Sums It Up

Seriously. Someone was bored and needed something new to freak out the world.

Watching Boobs and Hockey

A few weeks ago I went to one of Mr. Stinky's hockey games to watch his team lose horribly to the underdog. That's not the point. I was in the restaurant/lounge/viewing area above the rinks and it was full of spectators and families. Little kids running around, babies squalling, mommies playing referree and everyone else. Luckily for me, H was watching Bug Bug at home so I didn't have to spend the hour running after anybody. Yah, my kid's a crazy non-stop ball of energy but you already knew that.

As my eyes wandered around (which was pretty often seeing's how it was obvious Mr. Stinky's team would not be mounting any comeback campaigns of the year), I caught sight of a random guy checking me out. Flattery fluttered about until I turned to look behind me and spotted two very pink and blonde baby Britneys with heaving cleavages and bosoms practically laid out on platters o' silver. Seriously, their chests were prepared for those shots of alcoholic beverages everyone does at rowdy drinking parties.

Yah, there really isn't a point to this story other than how perfectly round and pushed out those boobies were. It makes me worry what I'm going to do when Bug Bug hits puberty and wants to leave the house dressed in strands of spider webs and little else because that's what the trend is and no it's not cold and I don't need a jacket and mooooom, if I don't wear this all the other kids will think I'm uncool. My parents didn't have to worry about me in that respect, I was pretty butch until I hit my 20s and friends were surprised to discover there were boobs underneath all the layers when I finally came out wearing just a tank top.

What is that saying about having kids? "When you have a boy there's only one dick, when you have a girl you gotta worry about all the other dicks." Shit.

Meaningless Musing

It's interesting that all the players the Maple Leafs got rid of are now on teams in the playoffs. Or, they were as of yesterday. I don't think any of them ended up in St. Louis...

Anyway, so better to get booted than stay in Toronto huh? Not like the Leafs are going anywhere even though every year we predict the return of Lord Stanley's cup to this Original Six. Just my thought of the day.

I'm starving.

Maternity Tax

When I went on maternity leave we thought it was going to be great in terms of finances. Not only would I be saving on transportation, shopping, eating out and general spending but I'd still be getting paid, even if on a reduced scale. Everyone around me said the same thing as well. What a great thing to be on maternity leave; a year off from "work", a year to spend with my baby and a year to enjoy saving money.

No, kids are not cheap at all but if you're a smart shopper and stock up on the basics like clothes, food and diapers ($9.97/Pamper megapak, reg. $17.99) (!!) when they go on sale plus clip coupons, then the potential to save a ton of money is there for the taking.

Imagine my shock and horror when tax time rolls along and the government wants like, all that money back and scrapes it violently from my colon walls without the courtesy of using any lube to make the pain easier to bear. This is my warning to all new and expecting parents: the government doesn't care about you staying at home to raise a family. They'll let you keep the baby but your money belongs to them.

Happy Welcoming Back to the Prodigal Me

I'm back, sort of.

I think.

We'll see.

I sort of feel like writing again but I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue this page or start another, make a fresh start. For now I think I'll stay here and see how I like it.

Wow, I didn't say anything of value at all. Guess I am back.

Done

Instead of keeping you waiting for something new I decided about 2 minutes ago that I'm letting this project go. The quality sucks and my inspirations seem to have found a new home. Sorry, you'll have to waste your minutes at work surfing something else... or doing actual work.

I may be back but I may not. Anyhow, mama ain't gonna stress over it. See you later, masterbaters.

I Work With Idiots

Also considered for title:

> Easy Pickings Should We Ever Be Overtaken By Mastermind Criminals/Terrorists
> People To Slap When I Get My Invisibility Super Power
> Natural Selection Needs a Little Help
> Pay Goes Up, Smarts Go Down

A couple of days ago a person who works for my company with an impressive sounding title sent an email to half the employees in the address book in error. Instead of ignoring the pointless email numerous people decided to hit reply all and asked to be taken off the list.

First, what list?!? There are no mailing lists at my work, it was one person who somehow instead of sending a message to 40 co-workers oops-ed it into a couple thousand or so people.

