F-cked Up Letters: Walmart Edition

If you'd like to, check out EDITION 2 HERE, and wayback to EDITION numero 1 HERE.

Dear Walmart Bananas,

Why do you tease me so? You never, ever, ever ripen. You appear to be on the cusp of maturity, with your green tips and banana bum, convincing me that this time will be different. THIS TIME, I promise, I will ripen to yellowness and prevent the gut pain and unpleasantness that come with eating still-partly-green bananas. I won't just pretend to ripen like last time.

And the time before that.

I won't somehow still turn brown without ripening like all of the other times before.

Oh Walmart bananas, you suck. You are consistently terrible. You know what else that indicates? That *I* suck, because I fall for you every time and end up with this:

Ever-green Walmart ninja bananas turn brown without ever ripening. Well played, ninja bananas. Well played.

Screw you, evergeen bananas.

Signed,
Me



Dear Walmart Employees on Smoke Break BESIDE THE EFFING PROPANE DISPENSER,

I understand winter sucks. I feel for you (sort of... I mean, I hate being cold). I understand you have a nicotine addiction that must be fed. I understand you are cold outside.

However, it has come to my attention that your preferred smoking corner at the local Walmart is beside the wind protection of the mother-effing propane fueling station.

Hey! Walmart smokers! This is not what Aerosmith meant when they were singing "Livin' on the edge"!!

Last time I checked, propane was flammable, people. FLAMMABLE. I've heard it's even been used in crazy scenarios where it IGNITES and cooks mother-effing FOOD. The key word here people is "ignites". You use open flames beside this machine FILLED WITH IGNITABLE GAS. The goddamn DOOR is even open, further tempting fate with escaping fumes.

Every time I walk by I feel terror in my gut that you are going to blow not only yourselves up, but the mother-effing store and all the mother-effing shoppers (and that poor mother-effing Greeter).

Please stop terrifying me.

Signed,
Me


Dear Walmart Greeter,

Are you happy with your job? And that one female Greeter with the really wide eyes - are you sane? Do you truly enjoy saying hello to people and dispensing shopping carts in the cold doorway during the day to (mostly) thankless shoppers? I want to think you enjoy the social part of the job, but I would have to guess most customers are assholes.

Or, if not assholes, they are like me. Feeling weird saying hello, feeling weird being offered a cart, feeling like I am not sure if you like your job or absolutely hate it and need the money because retirement didn't work out as planned.

Do enough people smile back? If they don't, I apologize. This letter isn't meant to be funny Walmart Greeter. But I hope you really do enjoy what you do. Otherwise I feel like and even BIGGER asshole than I already am for shopping at Walmart and exploiting workers in China who ultimately give us these "rollbacks" and low prices.

Signed,
Me


Dear Walmart Snowbank I Threw Up In Last Week,

Sorry about that. I couldn't resist the urge of half-priced danishes at the grocery store and ate two faster than a slimy dude can pick off a vulnerable single woman in a dance class.

Me + wheaty, fatty, sugary danishes ≠ Proper Digestion

Me + wheaty, fatty, sugary danishes ≠ Just a hop off the bandwagon, then back to regularly scheduled programming

Me + wheaty, fatty, sugary danishes = Quick, violent upheaval of danishes onto the nearest/closest surface outside of my car.

Sorry 'bout that.

Signed,
Me

p.s. Follow up apology to snowbank beside my garage door for the same reason.


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Embarrassing Realizations (Part 2 of ∞ )

No matter how hard you try, no matter how many washes, black track pants/sweat pants will inevitably leave black fuzzies in the crack of your arse. It's true.

Be aware of this now, and every time you wear them (for only the most discerning people [such as myself] wear pants with elastic waistbands that are comprised of a pilly fleecy interior). p.s. They call them sweat pants for a reason. SwAss people, swass.

Don't even TRY to deny that. You'll think you're pooping spiders for a second.

 
Second embarrassing revelation: Don't attend a "Toronto Dances With The Stars" workshop, with only a modicum of dance knowledge.

You will be surrounded by excellent dancers who already know the moves, more than a few bitchy/ignorant dance studio teachers/owners who will tell you to "get the hell out of the way", and a bunch of people who THINK they can dance, but cannot.

The latter group will treat your (my) apologetic, bumbling, self-conscious ass like a piece of whale poop, as you (I) muddle through the instruction without a partner.

Dmitry Chaplin shoots lasers out of his left eye. Totally worth the ticket cost.

I got a picture with Dmitry - he's cute and personable. He was nicer than most of the participants there!

Me & Dmitry, and my flashless, non-smart phone

While I am sure there were a few other semi-normal single folk out there attending this workshop, I was only exposed to a few crazies, and one complete and utter douchebag/slimeball who forcibly made me dance to the last song on my way out of the evening gala dinner (with my coat and gloves on).

MY INNER VOICE: "Guess what asshole, you're wrong. You can't dance." (Image source)

Third embarrassing revelation: If there is a somewhat friendly single male individual who offers to partner up with you for one dance practice session, and your gut is telling you "Get the fuck away from this guy, he oozes creep and causes you extreme discomfort!" ... then listen to your gut.

