With All Due Respect, You ARE a D-Bag.

I was in a mall store today that sold suits and rented tuxes.

Some preppy blonde douchebag proceeded to be douche-y and ignorant to the minimum-wage making sales staff because he wanted his RENTED tux to be shortened in the body (READ: major alteration to the construction of the RENTED jacket).

Approximation of douche-i-ness. Plus an entourage who reeked of cologne. Image Source.

The abused sales clerk tried to tell him they can make minor adjustments to the sleeves and pant hems, but not the jacket, as it is rented and isn't their property to cut/modify to that extent.

MY FAVOURITE (READ: Rage-enducing) MOMENT?
When aforementioned blonde douchebag got EXTRA snippy and started an ignorant, respectless tirade with the statement:

"With all due respect..."

People, don't be fucking stupid. If you mean to offend someone, don't start your passive-aggressive line with "No offense, but..."

or be completely and utterly disrespectful, but preface it with:

"With all due respect..."

While you gaze at your reflection in the mirror and swear at the sales staff of a rental store because you are the GODDAMN EMCEE of that wedding, and ANOTHER JACKET you own fits you better and you SIGNED A RENTAL AGREEMENT, and B!TCH, B!TCH, B!TCH. This guy was more of a bridezilla then I will EVER be.

*SIGH*

I made this shit. So image credit is MINE, bitches. No offense...

Also? I suck at returns. I leave them until the last minute, then turn around and spend MORE money in the store than the amount I returned. Fuck.

Also? I CANNOT extract myself from conversations I don't want to have. I talked about wedding bands for over 45 minutes with the sales lady who pressured me and told me the rings hardly ever go on sale at Michael Hill

(Srsly? You are a mall jeweler. You have pre-printed signs up every other week promoting a sale. Don't insult my intelligence.)

Could I say that to her? NO. I was ball-less and said I needed to think things over and blah blah blah. JESUS, MAN UP, STEPHANIE!

I also managed to end up talking to the Koodo sales rep about marriage, trust, relationships, and how overpriced those damn iPhones are. (At least I get points for that last one, since it was relevant). He was a nice guy... but who else seriously ends up in hour long off-topic conversations with sales clerks for such extended durations? If I made a friend out of it, great. If not... WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!?!???!

Also? I'd like to send a big shout out and fuck off to stress sweat. Dear laaaaawd I HATE that shit~!

Like me, but with slightly less MOOB. (Moob = man boob)

You know, so... you're typical mall outing. If YOU ARE ME.

/RANT.



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The Best Quote I've Ever Heard...

Goes like this:

"If we knew each other's secrets, what comfort we would find." — John Churton Collins

No need to feel ashamed, little kitty. S'okay.

_____

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Irrational Hatred #2 - Devil Spawn Thread

Some of you may be aware that I, sometimes, hold completely insane/maniacal/intense hatreds for relatively inane, everyday things. (Although, in fairness, Michael Bublé is f*cking annoying as f*ck! Inane nothing! GAH!).

These things typically result in an overwhelming and inexplicable outpouring of rage.

This little jean-label-thread-thing here is a hatred I have held for a loooooong time.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!

Those little threads? Devil spawn, I tell you. Some jeans have them on the back waistband, the pockets, the zipper, up the legs... (okay, not really, but whatever. I hate them).

Some people think that as long as the label is removed, all is well. Those people are WRONG.

Annoys the absolute FUCK dickens out of me.

If I am standing behind you in a line up somewhere and see those little buggers, I am SO tempted to try to rip them out by hand (in vain) to get them to disappear.

They.Drive.Me.Batshit.Crazy.Er.

I bought two new pairs of jeans the other night and the FIRST this I did was get the sharp-pointy scissors to disembowel the threads.

THREADS BE DAMNED!

It's amazing the emotion I hold for these things.
Sometimes my own weirdness even freaks ME out~!


So keep an eye on your waistbands and asses, folks. If I see them, YOUR ASS IS MINE. I can be anywhere and everywhere. And if there are threads, you are NOT safe.

Fair warning.

VICTORY IS MINE!! And yes, I got the jeans on sale. You guys know me BY NOW!

___

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When Paying For Bottle Service....

Make sure you get the last drop.

May or may not be me. Also? The button designated says "FLIRT".

WHAT?!?!

Like you haven't all done this at LEAST once before.

Oh... you haven't? Oh. Erm... okay.


Please disregard.






___

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Old Men & Socks

I know what you're thinking.

That title sounds mysteriously close to "old men and sex"... but you should get your bloody mind out of the gutter, sicko.