Second, why reply all? It was one person who hit ‘send’ and therefore the rest of us had nothing to do with it, nor do we need to be told that you want to be left off this “list”.

So while half the employees were inundated by these junk replies and the server was freezing up some people started getting annoyed. We began seeing angry emails berating the people who contributed to the whole reply all phenomenon while not even seeing the irony in their own idiocy. We saw emails with enlarged fonts, red coloured fonts, more than a reasonable amount of exclamation marks and even some insults. There was a direct jab at the lack of common sense shown by the original email sender, the person with the impressive sounding title.

That was actually funny. It’s another example of how top heavy organizations can be with people who don’t know squat. But then the reply all crowd are idiots in their own right too so there isn't much with which to lord over.

Sigh.

At one point me and Yager contemplated joining in. This would’ve been my message.

“Who the FUCK are these idiots hitting reply all??? You people are retarded losers who should be banned from email forever!




P.S. Please remove me from the list. Thank you.”

My Favourite People

I think it takes a special kind of butt slime to be a car sales person. We've been contemplating a second car lately and visited several car dealerships over the weekend to test drive as well as gather information for our future purchase. While any kind of sales person isn't my cuppa tea, I think car people have to be at the top of my list.

Maybe they go to special butt slime school to be the way they are, from the way say your name the obligatory three times in 5 minutes, feed you the "buy now or else" lines, try to be your best friend and project the just another joe on the road image I just find them so smarmy. Maybe I'm just prejudiced. I wonder what they're like outside of work.

Probably just as bad.

There was one guy we dealt with who to me looked like and gave the Paul Bernardo vibe. I kid you not, the entire time he was spieling all I kept thinking was: "Paul Bernardo Paul Bernardo Paul Bernardo Paul Bernardo" so I didn't hear much of what he said. Not that it mattered anyhow since he barely acknowledged my presence and talked solely to Mr. Stinky. Afterwards I physically felt dirty from having associated with him and wanted to scrub myself raw in the bath.

Anyhow, hopefully once we settle on a car we can get the deal done quick to lessen the contact with butt slime. I just wanted to let you know how much I dislike car sales people. That is all.

Womanizer

Last night I couldn't sleep because Britney Spears' new single 'Womanizer' kept playing in my head. I admit it, I like the song and sing along when it comes on the radio. I even downloaded it for my fluffy listening pleasure. Except now it's always playing in my head. Speak of the devil, it just came on the radio. Excuse me a minute.

Anyway, I had to resort to singing Sesame Street songs to block out the chorus which, as simple as it seems with about 4 or 5 words, I can never get. I'm dumber than a bag of building blocks... Back to the point, the Dixie Chicks used to be my safety net when songs got stuck in my head. Now it's Sesame Street. Damn.

And to Wrap Up Today...

Ladies, leaving a curly on the toilet seat is not the equivalent to guys leaving a trophy poo unflushed for the next guy to find and admire.

Just Because I Am That Bored

Me and Yager emailing each other because a colleague who temporarily got relocated to my office is upset. Temporary colleague’s moods operate much like a roller coaster. Or weather in the Rockies. She’s up, she’s down, she’s happy, she’s crying. It’s like watching a show, things are always changing and you’re not sure how, why, what or when but you just go with the flow.

Yager: I think she’s borderline crying.

StinkyT: I’m just ignoring her.

Yager: Cold blooded!

Stinky: I shit ice cubes.

Yager: Interesting.

Short Scene

Me and Yager were coming back from our coffee run – his, not mine, and saw another guy, Poker in the hallway. Poker looked at me, nodded and said “Good morning.” I nodded back with a “Hello”.

Moments later, Yager pouted.

Yager: I didn’t even get a ‘good morning’! He looked at you, he didn’t even look at us, just you and said ‘good morning’.

StinkyT: Yah man, I deserrve being looked at.

Yager: That was so rude! When am I gonna get a ‘good morning’?

StinkyT: Me and him are good. You gotta get in the trenches and get dirty. Earn your respect.

Yager: I don’t want respect, just a ‘good morning’.

StinkyT: Ha!

In the Faace...

