Dear Person... & Cyclists Terrify Me

Dear Person who walked their dog to the top of my driveway, allowing said dog to poop in between my car and the garage door,

Congratulations on an incredible level of passive-aggressiveness.

Very bold, and very baffling. My front door is literally steps away.

You are a fucktard. We clean up our dogs' crap without fail, and the one time Feyoncé™ ran out of bags (after 3 consecutive dog poops), he walked the dogs home quickly, grabbed a bag, and LITERALLY SPRINTED BACK to scoop the mess.

So go fuck yourself.

I clean up enough dog poop on my own.


Piss-off-ed-ly,
Me

~

Dear Hypothetical Old Man on a bicycle who I possibly didn't see this morning as I backed out of my driveway going 4 km/hr,

I swear to mother-effing-Jebus I checked both sides of the road, my mirrors, my rear view. I constantly remind myself that although the street I live on is not busy, there are always people/kids/cyclists/dogs out and about, so to be very aware.

Your hypothetical white hair and blue shirt somehow manifested into the stealthiest camouflage I have ever seen. My windows were even open and I never saw or heard anything, except my own completely startled hypothetical voice, apologizing wholeheartedly and calling you sir.

I looked and I have no idea how I didn't hypothetically see you. I am very sorry. Very, very sorry. I still feel awful and probably more afraid than you were of my meep-meep sedan. The fear is increased by the fact I still understand how I hypothetically didn't see you. I vow to be EVEN MORE terrified of driving now than I was before.

I swear I looked everywhere I needed to, yet failed.

Apologetically (hypothetically),


Me


p.s. Did you come back with a small dog and poop in my driveway? You or the dog? Just curious...


~



Dear Cyclists,


I was going to write you a letter a few days ago and didn't. This morning's hypothetical cyclist incident got me thinking.


YOU TERRIFY ME when you are on the road. I know you are supposed to be, you are allowed to be, I know you have every right to be, and I honestly try my best to watch out for you, give wide leeway around you, and basically stay the fuck away from you as much as I can, because... well,

YOU TERRIFY ME.

I DO NOT WISH TO HURT YOU.

Also? If you are going to ride on the road, then you should be ADHERING TO TRAFFIC RULES, and be wearing a MOTHERLOVING HELMET for Chrissakes. (I saw a man with his skull cracked open, who surely died, from a bicycle accident. I don't blame the man and didn't see the actual accident, but I would like to think that his chances would have improved with a helmet). That being said, drivers can't be DERP DERP and not be aware.

Don't run stop signs or stop lights. It's MOTHERLOVING dangerous. And it makes you less predictable, increasing the danger factor.

Ride on, cyclists! Hey... where's your... helmet? (Image Source)

I am also afraid when I am walking and see a cyclist with headphones in. I understand the desire for and enjoyment of music, but if you are riding in traffic and are not following traffic rules, then at least leave one motherloving earhole free to hear the sounds around you! Please!!!

Mutual respect folks. Even though you TERRIFY me.

Curled up in the fetal position,


Me

~

Dear Google.ca Image Search,

Thank you for showing me that the number one search following the word "RIDICULOUS" is....

"pictures of Céline Dion".

My very own Canadian. How I beam with pride.

And on that note, a ridiculous photo of Céline Dion:

In all fairness, there are A LOT of ridiculous photos of Céline Dion on the interwebz. (Image Source)

Ridiculously,


Me


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Dear Puppy: Goddammit!!

Dear Puppy*,

While your eyes are adorable, and your looks are stunningly beautiful, you are PISSING ME OFF!

That plastic I found in the hallway yesterday that you had chewed, and I couldn't figure out what it was? The only trays I own to my tooth whitening kit.

Thanks for that, goddammit.

Her stunning good looks distract me from the next damaged item...

Puppy, you know our little ghetto garden with the few sparse strawberries? Yeah, you are NOT supposed to raid it for new fruit at all times, even if the plastic chicken wire is no longer standing. That strawberry I took from you, rinsed, and figured it was still safe to eat? Well, that was just bad judgement on my part, goddammit.

While I appreciate you keeping  me company as I FINALLY begin to sort through my mounds of hoarder like papers/receipts/tax documents/insurance documents/gluten-free recipes, your compulsion to chew your bone on the assorted file folders on the floor (what?!? I am still in the organizational stage... or something...) has created wet, destroyed file folders and papers, which... um, kind of negate the whole saving and filing bizznazz, goddammit.

The fact that no matter the temperature you must, MUST, lay your head on my leg so I sweat even more is adorable, but really hot, and apparently not good for my whole alpha-dog-smoke-and-mirror facade the trainer has me attempting, goddammit.

That white-painted wooden baseboard along the carpet... you know that stuff? Where you exercise your extreme aversion to 90-degree corners, obliterating them in a near-silent chew-fest as I sit here and blog and not notice you are ingesting paint chips and lumber? It's supposed to remain in tact, goddammit! And stop licking that bitter apple spray!! You are supposed to despise it, goddammit!