Wait, what? You weren't thinking that?

Okay, sorry.

I have made mention many a time within the last week or two to Feyoncé™ that old men have this need to pull their socks up to their armpits when wearing socks and running shoes (tennis shoes, sneakers, gym shoes, whatever the masses call them).

I absolutely do not understand this phenomenon, and trust me, it's EVERYWHERE.

Older men have a fear of shin exposure.

My thoughts?


If you wanted to wear pants, you should have worn pants, buddy.

The only other conclusion? Perhaps they think they look sexy in them, like this:

SPOILER ALERT: You do NOT look sexy like this in long socks.

I think I finally convinced my own (very youthful!) father that he should at least push them down a little... you know, schuschz them down a bit, so they don't look like lederhosen-gone-wild.


He also blew my mind by adopting "Jesus sandals" and possibly CROCS to take the garbage out, motherfuckers! CROCS! That is when I KNEW those things must be comfortable. I was happy to see him establish independence from his tube sock dependency.

It CAN be done, people of the blogosphere. He is walking proof. Walking proof without a sock tan up to his kneecaps. Thanks Dad!




I know you would never go the route of ankle socks, but I swear they are awesome with running shoes. 

You can't even see these mysterious socks with runners, but they prevent blisterage. LISTEN OLD MEN!

I think older men of the world should, nay, MUST free themselves of the chains that bind them - you know, the white tube socks that force their calves and ankles to sweat in this heat. 

Let your legs be free my friends! Embrace the sandal! There are so many months for you to be hunkered down in pants and socks and closed-in shoes!


Be FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

[EDIT: Compression stocking-wearers excluded!!]

But then again, don't bear too much toe cleavage. That's just gross.

Why I would never work with people's feet. *shudder*

Just find the balance, okay?






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Just Call Me Cruella...

So, for the betterment of our dog Schultz, and our fur-parenting abilities, we started  dog  human training AGAIN today with a new trainer.

In the past we had tried someone who worked for Petsmart.... let's just say that when you have a 150 lb. raging beast before you, clicking a little clicker and offering up a smidgeon of beef bratwurst-like-substance will NOT refocus the dog on walking nicely and NOT eating your arm/the arms of those around you/anything smaller than him (within range).

We tried McCann's dog training. They claim to be the best. They are very confident in what they do. In an indoor, controlled environment... With a Halti or Gentle Leader... That he learned to outsmart/outwit/outplay/outlast in three days, with the quick snap of his face back and forth.

They refused to do training at our house. They said it's the same either way (trust me, if you have ever been on either side of our front door, you will know that this is NOT the case... "Indoor McCann Schultz" is a calm, tired dog. Beastly McBark-erson at the door is a whole different ball game).

When I called to say everything we were told to do was failing, that despite our efforts, we were failing and he was about to vote us off the island, I was kindly told that we should take pride in the fact that we "gave him a second chance on life".

WTF? Really?

If we had been on Survivor, we'd have been SCREWED, I tell you! Screwed!

They then suggested trying a prong collar on him.

This is a prong collar:

I have two words for you: OUCH.

That looks fucking awfully painful to me. Plus? Yeah, he was totally starved and abused by his former owners, and his neck is a trigger for him. He has an intense and awful fear response to being restrained by his neck (like, say, by his collar... or a PRONG collar... jaysus).

Thank goodness the vet said that was a ridiculous idea, to avoid triggering his neck area, and to try a Brad Pattinson-method trainer to see if that could help. So that's what we did.

This is the collar he has:

I haz feet.

Much kinder. Much friendlier. And damn effective, too!

Our trainer? Totally no nonsense. No treats. No garbage, but effective as hell. You can tell she loves dogs, and takes no guff.

Worst part? My injuries from the day:

The most hideous, hard to look at part? The vinyl kitchen floor.

And who were they from?

It's really hard to say who is more adorable. Or more furry.

Yeah, this adorable little thing. Not the Dane. I thought she'd be crated while we focussed on the big boy. Turns out I was oh-so-very-wrong. She needs the training just as badly as him, because I am a softy non-alpha dog.


Anyway, the reason I am cruel? We can't talk to the dogs for TWO WHOLE WEEKS! That's an eternity to a crazy person like me who talks to them all day long. You know.... about the stock market, how bloated my stomach is, how cheesy the pre-written vows are from the reverend-lady, how bad my feet smell.

You know. IMPORTANT things like that. THINGS THAT MUST BE SAID.