This is my confession. I’ve finally joined and become a member.

I feel so dirty and at the same time completely lame.

I have nothing against Facebook or any of the other networking sites but had decided early on that it wasn’t for me. For some reason I didn’t want to get caught up in the craze and resisted pressures from people around me to join and be connected.

My cousin Whistler recently had a baby and she posts new pictures of him there. A good friend Timo lives on the other side of the world and we don’t get to talk too much anymore. My curiosity had finally gotten the best of me so it has come to this.

I was a rebel, man. A rebel in the crowd, diamond in the rough, lady in the red dress, whatever that super cool phrase to describe my non-Facebook-ness. And that’s why I feel dirty, because I’ve fallen into temptation and embrace it tightly with my mouse cord.

At the same time I realize that the Facebook fervor has dropped down to a tepid, golf clapping kind of yesterday’s news. Ergo, my non-cutting edge lameness. I’ll be back to prove my superior coolness soon.

Medium Half Coffee, Half French Vanilla Please. Now.

I’ve always been pretty proud of myself for not having an addiction. Even a little smug you might say. Certainly I enjoyed a lot of things, on occasion to the point of overindulgence but I never needed anything. For me, the experience of doing, eating or saying what I wanted at that moment was enough.

OK, except nail biting. That is a lifelong thing. But I kind of put this nasty habit into a different cubby hole since I never gained any high from chewing on my fingers. It was more of a “it’s there and I’m bored/nervous/anxious/something” behaviour and obviously once I had bitten my nails to negative cuticle space I had to stop. Now I can say that the habit’s under control… usually they’re left alone but once in awhile there is a fall into temptation but it’s never the massacre it used to be.

Anyway, so back to being smug about addictions. I blame the baby. Let me explain.

Coffee to me, for as long as I can remember has always been the nastiest and foulest thing on which people spend their money. The taste, the breath, sometimes even the smell made me think of dead things. Roadkill on a hot day all bloated, about to drip messy grossness everywhere. I never understood how my dad spent more time with his coffee thermos than anything else and was superbly happy, and smug when he was told to cut back before the rest of his insides rotted away.

When I became pregnant there weren’t any insane food cravings. Sure I’d be hungry all the time and once in awhile want to eat something really badly but nothing like the peanut butter on a sloppy joe with a side of relish kind of weirdness. But then Mr. Stinky started a new job. And his coffee habit. And I started stealing sips when he had a cup.

That is how me and coffee became best friends. I drank coffee and the baby rewarded me with powerful roundhouse kicks in utero. There wasn’t a need to drink a lot, just a few good sips to settle the cravings now and then.

And then I went back to work. Bug-bug was weaned and I didn’t have to worry about the effects of over-caffeinating her any longer. Coffee has since become my highlight of the day. So far I can live on one coffee a day but it’s a painful wait. I buy my coffee in the early afternoon so from the time I wake up to when I get my fix all I can think of is how much longer until my happy time.

I used to be content with tea but now when I try to substitute it just tastes like hot, dirty piss water. I’m writing more than I need to but it’s only because it’s kind of a slow day and I’m trying to put off the coffee run for a little while longer. I’ve got a headache. It will magically go away once I get my fix, it always does. This is so sad.

That’s enough, I gotta go down now.

To the Point

Hey yah, so I had a baby about a year ago. Don’t ask me what exercises I did to lose the weight and how to “keep fit”. It’s such an offensive question to ask a woman who underwent incredibly huge changes to create a life, whose body needs time to rest and in some cases heal itself.

I want to say so much more but this makes me so angry I can’t think clear enough to write coherently. Besides, it won’t change the minds of some backwards thinking, sexist assholio husbands out there who demand that on top of making and caring for a baby their wives need to “get back into shape”. Coz… I guess you can’t love her if she’s not visually acceptable in the eyes of you and/or your friends.

Please Adjust the Colour on Your TV

So I’ve been in a shoe-buying mindset lately. Everytime I pass by a shoe store there’s no resistance to drifting in and perusing the selection. I’d like something dressy yet comfy and with heels, please. Sometimes I feel, as a woman that I fall embarrassingly short when it comes to shoe ownership. While people like Amy manages to store a moving box full of shoes under her desk along with many more pairs living at home I think my total sum of footwear is less than what she’s got at work.