A little of this:

Irritating and salesman-like

Plus a little of this:

The finger-gun type. (No, this isn't him)

Inevitably, your phone calls to random people to avoid him and your declining of his insistent offer to leave the venue to go to lunch together will still not prevent him from proclaiming that you "are the one he wanted to spend the night with", then grabbing your ass at the end of the night. This will all happen before he asks how to stay in touch, you decline the offer, then he chastises you for having the audacity to show up to an event like that if you have a fiancee. (HELLO, dickwad, did you not see the ring on that finger?).

Seriously, he gave me his "card" with his title on it. Guess what his self-generated business card title was? 

"The Connector". (Arguably still better than "The Shocker", I suppose)

I saw him making his way around the room to all of the apparent single ladies, and I think he was gauging their playability based on their:

A) Outfit.
2) Lack of self-esteem (or unwarranted abundance of self esteem).
J) Level of isolation in the room (appearing to be there alone or not).
5) Their inability to tell him off when/if he gets all touchy/grabby/in their face/insistent.


Blah. I was just relieved to get the hell out of there and not have anyone trail me to my car. I will never go out on a limb an attend a social-dance thing like this again.

Final realization for this post: Tons of people call the person they are going to marry their fiancee. Or fiance. (Fee- awnce - say). I feel like an utter douche when I say those words (BF is FABULOUS, it's not him, it's the word). I realize now I can't call him BF any more in these posts, dammit. So in order to cushion the douchey-blow I feel I deliver with every "fiancee"-drop, BF will now be officially renamed to Feyoncé. HA! That's right. He's gonna hate it.

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Mass Exodus & Questionable "Beans"

So I went from 101 to 98 followers... it's like rats leaving a sinking ship.

How come I didn't realize the ship was sinking? Oh wait, it's not.
Phew.


I suppose I HAVE been a little pre-occupied and haven't been making the blog rounds, but you get to hear all about that later on.

I have to ask the question, though...

Nescafe Instant Decaf Coffee - For only the finest  wisest  living  person with no taste buds  most discerning  cheapest/laziest "coffee" drinker...

Tell me, my dear friends, does this not look like sperm-like?

Wait a second... instant WHAT?

I always get girlish-ly excited when I am opening a new package of ANYTHING. I used to be PUMPED as a kid to be the first one to peel back that fabulous foil on the peanut butter jar, so I could swipe the single peanut sitting on top. I even used to ask for that yucky brand, even though I like Kraft better (because the cheap bastards at Kraft didn't include a peanut. How hard is it to add a single peanut, I ask? Seriously?)

So I open this horrendous instant coffee to be greeted by little spermy-looking coffee beans. I don't want to know that their "natural decaffeination process" entails...

Happy Friday, Y'all.

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Obligatory Here's A Post, Post

My ridiculous Blogger ego (separate from that of my real life) likes to think that you crazy people who read this shit want to see a post every few days.

It's either keep you happy, or have you abandon me, leaving me with 18 dogs, a twitch, various mood disorders and the title "crazy alone dog lady down the street".

So.... here it is. An obligatory mid-week post.

I've felt so weak and so tired the past few days, it's weird.

No really, I feel awesome, I'm just trying out my Jack Nicholson impression.

My uterus is not being occupied, if you were concerned, but it is currently punching me internally and cramping me to fetal-position-proportions.

You are welcome for the TMI.

Caaaamon, put 'em uuup, put 'em uuuuuup... (Image source, I think? Do you really care, anyway?)

I've been asked to do a couple guest posts, and wouldn't you damn well believe that my mind has subsequently, efficiently and hopelessly gone blanker than it already was.

So that's kind of awesome, to fail before you even begin.

See, this is why I post dog poop charts and stuff.

Maybe my iron is low. Thing is, I am too tired to worry about making ANOTHER appointment to have more tests done. I think I have reached my lifetime quota on that one. Seriously.

Okay, that is a decent sized post, and you got two pictures. Now I am going to try to eat. Try being the operative word.

If I puke it all back up, I'll be sure to blog about it and let you know.

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Oscar The Grouch Gets A Poop Slushy

So the weather here was quite "balmy" compared to the -19°C weather we've been having lately, with the wind chill.

Most of you know that we got a new puppy two weeks ago. What most of you probably don't know is that said puppy poops. A lot. I mean, a lot a lot, and only if I go outside with her and encourage her.

I can only imagine what I sound like to the neighbours.

Me:     "C'mon hon, hurry up, pee pee poo poo. Hurry up."  (I am all shrill and excited and super-happy sounding)

Puppy:   *tilts head.... runs back to back door*

Me:      "C'mon puppy, hurry up, pee pee poo poo. Hurry up. Go pee pee."

Puppy:   *drops and gives me a 3-second pee*

Me:    "Yay! Good pee pee, good girl! Good pee pee! okay, hurry up, go poo poo."

Puppy:  *runs around yard, eats bunny poop, smears it on my fingernails as I try to sweep her mouth, dives under the patio table*

Wash, rinse, repeat.

You get the idea.

Sort of. With less snow in your eyeballs/eardrums/nostrils and chills up your spine.

