but a theological question to provoke self reflection. It asked the reader to think about the value of the "real" rewards of life as opposed to the physical possessions we seem to be obsessed with. The question it asked at the end was "What would you trade your soul for?" With nothing else to do on the bus, this got me thinking about the semantics of spirituality and life in general.

I couldn't tell you when exactly when my trade-in occurred but it probably wasn't for much more than a lemon lollipop, haircut and reaching second base. Suffice to say after many attempts at soul searching as a teenager and not "feeling" anything I decided to be blasphemous and leave the church. If I wasn't getting results then either I was doing something wrong or had already landed in some higher power's reject pile. One thing was for sure, I wasn't going to hang around and keep faking it, like so many others around me who were too chicken to reveal their true beliefs to themselves and their parents. If there was one thing I could do even if it broke my parents' hearts was to be honest and live on my own terms. Besides, I'm much too angry a person to be happy living the church life. Too many edges, too many sharp ones.

Anyway, back to the bus. So I was thinking who deals in souls should one want to make a trade for a car, career, toy, plastic boobies, etc.? Would it be God or the Devil with whom you pawn off yourself? And how would you ever get it back in the event that you repent and want to follow the path of the straight and narrow again? I'm also not sure if trading and selling are the same. If you could buy back/reclaim your soul would it really be yours or just a random one in stock? I was imagining a library-type system where the soul gets stored in a cubbyhole until its rightful owner comes back to get it. No? And how many souls do a person get anyway? I always assumed that they were one per being and making more than that would trivialize their importance in the otherworldly plane.

It's now clear to me that I should've asked these kinds of questions before I left the church if only for a greater understanding of the soul trading business. They should invent a soul detector you walk through to see if you've got one and how clean or dirty it is. But then if you didn't have one, what good would that do you? I don't know where mine is but still being an accepted member of society I'll just assume that whatever I've got is OK.

When the bus reached my stop I looked at that question one more time and got off. All I could think about was dinner.

Overtime

It's why I haven't written much lately, deadlines are approaching and shit is so close to hitting the fan that we're way beyond catching the occasional waft. Huge amounts of work needs to be done and I am only one of a large team who needs to roll up her sleeves and get the bird stuffed. Wow, I really like the metaphors there for some reason. Sometimes I'm impressed with how smart I can make myself sound, even if only for a few seconds.. or no one else seems to think so. Was that even a metaphor? I can't even trust my own language skills anymore... I guess the moment just died. That was fast.

So honestly, if I don't get this work done it's not my ass on the line because technically, we're not working on the shortcomings of our section but rather wiping the poop up from another section's fatally flawed system. But in a workplace where there is almost a complete integration of data and reliance on each other's information to run the machine effectively, it becomes a situation where you either put in the hours now or suffer exponentially later on and look the fool. We all know that to be proactive is almost always better in the long run than being reactive so why not, right? By the way, my sister used that well known "acne system" and says it's complete crap. I looked it up and the only medicinal ingredient in it is hydrogen peroxide... drugstore stuff, so... don't fall for it. And they chose me to become part of their team. Me because I am able, me because I am trusted to be somewhat reliable (at least some of the time) and me because somewhere along the line I became the "Database Person". I prefer the term "Drone" only because living the keyboardist's life, my mission is to stare at the monitor and manipulate data all the live long day.

Since Mr. Stinky's away training or in class three nights of the work week (weekends are another story) I am amenable to staying late those same nights. Funny thing, as Eli, my manager who shall henceforth be known as The Hawk and I had the conversation several weeks ago about me putting in the extra time I still remember verbatim the punchline my friends and I now joke about vividly.

Eli: Are you giving Stinky T authorization to put in overtime so that she can get this work done?

The Hawk: If Stinky T wants to do overtime, then I will authorize it.

Eli: So you're OK with it.

The Hawk: If Stinky T wants to do the overtime, then I am giving the authorization for it.

Stinky T: Sure, I can do Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.

The Hawk (in total seriousness): What about Tuesdays?

Stinky T (staring back, wondering if she's joking... no she's not): Yah... no. I can't do Tuesdays and Fridays.
Stinky T's inside voice: Dood, I have a life! I'd like to see Mr. Stinky once in awhile!