Anyway, recently at the mall I spotted a pair that might fit my criteria and I hurriedly grabbed it off the wall. Upon closer examination I thought that indeed it was my glass slipper equivalent except for the lingering nag that I couldn’t decide if it was black in colour, or brown. On its own it seemed pretty noir, but once held next to another shoe that was definitely black it seemed to cast a brownish glaze.

I decided that it must be brown, albeit a very dark brown. Since I was hoping for black, I turned to the lone sales rep in the store who was busy ringing in a customer. She looked up at me and said she’d be right there but I didn’t want to wait and said I just had one quick question. She accepted so I asked her if the shoe in my hand came in black.

The look I received was one in which I am crazy familiar. It’s the look I’ve given people on many occasion, the one where you’re not entirely sure how to react to the question, remark or action that was just presented. You know, that blank expression wondering “Is it just me or is it totally you?”.

“That.. is.. black.....”

I’m just going to buy those shoes online instead.

Tip Me

Mr. Stinky and I recently went out to dinner without Bug-bug. For that, we had H babysit which was a good thing because they always tire each other out.

We left her $20 to call for pizza or whatever delivery food she wanted and off we went. Dinner was nice, I didn't have to keep the Cheerio supply constant nor did I have to hoover in my food and tend to an impatient baby wanting mommy's fingers to help her walk up and down the universe.

Upon our return we got the rundown on what the girls did and how much fun they had. Then H turns to me and complained about the delivery guy ripping her off. Turns out her order for $14.something came and she handed the guy a $20 bill only to have him turn around and drive off without getting her any change.

Now you'd think he was only in the driveway and she could've chased him down but with a baby on her hip and the element of surprise sprung, delivery guy made a clean getaway. Almost.

I dialled head office and asked what's up with that kind of service. The operator lady was shocked by the situation and gave me two options: store credit which had to be used within 6 months or the guy comes back and we have a little face to face. I chose the latter. Oh me and delivery guy were gonna rumble!

No, not really. I just wanted my money back now as opposed to later when the possibility runs high that I forget about the store credit until 4 days after it expires.

After a short wait, delivery guy's car pulled up and he dumped a pile of change into my hands explaining in a contrite manner that he had a lot of deliveries. He didn't look at the bill and just assumed the $20 was a one-way exchange.

While I accepted his apology, I didn't tip him. If my butt and tip was on the line I'd be so apologetic you'd be writing me several blank checks and think that I was the victim instead of you. He might've been sincere but I'm also thinking that if the bill had been over $20 he sure as heck wouldn't have made the same assumption and taken off without checking the numbers over. Cynicism says he saw a busy, young mom too distracted by a wiggling baby to check the bill or do the math and tried to pull a fast one hoping by the time she found out it would've been too late. Guess I really do suffer from lack of faith in humanity.

Was I wrong? Should I have given delivery guy the benefit of the doubt and believed his story of forgetting to look and tipped him? Discuss amongst yourselves.

Sesame Street Love

This is what entertains me now. Bug and I absolutely love this video and watch it about 6 times a day.

Something Else

It's after lunch, I’d put in hours at my desk and needed a break. I think I’ll see what’s going on downstairs. Before I leave I make sure my wallet, cell phone, sunglasses and security pass are tucked neatly into my purse. I’m feeling good today and it shows.

Too impatient for the escalator today, the slow moving belt that never stops recycling itself I walk down and leave it behind. Today’s not a day to take things easy, I need to clear my mind of work and just let images and sounds flow through me without consequence. There's a need to move, do something.

A shove to my shoulder from behind and a sharp sensation as my purse is ripped away. A body moving quickly away from me, a running form carrying what is mine. Everything that’s me is disappearing fast, I have to move too if I want to catch up to me.

Never a fast runner and slower on heels today I’m feeling so good it shows. Superhero adrenaline picks up my legs and pumps my arms as I yell at the body taking my identity. I forget where I am, the images and sounds around vacuumed away and me and him, we’re in my superhero universe.

