Oh. Hai.

So... yeah, I've been here.

Oh, shit, looks like Blogger ate my last two month's worth of every-other-day posting.

Geesh, how could that happen?

Didn't you guys notice? It's totally not that I have been actually NOT writing anything on the blog. No, that's just crazy talk. Crazy talk.

I mean, normally auto-draft comes in and saves everything, but... uh... Blogger totally ate the posts. Posts, I must say, that were the highest caliber of writing you could ever hope to see on these pages. Brilliance. Wit. You would have laughed. Cried. Stopped for a moment, holding yourself in the fetal position on the floor.

Also? I know this is shocking, but I am a super anxious person.
I know, I know. I bet you're floored.

Anyway, just been spending the last week researching cars and SUVs and flying dogs as cargo and generally not sleeping or eating... but most certainly losing my mind. You know, the usual.

After all the discussions, it came down to logistics:

Meet our new Great Dane-approved SUV. Also, please stop judging me, the other dog is just peeing. I thought I would refrain from adding dog poop to this post. But just this one.

So, yeah, I'm pretty sure my dogs are the most expensive dogs in the world. I hope they enjoy the tour of the Canadian countryside. They had damn well better, because I am guessing that me and the hubs won't be speaking to each other by day two.

We've got a wee drive ahead of us.

Thank goodness for satellite radio.

________

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Kijiji is a little terrifying.

For any of you who aren't cheapskates who like to avoid the hassles and bullshit that accompany trying to sell anything on eBay, I'd like to introduce Kijiji. The cheap bastard's way of posting classifieds.

I sold my old car on there once. It seems like an easy option. I mean - who reads the real newspaper anymore? I don't. (Then again I avoid all news for that matter, so maybe lots of folks read the paper and I am just incredibly out of touch...)

I just tried to post a wanted ad, and lo and behold the f_ckers deleted my ad. And it wasn't even because I was seeking this:

Never underestimate the power of punctuation. And my crazy, overtired imagination. (Anyone else picturing zombie babies? No? Just me?)

Kijiji and eBay just piss me off.

Oh, happy easter bunny crucifixion day, too. Don't want to be rude and overlook that.

_______

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Did You Hear? Apparently I'm Rich...

I know I wow you all with stories of dog doo, my exploits of staying awake past 11pm, and my fear of Walmart employees smoking beside the propane machine, but I have news for you.

Apparently, I am LOADED.

And not loaded off of Skinny Girl Sangria. No, my dear friends, not THAT good kind of loaded.

I mean, I clearly must make huge bank. Be rolling in dough. I think I should be wiping my butt with twoonies. Hell, twenties.

Why, you ask?

Because I can afford THIS:

My sexy thumb, for scale. And I think that is mothereffing barley which has gluten.

What's that you say?

"What's the big deal?"

Well... in my foolish attempt to secure a low-cost meal option at the grocery store, I decided to get the medium size of bean salad. Thinking it was sold by the size (like the horrendous greasy potato wedges I ALSO ate), I picked the middle of the road.

AND WAS HORRIFIED when I saw the label right before I was rung through the cash.

BEANS ARE HEAVY.

I am sure your bowels can agree with me on this one. So when sold by the weight...
 

What, is there Grey Poupon in there or something? WTF?

Seriously? REALLY? For bean salad (with or without a fancy name label)? SERIOUSLY? 

F_ck.


All I could think of was this:




Talk about brilliant marketing. Add some vinegar, olive oil, and salad counter leftovers, and mark the price up TEN TIMES. I assumed once it was scooped and labelled it was mine, so I didn't ask her to put it back.

I even had all the f_cking ingredients at home.You know, except for the effort part.

So don't hate.

Also? Don't order the large unless you are having Cristal champagne and having your driver take you home in your Rolls Royce/Hummer limousine hybrid.

Seriously.

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My Dog Is An Alcoholic

So, our Dane has post traumatic stress disorder from his horrific treatment before he came to us (No! Wait! The post gets funny, don't click away, I swear this is great).

So after many failed training attempts because of his fear and triggers, the vet agreed that a temporary medication could be helpful in minimizing his fear, while letting him learn with our new C.E.T. dog trainer.

We did it. (Go ahead, I'll wait while you judge me. S'ok.)

Yes, my dog is being treated for anxiety. He has clearly spent too much time around me.

We are now discovering that this is seriously going to curb Schultz' (not Schiltz) hard partying ways, and his weekend social pub crawls. Take a closer look:

Good thing they warned us!!!

Sorry my little (huge) furry buddy, looks like mommy won't be making you any more martinis any time soon.

It's for the best.

Damn, this tough love is so hard.

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Recumbent Bike From Hell

I have a feeling that when I say I don't care much for exercise, I am not alone.

I mean, don't get me wrong... I know it's really good for me, I want to maintain a  somewhat  not-really-even-close  pretend  healthy body, it's crucial to my well being, and I  DO  don't want to exist as a couch potato.

But it's SO HARD to motivate myself to exercise. The 30-Day Shred has now become the 90-Day Shred (every third day... you do the math! HA!). It's almost approaching the 120-Day-I-Exercise-Sporadically-Not-Quite-"Shred".

I have a wedding dress I must fit in to, but I hear the Hershey Eggies and Cadbury Mini Eggs calling my name. The Bulk Barn had me on a watch list.

So I decide to mosey on down to a little hole-in-the-wall gym.

It's desolate. It has random tables throughout. It has some ancient gym equipment.

And two recumbent bikes (what, don't judge, a regular bike is NOT a woman's friend. It hurts the junk. There, I said it).

NORMAL person recumbent exercise biking? riding? cycling.

I get my gym gear on. I try to do some Jillian Michaels' warm-up moves by memory. Big muscle-y dudes are watching and judging me. I fail with my memory recall, and half-ass my moves.

I am quite certain I look like I am mildly challenged.

So not PC, but yet, so accurate.

I proceed to the recumbent bike, I get on, adjust the seat.... and find there are no fucking foot straps to hold my feet in.

Seriously?... REALLY?

Who presents so much of a threat to themselves and a gym's insurance policy, that they require restraint-less foot pedals on a bike that doesn't have direct downward gravity on its side?

For once, not me.

For the next 35 minutes, I struggle to keep my feet from flying off the foot pedals.

I was water bottle-less, watching eleventeen year olds silently batting eyes at each other and holding hands on a muted television tuned to MTV, while they pumped 106.1 K-Lite FM radio in the background.

The soundtrack to my workout?

Kissed By A Rose, by Seal.

Christ.

With a little more "light hits from the 80s, 90s and today" and a little less cowbell/enthusiasm/interest. And slightly less feathers.

This is why I hate exercising.

That is all.

____

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