So since then I've been staying late several nights a week so that we can make the deadline. I can't even complain about the paltry hours I'm putting in since articling students and medical interns run on 43,000 hours of no sleep each week or something nuts. And I know it doesn't compare with people working multiple jobs either or the real integral part of the team who put in double shifts as needed, but it still leaves me with little time to sit and think, much less write, watch TV, pick my nose competently or make a decent dinner when I get home. I'm also friggin' tired a lot and not sleeping well so that's my excuse for being so AWOL lately although today you're lucky. I had an appointment in the afternoon and left work while the sun was still out *gasp*. Mr. Stinky's in class now and this is what I'm doing to fill the time as well as self-prescribe some much needed diary therapy but exhaustion is cumulative and I would rather be passed out in bed. I don't even remember what a metaphor is and I started typing two hours ago.

Quote of the Day

From Waiter Rant. Sinfully delicious. Makes me want to go out and do something naughty!

"But seduction, to me, isn’t making someone do what they don’t want to do. Seduction is enticing someone into doing what they secretly want to do already."

Mmmmm..... have a good weekend.

Beyond the Pee Pee Dance

You know you really really gotta go when your pants are undone before you get to the washroom. At the risk of indecent exposure or squooshing around in soaking wet pants for the rest of the day I'd take flashing co-workers my underwear everytime.

Why wait until it becomes an almost accident?

Stupidity, your honour. I like to play chicken with my bladder sometimes.

Skinny Girls Suck

This is something I've learned throughout the years, nothing mind blowing but I felt that it's time to discuss. I'm not angry, as this issue has numbed itself into being just another blip in my existence so this is not an attack. I'm also definitely not thinking of any particular person as we delve so if you read this and become upset or offended maybe it has more to do with your conscience than my forked tongue. As one who experiences the luck or curse of being skinny I can give you a full account in first person how something in which I have no control over can be such a big. fat. deal.

Skinny girls are not fat. Skinny girls cannot be fat. Skinny girls do not know what fat is.

You'd think those three sentences speak the truth if not for the fact that they are also loaded with complete bullshit. My whole life I've been skinny, all knobby and angles. Nobody wanted me sitting on their laps because my butt would carve gashes in their thighs. Being skinny isn't something I can control, it's all genetics. Sure I get off my ass to do stuff but I'm not what you call super fit. I don't need to apologize for the way my body turned out and I don't need to hide the junk food I occasionally binge on which usually is exactly when people witness it and think it's all I eat. Or eat nothing at all.

When skinny girls feel fat or bloated it's a state of mind, not a state of occurrence. We're not allowed to feel insecurities about our bodies lest we incur the wrath of anyone around larger than us. When we do put on weight it's not an achievement or lament, merely another sarcastic remark waiting to be made. Complaining about feeling restricted in our clothes earns us brays of contempt to eat another sandwich or to just shut the hell up because, what do we know about being fat anyway? The breeding ground for eating disorders and jealousy people look at those with low body fat forms and see perfection to achieve, a nirvana of dieting and luck.

We wonder why there's an epidemic of girls and women wasting away before us, taking handfuls of pills and exercising like horses turning the windmill, when the lens is only and always focussed on the beautiful bodies bound tight in cling wrap and touted as the finish line. Being slim is seen as a cure-all for all things physical. We can't turn away from the notion that we're meant to be different; that we can't all be blonde and tall, nor modelesque and exotic. I will never be taller than this and I will never be something other than what I already am. If it's not acceptable to tell someone that they're so fat that he/she needs to put down that greasy cheeseburger, then therefore by that same logic it is also unacceptable to tell me or any other skinny person that there's something wrong with our eating habits.

Pound for pound I probably eat more than a lot of people around me. I don’t gorge on large amounts in one sitting so I’m pretty much an all-day grazer, plus I usually stick to healthier foods so that probably helps a lot. I don't live the lifestyle of fast foods and being a couch potato. I don't feel I need to eat everything and more in front of me. I don't buy all kinds of unnecessary things to ingest just because something was on sale. Even the most famous, richest and fabulous people we all look up to and adore have insecurities about their bodies. Stop critiquing and deriding everyone else and take a look at yourself, perhaps there's a reason why you feel so much venom towards those around you. But that's your problem, don't make it mine.