I have a feeling I am going to be blogging every goddamned day next week to   save my sanity   save what's left of my sanity   force SOMEONE to listen to me   feel like I am talking to someone. The penalty for talking to them is 7 push-ups. I totally want to stick with it, because I know it is training ME and helping THEM, but damn is it hard.

But I am gonna be RIPPED for the wedding. HA!

HOTTTT.

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What The F*ck, Exercise? Seriously?

I figured now that I've  put weight back on  getting married in the fall  decided to get healthier, I'd bust out the ole sports bra and start moving and shakin' again.

I find, most often, the hardest part is   getting out of bed   putting down the bag of Doritos   brushing my teeth and leaving the house   actually putting on the workout gear, and running shoes. Once that's done  and the Dorito crumb have been brushed off somewhat   it's easy-peasy-lemon-squeez-y to get to the workout facility/gym/bed.

So... uh... yeah, anyway... I actually GET my ass to the gym. I forget my own yoga mat (ALWAYS) and have the guts to put my bare feet on a potentially-fungus-covered public-use yoga mat. Socks are off. Sitting on my arse bones waiting for class to start.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Wishing.

Not to be confused with a Jack Johnson song. Much less trippy-esque, much more potential foot fungus. Maybe even butt fungus. Yoga pants are only so thick, people.

Your ass could be next.

Then, after some more waiting, the instructor doesn't show up. W.T.F. Seriously?? ....REALLY?? Seriously? I put in all this effort to   cease consuming Doritos  get my ass down here and you can't be bothered to show up to your teaching post? Not even call? Just let the room full of us sit there like assholes, waiting, wishing?

Puts the "LAY" in Frito-Lay?

See, the Doritos appear to be the better choice. Or, at the very least, the most INTERESTING choice.

So, fine. Not to be discouraged,   though all it takes is one instance of bullshit to make me want to throw my hands in the air, sulk like a victim and never return   I head back to yoga. To find out that it has been indefinitely cancelled. SERIOUSLY?? (See people, this is why this blog is named the way it is).

Fine, f*ck you skinny yoga beeyotch.

I'll try Zumba. I tried a fitness studio elsewhere, in another town, with KICKASS Zumba results.

Back in my hometown, after eating a few bags of Twizzlers, I decided to brush the cobwebs off my gym membership card. And try Zumba once more.

Oh lordy.

My assumption was that you had to have rhythm to instruct these classes. You know, at least keep to the beat. I know, I am so fucking demanding, aren't I?

The instructor couldn't even dance. Hear that? COULDN'T.EVEN.DANCE.  Everyone around me was named Mae, and Ethel, and Myrtle. (No, not the turtle). Fuck. Really? Seriously?



Thought I would give another instructor a chance. Got on my gear. Went to the gym. Waited for Zumba class to start. No instructor showed. No call. Nothing. Front desk staff said they had no idea what was going on.

DAMMIT.

Seriously?

I'm  expanding because of it  lovin' it. Goddamn dollar drink days.

I'm going to McDonald's to get a large Coke. I'm pretty sure the 82 grams of sugar will make me feel better. And help wash down these Doritos.

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Woolly Mammoth Much?

So, have you ever accidentally skipped a Saturday's worth of brow plucking... only to realize in your tacky mirrored closet doors in the bright sunlight (as you let the dogs outside) that you have somehow morphed into a woolly mammoth?

If you said no, you're a fucking liar.

Or a dude.

Approximation. Slightly less tusk-y.

Also? The person who invented the 5-times or 10-times magnification mirror is one sadistic motherfucker.

Have you ever had a day where you kicked some ass at work and felt great? Did a workshop and felt like you accomplished a lot? Had fun being a social butterfly, gettin' out there, feeling good? Then looked in one of those goddamn mirrors?

GAH.

Some things are just not meant to be seen that close up. Or in high definition.

Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck. Just IMAGINE his EAR HAIR!

Moments like this make me wish that:

A) I had a home waxing kit
B) I had the balls to actually use the wax and personally, painfully tear it off of my face without losing flesh
C) Spend my life savings on total body laser hair removal. Give or take a few regions.


I'm pretty sure that I need that dude that drives the blade-sharpening truck around the neighbourhood (with creepy music) to help restore what once was back to my tweezers. They are currently shuddering in the bathroom drawer.

You know the guy... he preys on suckers like me and Feyoncé™ who are all green 'n shit and use a push blade mower. You'd recognize our house by the uneven, patchy grass and general inability to cut down that wheat grass weedy-shizz.