"I iz carefree dawggie. Your paperz are not mah concern." *runs away into long grass*

Finally... you have allowed me to see why Feyoncé™ and I have lasted as long as we have.

I can be super problematic, much like yourself, but I must be as cute to him as you are to me, which makes it all okay. Goddammit.

Now come over here and lay on mommy's leg while you try to shower me with grass and paint-infused kisses.

Good girl.



*Disclaimer: Note, this post was written in "sarcasm" font. I am very clearly aware that all of this is within my power to change, animal rights peeps. 
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Ridiculous Wedding Wish List

I have decided that the following must occur in order to have a fun wedding.

Anything less will result in severe disappointment:

• A flash mob must break out in the surrounding park, or at the reception.
• I must be able to drink as much as I want, but still only remain 'buzzed' and coherent, so as to remember the night.
• There should, nay, MUST, be people on flying trapeze. I don't care where, just within eyesight.
• I expect Michael Jackson to be there. Motherf*cking moon walking. I don't care how it happens, it just needs to happen.

Like this, with more Michael Jackson, less headband, and more safety for the surrounding children.

• Elvis should arrive in time to sing my parents' song.
• I really hope the speeches are good/heartwarming/loving/filled with minimal content that is extremely embarrassing.
• My friend must break out an x-rated rendition of "I Like Big Butts", complete with dance moves.
• My dress should have a built in hoist in order to facilitate toilet usage.

Add some ribbon and lace and that should do the trick...

• All of my body hair must miraculously fall off the day before the wedding, except for my eyebrows and the hair on my head.
• And, finally, I hope to find the right balance between a romantic updo hairstyle and that of the Bride of Frankenstein... as well as subtle-but-flattering make-up vs. waxen whore vs. Jim Carrey's "The Mask".

Why So Serious, Eva Longoria?

Or:

You know, a nice, soft, natural look...

 See? I'm easy to please. No weding diva here. Nope. Not at all.


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Creepiest Job Title Ever...

I kid you not, at a hospital in Mississauga, Ontario:

Creepiest Job Title EVAR.

Could.not.pay.me.enough.

Are people actually running around wasting the stuff? Really? Seriously?

GAH.


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Pole Dancing - Sexpot Extraordinaire....

Well, surely I have your attention right now.


I decided, after a two (or so) year hiatus from trying a pole-fit class, which really isn't pole-dancing, that I would.. uh... get back in the saddle and try again.


My last lessons were taught partially by an extremely flexible lady and a very vivacious man who owned a studio in my hometown. This time, I paid the big bucks and went to a place locally...

I imagined myself looking like this (with a slightly rounder silhouette and less boobs):

IF ONLY my ass looked that small... I wouldn't NEED pole-fit class.

And after the first 4 minutes, realized that I wasn't even close to looking THIS cute, even:

This pole dancer even has better hair than I do.... *sigh*

I felt rusty, creaky and clunky as the instructor moved and swayed her hips, seemingly effortlessly, smooth, sleek and in-the-know.

I felt like the biggest fake EVAR. She did a quick run down of level 1 (see, I had done this before, you know, so I figured I could TOTALLY head straight into level 2, maybe even 3)... and I stared, slack-jawed at my inability to figure out a f*cking thing she was doing.

There is such an art to looking graceful while trying to spin and pull yourself up on the pole. There truly is.

My last class involved more running leaps to try to spin around the pole. This new class is more about sensual movement, empowerment, and transitioning effortlessly from falling off the pole, onto your ass, and back up again without looking like you are even trying.


Beginner Pole Fit Fun from Stephanie Cee on Vimeo.


I clearly lack grace, but man, it WAS FUN!!


I have the utmost respect (you know, fitness wise) for girls who pole-dance as professionals. They ARE STRONG, FIT women.

I saw this video on youtube and had to share it.

Check out the crazy move at around 1:31... I can't embed the video... the girl is clothed and should be safe for work, unless someone is looking over your shoulder and wondering why the hell you are looking up pole-fitness tips online at work. lol.

Hopefully I will start to suck less as time goes on.

I attended a chair-fit class on the weekend which included a strenuous, painful series of leg, butt, thigh and arm strengthening moves with a TEENY bit of chair dance at the end.

I woke up ALL night because I was in so much pain.


Good lord, I have a long way to go before I even hit puppy pole-dance cuteness...



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Happy Birthday, Blog O' Mine!

Well, holy shyte.

Yup...

Nothing butt

the finest, most upstanding writing on this blog...

not that I want to beat a dead horse... or club a baby seal.

I'm just cool like that, yo.

Who would have believed I could keep my attention span fixated long enough to maintain a blog for an entire year.

It was a year ago, today, when Feyoncé™ (then "BF" or "Boyfriend") was away on work, I was bored and had been watching way too many episodes of True Blood, and I had been exposed to the fabulosity and hilarity provided by Allie Brosh's blog "Hyperbole And A Half".

I figured I would try my hand at it, because weird shit or annoying stuff always seems to happen to me. My first month I had 82 whopping page views, most likely because of my emails to family and friends to check it out. So thanks to you guys who took the time to read, some even "followed", and others commented!