Souffle Belly

I have nothing new to say but I sooo need to whine. It's about that time again anyway.

I feel fat. I feel so fat and bloated it's gross. My pants are tight and giving me a tummyache and I've got the muffin bulge going on above them, which I abhor, especially when I must bear witness to girls everywhere who think that look is fashionable. Of course I'm also wearing a snug top today which would accentuate the souffle effect and everytime I look down it's quite the bloody train wreck and rubberneckers are perched everywhere waiting for me to exhale.

I'm vain, I can admit that. I'm friggin' proud of my tight, washboard stomach. It's one my best features that most people don't see but I don't care coz I get to see it a lot. Whenever I want. Wherever I choose. I'm shallow like that. Bite me.

Right now there's a load of laundry sitting on top of my gut and I want to take off these damn pants and let loose. If I could I'd sit here in my underwear for the rest of the day but I don't want to be unceremoniously escorted out and asked to never return. I want to be like the unfashionable women who show up to work everyday dressed in their sloppy trackpants with the comfy elastic waistbands or drawstrings. Oh heavens!

Wonder if they'll let me wear my jammies here? I would very much like that. I shall spend the rest of my workday brainstorming just how to make it work. That'll require drafts, proposals, rewrites and a snappy presentation in both Powerpoint and professionally bound folders. I bet if I get a laser pointer that'll just knock 'em right out of their chairs so they'll enact with immediate effect "jammie days" or "undies only days" with the stipulation that they be clean, attractive and un-holey. I might've just had a mini orgasm thinking about the comfort...

Yah, Man

"I was given the weird badge but I think everybody's weird and that's the key to it. We should celebrate our individuality, not be embarrassed or ashamed of it. We all have idiosyncrasies. People do themselves a great disservice by not allowing themselves to see who they really are because they are afraid of what others might think."

Me and Johnny Depp are kindred spirits... except I'm not as cool, pretty, rich, famous or talented as him. But I totally celebrate me and my oneness fastidiously and obsessively. It's also why I'm not a people pleaser; I don't need people to like and accept me on their terms. Take me as I am or walk away fast because I'm crazy and it shows, there ain't nothing subliminal about me. Muhahahahahaha....

Conifers Are Cool

I do like my quickies. Unfortunately this has turned into the opposite of what I had planned on writing about... oh well. But then you never did come here for something literary and intelligent either so the boat's still afloat.

Read the news lately? Apparently the latest issue is the Christmas Tree that was banned by a Toronto judge from a courthouse because of concerns it might offend somebody, hurt their feelings, remind us all that we live in a multicultural and multireligious society. Oh pooh pooh pooh... Then politicians started wondering if we should have some kind of policy in place for Christmas trees before the Premier in his glory told them all nicely to shut the fuck up and mind their own businesses.

It's a tree. It's a fucking tree with pretty things hanging from its branches. Really, it has about as much to do with Christianity as Santa Claus and his flying reindeers which, are an evolutionary impossibility because see, evolution doesn't exist and flying ungulates were never created... at least I never saw any while perusing through the illustrated stories of my childhood Sundays.

I wasn't there when Mary pushed the little Saviour out away in a manger and didn't get a chance to meet the three wise men as they came bearing gifts but dude, I strongly remember gifts of gold, frankincense (Frankenstein's gift since he couldn't make it what with being chased by angry mobs waving flaming torches and pitchforks... I deduced all this as a young child because nobody bothered to explain to me what in fact, frankincense is... I doubt any of the grown ups knew anyway. It's one of those "*sighh* Just because, OK??" deals) and myrrh from the stories and songs. Since U-Hauls and trucks hadn't been invented yet I figure they needed to travel lightly, yes? OK, so they had their desert caravans and stuff but surely wise men with a caravan would have brought more for the baby Jesus? Clothes so he didn't have to be swaddled in cloth? A crib might be more comfortable than a trough and even a few of those pine tree air fresheners to give the place a more pleasant aroma would do.