Anyway, gonna have to set "tweeze" as a recurrent event in the ol' Google calendar. With reminders. Reminders, people.

Next thing I know, my nose hair is going to stake it's own country on my face. Fuck.

But with more flag... (image)

Whatever. It makes it more of a challenge to see my real beauty.

Just bring your machetes, bitches.

;-)

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Hot & Sweaty

Awwwww yeeeeeeah, boooooyeeeeeeeeee.

I went clubbin' tonight. And though I am Canadian, I don't mean baby seals.

OH! HAI! I iz layin' around, bein' Canadian and adorable. What's that long club-like thing in yer hand? *innocent eyes... tearing up...*

I went to the good ole local dance bar. I didn't want to go, because it often caters to the "older" crowd... then I sort of realized that I AM that demographic.

Though, admittedly, better than a bunch of 19 year olds grinding up on each other.

The DJ had the nerve to play "Saturday Night" by Whigfield... and mention that shit was on the charts in 1995. Which, if you were wondering, was over half my lifetime ago. FUCK. Thanks DJ.

I DO remember being at an "all ages" club dancing to that song. Feyoncé™ bragged that it wasn't half HIS lifetime ago. I just concluded it means he is REALLY old.

So, as much as I joke about the crowd, I did indeed feel pretty good that I wasn't the oldest by a decade.

I shook my booty. I incorporated moves from my Zumba class. I sweat and realized I don't have the endurance I once did as a desperate single girl in my twenties.

A polyester shirt (What, don't hate, that shit is CLUB GOLD), 2 feet of smothering hair, new metallic earring that stuck to my neck sweat, and boots over jeans because I left my funky sandals somewhere else over the weekend: All things conducive to cooking yourself from the inside out.

I was a sweat factory. I'd like to think it was a stunning "dewy" look, but in truth, my eyelids were even sweating. MY EYELIDS, people. Feyoncé™ joked that next time he would have to wear a toque and scarf to experience the same effect. Pffff. Men.

Not to be confused with C & C Music Factory, or their song "Gonna Make You Sweat" which I ALSO remember dancing to in or around 1992. I had that TAPE... word to your mother.

I realized that a lot of my old favourites are fucking RETRO now. Dear Gawd.

I requested my new favourite song - the explicit version of Enrique Iglesias' "Tonight I'm 'LOVING' You", and they played the clean version. Feyoncé™ requested "More" by Usher, but it was not meant to be. Probably for the best in the end, because I probably would have overheated... much like a 31 year old car.

It WAS good to get out there and shake my ass again. It's been a long, long time.

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Now Flavoured With Bacon!

My aunt-in-law sent me this video and *I* think it is adorable... not sure if Feyoncé™ felt the same about it, but my parents got a kick out of it.

Anyway, here goes:



Aaaaaaaaaaaaaw!


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I'm not dead... sort of...

Hi everyone!

I know, you've probably all assumed that I have left the blogosphere and collective interwebz, on a quest to find the golden chalice, instead running into car trouble in Albuquerque, becoming stranded, dehydrated, living off of a raven carcass, all the while drinking my own urine to stay alive.

Well... you would be partly right.

Anyway, life has been very interesting for the past six weeks. I have no abandoned the blog, just had to focus on things like carcasses, urine and gold.

I'm sure you understand.

You know, all two of you that still bother to come back and read. Okay, okay, sorry mom. All three of you.

I promise to be back, with tales from afar. Dogs with PTSD. Learning how to grow... into a larger-sized Diva cup.

(Only some of this is true).

(Okay, maybe all of it).

I don't have the ability to include a self-portrait with Fergus (the dead raven) on the side of the road, so you'll just have to trust me for now.

And no, I am not tapping my fingertips together like Mr. Burns, eerily whispering the word "EXCELLENT..."

(Okay, it's true, I am).

I shall return... sooner than we all think.

I can see a very burly, terrifying man approaching in a tow truck now. Wish me luck!

_____

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Blonde Jokes

Compliments of my niece....


What do you call a blonde who dyes her hair brown?



Artificial Intelligence.





What do you call a blonde with two brain cells?





Pregnant.






How do you get a one-armed blonde out of a tree?




Wave to her.





What does a blonde owl say?











What, what?






Why did the blonde scale the chain-link fence?








To see what was on the other side.

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MIA

Life has been handing me a shit ton of lemons lately... and damned if I don't know how to make lemonade (plus, who wants to be exposed to dangerous quantities of all that sugar before their wedding? P.S. - screw you McDonald's dollar drink days... my belly has consumed much too much Coca Cola for one human.)