Anger surges me close enough to tackle him and we roll over and over until we stop. I’m glad I wore jeans today, my knees are protected but hate that we're pressed so close together we radiate the same heat. We’re screaming, words and sounds without meaning and then I climb on top. Knees on either side and hitting his temples, ears, nose, cheeks. Too fuelled to aim the fists are connecting with whatever. He’s hitting me too but lacks the anger and it means nothing.

I stop when arms from the vacuum pull me back. Vanity reminds me that his blood wouldn’t match my brand new, pretty top. The one that fits me perfect. I unstraddle - he’s done anyway, and reach for my purse still in his fist. Fingers still wrapped around the strap he refuses to relinquish until my heel grinds down on a pale, inner wrist. I twist my foot more than needed just to hear him moan. Those arms from the vacuum, Security. I let them take care of the rest, I got what I wanted.

I brush myself off, bottom to top and stand up straight into a frozen plateau of people staring. Just blinking, nothing else. I see CJ, Blondie and someone else I know but can’t name. My superhero universe blinks into reality and I feel naked. They all saw, watched as I became invincible and reclaimed myself. Who will make the next move?

In an instant the insecurity is gone and I know what to do. I’m feeling good so I show it, a sultry smirk on my face as I strut away in my blouse, jeans and heels. The plateau unfreezes and the scene moves again, security saying when I get back they want to talk to me. Behind me a familiar voice groans “That was fucking hot.”

TP On A Roll

Mr. Stinky and I recently attended a wedding for a few friends. It was lovely, namely because it was short and simple. It might be age, but now that I've been to a few and had my own, weddings have become kind of boring. Why doesn't anyone cartwheel down the aisle to "Highway to Hell"? Or release the doves (and a few hungry hawks!) inside the church so everyone's gotta dodge the screaming terror and hot, clumpy white-out bombs as the priest gives his exaltations, admonitions or whatever. It's always the same elaborate monkey show that is more according to the parents' demands than it is of the bride and groom's. On that note, even though I don't want to be one, I'm sure when it's my kids' turns to get married I'll be just as monsteriffic.

Anyway, it was a smaller wedding but we know I'm not here to talk about them. The story of the night belongs to me. It's all about me. Me, me, me.

I went to the washroom and a sweet Golden Girl... she looked like the short, little one entered as I was done and about to leave. She went into a stall and promptly came back out to tell me that it was out of toilet paper. I said OK, maybe she just wanted to let me know because nothing induces panic faster than realizing you're stuck without something to wipe. You sit and wonder if you can shake things off, if you'll have to wait for someone else to come in so that you can ask her to hand you a wad under the walls but then maybe no one needs to go so you could end up sitting on the can for way too long and raise peoples' suspicions that you had to take a dump and then you remember the little bit of tissue you have in your purse but of all the nights, this was the one time you left it in the care of your boyfriend or husband so you wouldn't have to wrangle peeing and holding on to it at the same time and so after about 5 minutes of thinking how you're going to Macgyer yourself out of this situation you just pull up your pants all the while wincing and hope someone doesn't come into the washroom and walk into your stall, realizing that you didn't wipe.

So I stood there and she became perplexed. Gesturing into the stall Golden Girl asked "Well aren't (pronounced ARE-ent) you going (GO-ingk) to change it?" My answer, full of elegance was a just as confused "Wha?" Apparently she thought that I worked for the restaurant and thus was responsible for supplying her cubicle with a fresh roll of 1-ply. Once I corrected her she became quite contrite and embarrassed. I graciously let her off the hook and returned to my table with a juicy story for everyone. Our table burst into laughter and before long everyone around knew what had happened and came by to ask me to check on the situation in the men's room. I also received quite a few apologies from the bride and groom but I'm not one to be offended, if anything I felt badly for the Golden Girl who would now be known for confusing the lone Asian guest dressed in a hot, cleavage baring top and stiletto heels as hired help.

Only if you slip a nice, crisp bill in my thong, baby!

Was she racist? Maybe, I don't know. Not used to the changing times? More likely. We both became part of the joke everyone will remember but for very different reasons.