And hey, listen, they were in the desert too. No pine trees around... unless they hung the ornaments and afterbirth on some nearby olive tree and called it a Christmas tree which would have been another nonsensical move since Christmas hadn't even been invented yet. And come on, who hangs ornaments and placenta together like that? It's probably not even kosher, I can't believe you thought of it.

Surely we have more important things to deal with than a Christmas tree? Perhaps the politicians can have slappy fights to resolve issues like world peace, world hunger and the meager digits in my bank account instead... Seriously, it's so pathetic the moths won't even fly out of my wallet anymore when I open it. Do you see? Do you see how in the grand scheme of things the issue of the possibility of offending someone with a tree, and I don't believe that anyone has actually raised a hand yet, is so hollow that we're forgetting the true meaning of Christmas: Me.

Hola, Malditas!

We got back last night and the first thing we did was go get some Timmy's. Isn't that sad? Anyway, I don't know a lick of Spanish but I sure do know how to pick out the juicy words in the subtitles from the TV shows. They'll be put to good use.

So the question was, can one live all week in their swimsuits? The resounding answer is hell yah. Except for in the dining areas it was pretty much all I wore around the resort.

Had a good time, did lots, slept lots and sunned lots. I aimed for a lovely golden toasty colour but SPF's got nothing on the Costa Rican UVs and I come back as dark toast. Mr. Stinky's also toasty bronze and diligently peeling all over the place. We're both itchy as hell, him from the sun but both mostly due to all the bug bites we endured. The downside to having so much exposed skin all day long is the buffet feast the mosquitoes get to enjoy as they claimed dominion over all parts of our bodies. Let me tell you, some of the bites... dude. Those bugs could've at least offered me a cigarette afterwards. Maldicion!

Flight there wasn't too exciting besides the in-flight entertainment. Guy beside me was separated from his girlfriend on the other side of the aisle and they put on quite the PDA show until about an hour into the flight when Cole's Notes version, he wanted to watch the movie and her words exactly, "Pay attention to me! You never talk to me!! We're in a relationship!!!" Dramatic Princess Alert! Histrionics I do not enjoy. These kinds of people make me want to engage in some sort of violent act upon their bodies. At first Mr. Stinky and I were amused but when the flight's 5 hours long it does get tiring after awhile. Would've been a good time to learn invisibility to dole out a backhand or two. They made a very shaky truce at the end of the flight. Oh yes, Costa Rica's very hilly.

Upon reaching San Jose airport we needed to board a regional flight to get to the resort. It was a tiny plane, think Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom small and rickety. Looked like same era kind of nuts and bolts too. During the flight something started beeping and I had fanciful thoughts of adventures with the giant rubber raft flying through the air, sledding down a snow capped mountain and landing in a river in India to be greeted by some wizened and esoteric shaman. We made it OK, you can unclench your fists. I know you were worried a little bit.

After being tagged and released at the front desk we were left to our own devices. We had a great view of the ocean from our balcony and were happy to score such a nice location that was a little bit away from the main resort.

We went on several excursions, horseback riding, ATVing, zip lining through the canopy and snorkeling at Tortuga Island. All very fun but I have to say the best was the horseback ride. Our guide took us through the hills, farm fields and orchards, across creeks and along the beach. I don't think many things can top the experience of galloping along a beautiful beach at top speeds. Mr. Stinky and I raced each other for what seemed like forever it was so cool. We even got to see some wildlife, like the Mantled Howler Monkey. Couldn't catch. No Christmas monkeys this year, sorry. No Christmas iguanas either, Mr. Stinky couldn't snag one of those ugly things.

I don't recommend resort vacationing unless you don't want to do anything but lounge all day long. It does get kind of boring after several days even though frolicking in the ocean with boogie boards and sea kayaks took place almost daily. There's only so much you can do from one base camp. I think I prefer cruises and car vacations much more as each day is different. The food at the resort wasn't great either, everyday it was the same stuff over and over again and the quality was marginal at best. Think cafeteria food. They claim to have two restaurants, the steakhouse and a seafood place but the latter never opened once the entire week we were there despite the fact that they kept taking dinner reservations everyday. ?? They've also erected a Discoteca which came with exactly one tune looped at maximum volume and defibrillating bass all night long. Very annoying, not easy to sleep when all you hear and feel in bed is the constant thudding into early morning. But definitely the land and people were awesome. So bottom line: Costa Rica si, (hidden message alert) Barcelo Playa Tambor, no.