I'm taking a blogging leave of absence this week... maybe.

Feel free to check out my most popular posts:

I Slayed The Butterfinger!

Oscar The Grouch Gets A Poop Slushy


Have You Ever?


Holy Divorce Batman!


Sparkling Clean Colon

Me & Coke: An Approximation

I have a sudden, unexplainable urge for Coke now... hmmmm...
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I Love Andy Samberg - Part 1

IT'S TRUE!

His face says it all.

After years of writing off Saturday Night Live for not being funny any more, I flipped it on when Feyoncé™ was gone and I was bored out of my mind. (Mind you, this was before my intense internet addiction and affliction for blogging and bloggers, so I still did things 'offline' at that point in my life... *SIGH*).

He did a music video skit about Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (pronounced mah-MOOD ah-mah-dih-nee-ZHAHD). I was actually belly laughing HARD as he lounged on the piano and Samberg romanced him with his witty lyrics in "Iran So Far".




Oh, and did I mention, ADAM LEVINE and JAKE GYLLENHAAL are in this, too? So hilarious and awesome.

The lyrics (Not owned by me - all rights reserved to NBC/SNL, etc.):

They say true love comes only once in a lifetime
And even though we're from opposite ends of the earth,
My heart tells me you're the one for me, Mahmoud

I remember when it started -
Saw you on the news
You were hatin' gays, I was eatin' food
But I was feeling you, and even though I disagreed with almost everything you said
You ain't wrong to me, so strong to me, you belong to me
Like a very hairy Jake Gyllenhaal to me
Mahmoud makes my heart beat right out of my chest
My mind says no, but my body says yes
Nuclear threat? The only threat I see
Is the threat of you not coming home with me
Our love for each other's like when atoms collide
Can't express how I feel, Hey, yo Adam let's ride

And Iran, Iran so far away
Is your home, but in my heart you'll stay

He ran, for the president of Iran
We ran together to a tropical island
My man, Mahmoud is known for rilin'
Smilin', if he can still do it, then I can
They call you weasel, they say your methods are medieval
You can play the Jews I can be your Jim Caviezel
S&M, nestlin' when we're wrestlin'
You can be the port that I park my vessel in
So I try to mute the tv but you can still see me
With your sleepy brown eyes, butter pecan thighs
And your hairy butt...
Yeah

And Iran, Iran so far away
Come home, and in my arms you'll stay

Used to look at the stars and dream
'Round the world same stars were seen
And a twinkle in your eyes Mahmoud
Talk smooth to me, without a tie
Your pants high waisted, damn so fly!
We can take a trip to the animal zoo
And laugh at all the funny things that animals do
Like Eugene you got me straight trippin' Boo
Hope you look in my eyes and say "I'm trippin', too"
You say Iran don't have the bomb but they already do
You should know by now, it's you

And Iran, Iran so far away
Is your home, but in my heart you'll stay

You crazy for this one Mahmoud
you can deny the holocaust all you want
But you can't deny that there's something between us
I know you say there's no gays in Iran
But you're in New York now baby
It's time to stop hiding,
And start living...

One

*Jakey appears*

There is hotness overload in the video... Adam Levine dressed in white, looking all smoulderingly hot and serious while he sings along to this ridiculous song... Jake G. making a hot little cameo... Andy Samberg with his passionate expression of lust for the Iranian President...

Adam Levine looking white hot in his white suit, singing with Andy Samberg. Loves it!!

This was what got me back into Saturday Night Live, but more so had me in love with Andy Samberg!

Andy Samberg lookin' good in slippers.

Little did I know this would only be the tip of the Samberg iceberg for my love of all things Andy...

Part 2 - To Be Continued...

_______

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April Fool? Or Wii Schooled?

So yeah... Feyoncé™  and I were talking about if we had ever fallen victim to full blown April Fools Day trickery.

I recalled a hazy memory of my sister's failed attempt to cover my dad's toilet bowl with clear plastic cling wrap, but I could have dreamt it. I'm not very accurate when it comes to childhood memories. (Self-preservation, perhaps? Just kidding, Mom).

So we basically had a brief, not noteworthy conversation.

I said that I thought the trickery part of the day only went until 11am or noon or something, and Feyoncé™  thought that I was trying to trick him. I honestly thought that was true.

Anyway, turns out I got fooled on April 1st.