:)

Made it feel good to know I was sharing something with other people (what?? I'm generally not good at sharing).

Over 33,000 page views and a year later, here I sit. That may not seem to significant, but I think it's pretty neat. Sure, a lot of people stumble across the blog only through searching Google images for mainly hairy noses, sexy socks, "clubbing" and spandex ass (all from my stats, I cannot tell a lie), but there are still lots of people who take the time to read stuff and I LOVE YA!

Also? I have made an astounding $63.99 in ad revenue, which practically makes me a zillionaire, allowing me to quit my day job and live with a butler and chauffeur. Don't hate.

So, boring post, but YAY ME!

That very first post is HERE if you want to read it.



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Confessions

Let's see...

• I mainly buy Asparagus for the free elastic bands. It's a great product-to-free-elastic-band ratio, because they generally put one at the tips and at the bottoms. Double win! Oh... yeah, and I get to eat the asparagus too.
• God-DAMN asparagus makes pee smelly. I hope someone found this post based solely on Googling that phrase.
• It is ALWAYS appropriate, anticipated, and welcomed to pinch other men's nipples after consuming large quantities of alcohol. Feyoncé™ is wrong on this one. It's... like... a MUST, really.
• When surprisingly faced with a skunk, in the dark, while walking your puppy, it is both eloquent and effective to yell "Shit! No! RUUUUN!" and run across the street in a blaze of chaotic skunk-odour-avoidance-measures.

Don't be fooled by those coy smiles; These buggers will force a dangerous, treacherous bathing process involving hydrogen peroxide, dawn, and baking soda. Usually around 1am. You've been warned.

• Avoidance (to people, not skunks) is even MORE obvious over text. I feel the need to state that a reply is unnecessary approximately 6+ hours after an original message is sent. Unless your phone was off because you never leave the house. (Not that I know what that is like, AT ALL, people...)
• My extended family contains at least one psychopath/sociopath.

C'est fini.


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Hypervigilance: What You Don't Want For You!

I am of a particular subset group of people who have a lovely little quirk known as hypervigilance.

"What is it?" you ask?
"It sounds fabulous!" you say?

Let me break it down for you.

Hypervigilance makes it very hard to focus on the immediate here and now, because your eyes, ears, and brain are simultaneously attempting to focus on the task at hand, while assessing ABSO-fuckin'-LUTELY everything else that is happening within earshot/eyeshot around you.

How does it work? I shall provide you with an example. Think of it like paranoia, with a little less 'crazy'.

The setting: A lovely, overpriced restaurant for breakfast somewhat in the middle of the room.

The company: An attentive and talkative Feyoncé™.

The low down: Hypervigilance allowed me to learn the following, even though I wasn't consciously, actively TRYING to hear what people were saying, or watch what they were doing. (My back was to the general mass of people in the room):

It's like having waaaaaay too many ears.

- The man beside me had accidentally flung his business cards out of his bag when I approached my own table. I picked them up for him and he thanked me. Then, through the course of our breakfast, I learned he was:
A) a lawyer looking to get the gentleman at the table with him out of insider trading charges
B) he found it humourous recalling stories of when his sister hit two separate men on two separate occasions in her car due to seizures, laughing as he said "I thought it was hilarious! I think the guy was a war vet and I've never seen a man cry like that!" accompanied by boisterous laughter.
C) I regretted picking up his cards and, instead, wish I had stomped on them.

- The server with the long ponytail does not like her job, as is evident with every forceful kick she throws into the swinging doors into the kitchen. This was sometimes punctuated with a long, loud, sigh.

- The daughter was clearly pissed at her mother, sitting about 3 tables away from us, as was indicated by the dour look on her face, her crossed arms, and her lack of ordering food or eating along with her mother. Teen daughter then proceeded to ignore her mother with her cell phone while mom fruitlessly tried to engage her in conversation.

"Uuuuuh, mo-om, I so hate you right now. Like. Whatever. Let me text in peace."

- The two ladies to my left, I'm quite certain, believe that there poo has no aroma, if you catch my drift. They were horribly rude with the waitstaff, and lady #2 went on to tell a tale about a woman she worked with (she described her solely using expletives) saying how this woman was clearly wrong because lady #2 has NEVER been wrong her entire life.

- The gentleman server listened patiently as the female server with short hair complained about the scheduling change and how she did not want to work the weekend again.

- Two younger guys at a table snapped their fingers to garner the attention of their server, more than once.

I forget the rest, but you get the idea. I figured this stuff out in about 10 minutes.

All the while, I was carrying on a conversation with Feyoncé™, thinking about a family health issue, making sure I was grabbing the soy milk and not the regular milk for my coffee, trying to remember to use my fork AND knife, because even though a fork can be a multi-use tool and can slice through eggs and hashbrowns, that's not how the 'fancy folk' do it...

It's like I am plagued by a persistent, ever-present Whisper2000. You remember that shit. Infomercial made of pure gold.

The Whisper 2000: Your greatest enemy or your best friend?

Anyway, that's your Freebie Friday: A lesson on hypervigilance.


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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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