To revel in our last week a little bit longer, a few more pictures from paradise. They have all kinds of crazy birds and animals down there. Here are a few pelicans waiting by the docks for the plentiful bounty of fish guts tossed by the local fisherman. Who doesn't enjoy a free lunch? And two of the most adorable dogs who were our faithful companions for a whole morning as we took a long trek along the ocean trail. Rental fee was one smooshed NutriGrain bar we weren't going to eat anyway, how cheap was that?

Palm trees all over the resort, not so prevalent everywhere else. Still very pretty, as is evident from my hammock. And lastly, I've been told that I have nice feet. I know that the salty lech said that so he could get into my pants but looking at how happy they are, what more do I need to add really?

Lost in Space

So you've been checking constantly for something new, right? And you suffer daily because I'm not writing about the wad of bubblegum stuck on the bottom of my shoe, Naked Twister Tuesdays or the many times I trip while walking... over nothing, for your enjoyment. I hope you've made it past the withdrawal period by now because after this meaningless post you gotta wait a little longer. I know, I'm your dirty little secret addiction just as I am mine.

Or something like that.

I'm off on vacation, going to sunny (I hope!) Costa Rica with Mr. Stinky to enjoy the summer we postponed due to school. Be back in a week or so. I promise lots of pictures upon my return and as many stories as my alcohol-addled mind will retain or conjure. All those who put in orders for a monkey should keep in mind that supply is on a first come, first serve basis as we haven't tested Mr. Stinky's primate wrestling skills yet... you may just get tropical rabies instead. In the meantime think of me in my pink bikini and Mr. Stinky in this thong Speedo merrily frolicking in the crashing surf, running slow motion to some cheesy Baywatch soundtrack along the shore while beads of water cascade off our wet.. tanned... bodies.

OK, stop thinking about the thong Speedo already.

Overheard

Step into my world a little bit, you might not understand it but you’ll be amused… or bemused. Perhaps both. Why not?

Stinky T: I feel like an egg.
Mr. Stinky: I feel like a …. *looks away* god!
Stinky T: ??!??......... Oh! No, I feel like having an egg.
Mr. Stinky: OK then.

Stinky T: I spent way too much this weekend (shopping).
Goose: Nice, what’d you get me?
Stinky T: Couldn’t find dignity, sorry.

Eli: What happened to your elbow? (Got a bandaid on it)
Stinky T: I skinned it.
Clueless: How’d you do that?
Eli: Things get a little rough last night?
Stinky T: Yes, Amy bit my elbow.
Amy: Ouulaalaa, I like the elbow!

Eli: A salad? That's not lunch, that's an appetizer.
Amy: Have you seen the size of my box?
T-J: Oulala!!
at the same time
Stinky T: Pfftt!! *water up nose*

Spice: Oh movies! Do you have any martial arts movies?
Stinky T: ?? No. Yo, you're totally asking me coz I'm Asian.
Spice: What? No! I'm just looking for martial arts movies!
Stinky T: Oh I know how it is, I see you looking at my skin colour.
Spice: *laughing hard* If that's the case then you can come to me for drugs.
Stinky T: Or a gun.
Spice: *incoherent and laughing*

I’m on the phone with Mr. Stinky. T-J and Shuster are having their own separate conversation. Concentrating in my corner, I don't know what they’re saying. In that moment of pause when the world comes to a hush and everyone hears exactly what you’re saying without having first gotten the context, Shuster said the following, "You can grab my balls anytime you want!”

My reaction to that made T-J cry.

Hear This

I don't need your permission.

I don't need to explain myself.

I do what I want, when I want to and however I choose.

I'm a big girl and I answer to me.

Taking offence is your problem. It's not my intent at all.

It's not you. It doesn't always have to be about you. I will tell you when it is about you. Trust me.