I turned on the Wii Fit balance board... and the goddamn thing said
"Balance... Board... Not... Working"... and I starting thinking, aw fuck shit crap darn, I don't want to have to pay to get the damn thing fixed, I wonder if there even is somewhere to get it repaired... will I have to ship it somewhere...?

And then it pops on a damn star hat and says "April Fool's!!"

This appeared word by word... effectively schooling AND pissing me off at the same time. Goddamned Wii.

So, I got jacked by a bloody children's game accessory. (After getting chin electrocuted once before... I think it's out to get me).

Then? Was supposed to visit with a friend, went out to my car in the garage, and realize I had left the trunk open for two days.

BATTERY.COMPLETELY.DEAD.

So I had no boost, no jumper cables, and no one to help me push the car out of the garage.

SO I freakin' inadvertently played an April Fools joke on myself. Awesome.

It only stung for a moment.

And yes, I realize it's mid-May.

I'm just MIA and scrounging Blogger for unfinished draft posts. Thanks Blogger!

___

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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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*Blogger Intimidation

No, I don't actually mean the host of our little corners of the interwebs.

I mean other Bloggers.


I have been expanding my reading list and finding new bloggers (somewhat randomly) and I am realizing that the more hilarity I read from other people, the more idea-less/writer's block-full I seem to be.

Sometimes a good idea will hit me while I am on the toilet, or in the car,  and  or just about to fall asleep, and I make a fleeting, useless mental note to start a draft when I am back at the computer.

That never happens, so instead, you get photos of my junk drawer. Literary genius, I say!

Then I read other people's blogs and see how funny they are and feel like I might as well roll up shop, draw the metal bars across the windows, pack my stuff up and go do something productive OFFLINE. *GASP*

Source: SomeECards

I've been "getting around" to vacuuming upstairs since... uh... forever ago. Not doing so well there.
Gaining weight? Actually doing well, thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, I'd really appreciate it if you other bloggers stopped being so damn funny/engaging/witty/quick/crazy. It would make it A LOT easier on me.

Or ALOT easier (thanks Allie Brosh):

The above is the work of Allie Brosh from her awesome blog Hyperbole And A Half.

Off to go try to be creative...

____

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Hard To Buy For Mom? I've Got The Perfect Mother's Day Deal For YOU!

Have you found that Mother's Day has snuck up on you somehow this year?

Tired of the old lame bourbon & cigarettes daisies and teapot go-to gifts for mom?

Well, well, let me tell you that I have found the utmost thoughtful/creative gift-giving for your mom this Mother's Day. It's elegant. It's simple. And despite what you may think of my language or taste, it will not compromise her dignity.

As you may well be aware, I am a girl that loves a good deal. I've previously written about my spa deal experience as well as my other spa deal threesome experience. Perhaps you read my Old Navy post and my irrational love of all things on sale (not in my size)?


These new deal sites like Groupon, TeamBuy, WagJag, Snaggies and DealTicker get me all warm and fuzzy in the pants. Let's say that one purchase alone saved me about $700 plus on wedding flowers.

So, needless to say, I scan these sites regularly. I found this gem. And I thought of you guys.

Oh, and of Mom, of course!


So, MOM, this one's for you:

If you can't read it, it reassures you that the new system brings "elegance", "simplicity" and "dignity" to the procedure of having a hose put up your arse.

I know you are all likely SORELY disappointed that there is a maximum of one voucher per person for the colon cleansing of your lifetime, but never fear! You CAN buy more as gifts!

Get one for mom! Gramma, too! Boss seeming a little anal-retentive lately? Gift her/him as well! Think how dignified and elegant they'll feel!

You can thank me later.

p.s. Is anyone else intrigued by the "+ More" in the spa's name?? Just me?

___

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I Dropped The Goddamned Ball Once More...

So... for some time I have been pondering actually purchasing a nice little dot com domain to go along with this ridiculous blogging habit of mine.

Feyoncé™ was always like "WHY?" when I said I should pay money and register this Seriously Really witty shizznat*.

Well folks, I took a little lookie-loo, and someone else registered this shizznit* in February. I dropped the ball and I am not amused. Another Canadian, no less, too.

And I know there is a multitude of fonts and that I didn't invent the goddamn ellipses... but STILL... seeing someone else's blog with the title "Seriously... Really?" in Arial italics in the header doesn't make me happy in the pants, as Aunt Becky would say.

So, sucks to be me. It's not like anyone clicks on my ads. Or like I'll be famous. Or like this is my livelihood or anything. But it would have been neat to have a dedicated URL. I realize it's my own damn fault, and it doesn't really matter. A blog is a blog is a blog, and I never registered.

I also just want to be whiny. So there's that, too.

Oh well, early bird gets the worm. (However, as noted by a friend, S, the second mouse gets the cheese. So now I want cheese).

~~leaves laptop and forages fridge for cheese... "mmmmmmm"~~

*I am not a "homey", nor socially knowledgeable, nor a Snoop Dogg fan, therefore I know not the difference between shizznit and shizznat. Deal with it. Word.
____

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Inspired By A Meatbag

Sending a shout out to my pal, Organic Meatbag. (Glad yer pup is enjoying spring!)

Question for you all:

What's the difference between a white plastic bag and Michael Jackson?












Wait for it...








Okay....






What's the difference between a white plastic bag and Michael Jackson?




One's white, plastic, and dangerous for children to play with... and the other is used at the grocery store.

I suppose there IS suffocation risk...

WHAT?!?! Too soon? Not soon enough?



You Know I'm Bad, I'm Bad-
You Know It
(Bad Bad-Really, Really Bad)

You Know I'm Bad, I'm Bad-
Come On, You Know
(Bad Bad-Really, Really Bad)

And The Whole World Has To Answer Right Now Just To Tell You Once Again,
Who's Bad . . .?

_______

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StephanieC's Car Tips

Car Tips for Savvy Women (& Men)

(Also refer to: Top 11 Tips: Become An Awesome Winter Driver!)

- Mechanics do not find it particularly cute or endearing when you refer to car problems with the words "thingy" "light thingy" "exclamation point light thingy" or "touchy brakes". You may also discover that you feel like a tool when uttering these words/phrases. They are also thoroughly unhelpful.

- Thank the gawds for that beeping noise "thingy" that reminds your stupid arse that you have, once again, forgotten to turn off your headlights.
Note to HONDA: Please make a similar noise for leaving the trunk open for longer than, say, a day, so as to avoid missing coffee with a friend because the driver was too stupid to realize she [read: ME] left the trunk open for two days in the garage with the intention of removing a bag of dog food. (Resulting in a dead battery. OBVIOUSLY).

- Some people use a parking brake.
Note this.
When you are trying to figure out why your car will not move from it's holdless parking spot in front of the mechanic's, stop revving and think for a moment. Then check the parking brake. Put the car BACK in PARK before removing the parking brake. Drive as normal.

- Always have a set of jumper cables. Never depend on your significant other for them, especially if he/she travels, isn't home very much/avoids you/points and laughs when you leave your trunk open for 2 days.

- Be sure to call your father and ask how to connect the jumper cables/generally what to do/find out how you managed to be so mechanically and automobile inept, despite his mechanic's license and your sister's penchant for shop classes.

- Believe the "low fuel" light. That shit doesn't lie. Usually.

Confucius say: "He who does not see low fuel light will walk a long road to understanding". Okay, I totally made that shit up. OBVIOUSLY.

- Do not agree to flash your boobs for a free ride to the nearest gas station, when proposed on the side of the road. The offering party will likely snicker and drive off without you.

- Make sure your cell phone is charged. Don't rely on your car charger, especially if you've left your trunk open for days.

Look Ma, no hands... operating the car. Also? Smooooooth phone.

- Remember that a bluetooth headset is NOT hands-free if you must search for it for 15 minutes, in order to fish it out from the bottom of your purse with one hand.
(It is also not hands free if you need to unlock your cell phone with a series of numbers, navigate through a menu, select a synching option, and mess around until it is finally functional all the while driving.)
Plan ahead for crap like that, idiot. Also, be aware that many GPS units have built-in bluetooth.

That's it for now.

_____

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How Do You Know? Trust Me, I KNOW.

So, in what can only be described as a loss of 121 minutes of my life, Feyoncé and I watched the unusually-stabby-rage-y-feeling inducing crap film called "How Do You Know" last night.

It had all of the components a few of the components  a component  some of the components to make a decent film:

• Paul Rudd
• Reese Witherspoon
• Owen Wilson

I love Reese! I love Paul! I am happy that Owen is doing much better, after his suicide attempt a few years back.

I know that you will want those 121 minutes of your life back.

But it WAS.JUST.AWFUL.  For the first 40 minutes, I kept telling Feyoncé that the line/idea/segment/part of the movie was unnecessary, ridiculous, pointless, not-at-all believable, painful to watch, or out-of-line and/or slightly demeaning in some ways to the strong character Reese plays.

My personal opinion? About the first 100 minutes of the movie were what you normally see in the "deleted scenes" special edition section of a DVD, because it was irrelevant and boring.