Nothing is wrong. I'm not mad. I'm not being exclusionary. Everything is fine.

Sometimes I just want something different.

And I don't need your permission.

Chest Melons

Yesterday on our way back from break, a woman walked past Amy and I. She was attractive, Mediterranean looking, slim and had a great figure. However what stuck out, literally, were her breasts popping out from a barely-there, cleavage exposing top. Approximately two seconds after we had passed her my big mouth needed to speak.

Stinky T: Duude! Her boobs are so fake!

Amy: Hahaha.. I know!! I was just going to say something!

Stinky T: I don't find them attractive at all, they're so obviously not real.

Far be it from me to belittle people who cosmetically enhance their bodies if it's what they really want to do, but wow, she so went to the wrong surgeon. Her boobs actually looked like two halves of a really round melon glued onto her chest. Real boobs are soft and droop a little, they're only obeying the laws of gravity, right? Girl had some rock hard, wicked highbeams going on and no cleavage happening. Fake boobs for the most part are easy to spot; if you can easily trace perfect circles around them while blindfolded, I guarantee that they are fake. So too if the space between their boobs is so cavernously gaping that instead of a slit there's just a trench. I could've yelled into her breasts and gotten some good echoes in return.

If she had done her homework and gotten a better pair she'd look disgustingly hot. In the meantime all I can think about is how badly she needs to cover those puppies up. In my humble opinion they seriously detract from the rest of her and that's such a shame.

Model Citizens

I had bought a duvet for one of the spare beds awhile ago. Recently we decided to go get a cover for it as the holidays are coming up and it might be necessary to pull out our spare linens to accommodate drunken or tired guests. So off to Linens 'n Things Mr. Stinky and I headed. By the way, I love that store. I love any store with all kinds of linens, knick knacks, housewares and gadgets... while Mr. Stinky sighs loudly and sprawls over the towels waiting for me to browse I'm totally like a fat kid in a candy store. It's pure sensory overload as I absolutely must touch and caress every single fabric in reach. Kinda like sex for the hands, but cleaner and a huge, big medley of textures to enjoy.

Once we had mutually chosen the duvet cover of choice, it wasn't difficult as we have similar tastes, off we went to complete the transaction. By the way, it's a damask striped cover in chocolate... how bloody delish is that? On our way out of the store we had to pass through one of those stupid sensor gates which sound off purely at random and either everyone freezes or nobody flickers an eyelash. It's like playing Russian Roulette, you never know when it'll be your turn to get caught with the array of sex toys the minimum waged cashier "forgot" to demagnetize or double bag when she rang up your merchandise. (Heh.. double bag...)

So Mr. Stinky led the procession out followed closely by some random lady with several hefty bags of stuff in tow and me in the rear with my new duvet cover. The alarm went off just as she passed through and before I reached it. Everyone stopped. If confetti and balloons had started to drift down from the ceiling, bathing us in a celebratory fashion you know I would've shoved the undeserving hag aside and claimed whatever millionth customer prize they had to offer. If I had to pull down a rack of oversized bath towels to smother her objecting bleets I'd do it, I'd so do it. Seeing's how nothing fun showered from above, I leaned back a smidge and pointed a very accusatory finger at her just so everyone knew that she was the klepto who obviously needed a public shaming and if the soon to arrive police needed an extra set of handcuffs with which to lash her podgy wrists together I'd totally be the one to whip out the ones from my back pocket and be hero for the day.

The poor lady looked flustered. Mr. Stinky hollered "Run!". I edged around her like she suffered from a mad case of cooties all the while casting looks of reproach and we took off snickering into the sunset. It's the little things that bring a bit of pleasure to an otherwise mundane task; who doesn't like to witness some harmless tomfoolery? Oh sure, we could've been polite, minded our own business and not test the public's sense of humour but honestly, what fun would that be?

Would That Be Brunch Or Just Nasty?

Had to come downtown for work this morning. Sighhh...

Got some liquid caffeine and deep fried sugary lovin' from Tim's for second breakfast and to keep me conscious.

Random couple buying street meat from the corner vendor. Not quite 9am.

Groooosss...