The last 20 minutes were bearable. Owen had a few pretty funny one liners. That was it.

*sigh*

It brought out rage close to Michael Bublé levels.

And we all know THAT can't be good for me. Or Feyoncé. Or you, dear friends.

Quick summary of all that is StephanieC:

• I have been feeling very shitty emotionally and physically the past few days.  
• I have been searching for literally hours and hours and hours and hours trying to find a honeymoon that fits for us, that is unique, and it is driving me crazy(ier).
• I ordered my bridesmaids' dresses.
• Some door-to-door asshole rang the door THREE times on Good Friday morning, while Feyoncé was on a work call in the basement and I was trying to get my bearings while falling out of bed.                You would think a large, unruly Great Dane STANDING UP ON THE INTERIOR OF THE DOOR would deter someone from at least the SECOND doorbell ring, but, NO.  You have no idea how much effort it takes for me to try to get him wrangled and locked away, just to tell you that I am not interested in your cookbooks/religion/fundraising sausage/overpriced chocolate bars/notice that there is a potentially-fatal gas leak and we need to leave the premises immediately . It's not worth even answering the door.  Once Feyoncé got there (while I was restraining the great beast) she asked if he had been sleeping (well you didn't really give a shit one way or the other, didja now?? HMM?)!

Don't bother to ring a second or third time. Just run.

He's sweet inside, but even I would run from a face like that looking back at me AT EYE LEVEL, if I was schlepping door-to-door.

• Icing on the cake? Feyoncé hasn't been feeling well either, so he went to lay down for a bit. And someone else came by door-to-door.  A ringin' away.  *CUE DOGS BARKING THEIR HEADS OFF*.   I struggled beside Schultz to get door-front window real estate, so my face was visible in the doorway and I waved the guy off.   That's right.   Made a *shooing* motion.   At least it worked, and he didn't have to see my pajama pants. Or smell my breath.

I'm holding out on writing any more blog stuff until I get out of this mental pissy state.
Or until Cesar Milan can come here and teach me calm assertive leadership when it comes to strangers at the door.

That last picture of Schultz is sort of helping a bit...

____

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Glade, Febreze & Britney = Poison To The Senses

Now, first off, I'd like to say that I am pissed that my secret boyfriend happened to produce a segment on his show making fun of air fresheners on the very same day that I was mentally compiling a post about the same thing.

I'm also pissed that his show aired twice and I only happened to see it last night (I still love you, Stephen Colbert).

The item(s) in question? Air Fresheners. I will also take it a step further and include "fabric refreshers".

Now, I have a sensitive nose. I can smell smoke from miles away, nasty perfume from quite a distance, chemical and cleaner smells make me feel ill.

That leads me to question ... who the hell willingly and intentionally sprays some combination of potentially toxic (or at the very least, probably not HEALTHY-TO-INHALE) chemicals into the air and takes a huge, lung-filling breath of that air?

You've all seen the commercials. To me, it's a better-perfumed version of spraying Windex or Fantastik cleaner, then leaning in to suck up all that is unnatural/chemical based/potentially toxic.

Those Febreze fabric refresher commercials show a mom sniffing her nocturnal-emission-aged son's sheets, showing a face of disgust, then being promptly informed she can freshen that shit up.

KID: "UUUh Mom?" *squirms in chair* "You might not want to pur your face in that..."

Would you ever consider spraying a can of chemicals and immediately inhaling? Unless you were George Carlin using whipped cream and doing "whippits"? No good can come from this.

Also? Last I checked you can wash coats, and bath mats, too. Man, this commerical AND PRODUCT pisses me right off.

Are you that fahcking lazy you need to spray down your coat? Seriously? I mean, really?

Mind you, my house always smells like dogs (and sometimes fried onions/omelletes), but I'd still rather spare myself exposure to a can full of "vanilla lavender" chemicals in a can.

And no, I don't wear perfume, either.

Febreze on anything other than an attempt to conceal the urine smell on a chaise that a puppy may or may not have peed on is just not okay.

Also? Mattresses that have that aroma that Rihanna talks about in her latest song. HA! Just kidding.

Finally, that Britney Spears and Rihanna combo is awful. Someone took pity on Britney and included her in S&M, and let's just say that Rihanna has a real right to be pissed off. The song has been butchered. Someone needs to tell Britney to unplug her goddamned nose when she sings.

Be prepared for ear bleeding:

Listen to the atrocity here.


So there ya go. Nice random post for a Wednesday.

____

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