So, after two weeks of laziness and general disdain of all temperatures cold and colder, I realized the multiple poops (that were followed with loud cheers by me and congratulatory messages to the puppy) were starting to really pile up.

So out I went today to start to shovel them into a bag for garbage night. Let's just say at the best of times, this stuff isn't solid, as we changed her food. So add in snow melt, paw squishes, and other lovely-dog-poop-related joy, and you've got yourself a shifty substance.

IF YOU HAVE RECENTLY EATEN, OR ARE ABOUT TO EAT, YOU MAY WANT TO SHUT THIS BROWSER WINDOW RIGHT ABOUT NOW....






SERIOUSLY






YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED










THIS ISN'T GOING TO END WELL.






ALRIGHT, BUDDY, I WARNED YOU.




I was dealing with something between 10 and 60 on the scale below. Moundfuls and moundfuls (no, not mouthfuls).

This is why I don't like tootsie rolls.  (Image source here, 'cause someone else blogs about crap, too.)

So... yeah. The garbage man tomorrow is going to have a melty-slushy-soupy mess. And the backyard doesn't look much better.

Oscar's shit-eating grin is about to become a whole lot more appropriate....

Why do I blog about dog poop so much? Who knows?

How long until someone finds my blog because they will inexplicably search google with that exact phrase? I give it two weeks.

Who has to deal with the aftermath tomorrow morning? The garbage collection man.


Poor garbage collection man.


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Vlog - Pronunciation Meme Thingy

I got this idea from jess over at not your average joan of archetypal patterns, who was inspired by

this particular post, here by the Tsaritsa. She was inspired by two other bloggers, ( Harley and Lor ).

The real challenge to my feeble mind, is figuring out how to pronounce "Tsaritsa". This is my Canadian TWANG on things.

Here's my vlog response to these fab ladies. It will take 5:20 of your life, so strap in, or let it play while you surf for porn in another window. It's really up to you.

;-)

The list of words:

The Questions

- What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?

- What is the bug that when you touch it, it curls into a ball?

- What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?

- What do you call gym shoes?

- What do you say to address a group of people?

- What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?

- What do you call your grandparents?

- What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?

- What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?

- What is the thing you change the TV channel with?


I hope some of you will do this, too, for fun! It would be neat to hear.

Please post your direct link in the comments below (or just make fun of me, again, up to you).


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Worst Motivational Fitness Video EVAR

So, there are things that I should be doing right now.

Important things... things like exercising, planning, bathing, maybe even eating.

Crazy, I know.

I figured I would do a blog post instead, on the worst possible motivational fitness video ever.

When I am in a fitness class, I have to be honest, I expect a fit-looking instructor. I don't mean to piss anyone off, but if teaching exercise classes is your job, and you are overweight, then OBVIOUSLY your routines aren't that effective. And you don't motivate me. I am a bitch, but still.

On the other hand, you've got "Dancer's Body, Buns Hips & Thighs" by Tracey Mallett. (Before you ask, no, this is not a paid review, this was me slugging my ass to her video that I rented for free through the library).

Yeah, yeah, it was the "quick" method, but would you expect anything more less from me?  Source

Now, Tracey is great and cute with her accent. My issue is with pinky in the back. Pinky is anorexic as hell. Go ahead and defend, but this girl had a concave stomach. It made me feel sick.

I don't think an exercise video should do that.

THINGS AN EXERCISE VIDEO SHOULD DO:

• Make you aware that you are out of shape? Sure.
• Make you feel like you have so much work ahead of you to get in better shape? Likely.
• Make you feel motivated to strive to maybe, possibly look like the slightly overweight second cousin of the instructor who still eats cupcakes regularly  instructor? I'd hope so.
• Make you regret that orange juice you had before you started working out? For sure.

But... Make me feel fat, gross and disgusted by the thinness of one of the exercisers? HELLS NO!

Exhibit #1:

SO, so wrong. Am I jealous still? Fuck yeah! Maybe? Of course not! Okay, yes, a little.

Correct me if I'm wrong Believe every damn word I am saying, when I say I know anorexia when I see it.

This video didn't motivate me. It made me grab a box of cookies and cry in the fetal position, knowing that absolutely NO quick blast method of any sort (dynamite included) could whittle me away to those proportions. Ack.

[Edit: check her out for yourself:  0:38, 1:18 and 2:57 are good examples

]

I say, Team Jillian Michaels all the way. Even if she uses skinny beyotches, they are ripped and HEALTHY looking.

Exhibit #2:

Yeah, I'd do her. I mean. Uh.. WOW! She's fit!   Source

Okay, my rant is done. For now.


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Rap, The Superbowl, and Sex-ay Knees

So, just in case anyone was wondering/curious/losing sleep at night as to whether or not rap/hip-hop-pop music sounds wicked awesome live, um.

It sucks balls.

Hard.

I believe that there is no rap that sounds good live. It's just shouting. The Superbowl confirmed this, and it isn't even hard-core rap. I am pretty sure that Fergie and Slash would have made Axl Rose roll in his grave (since his career is totally dead  if he were actually dead).

Ohhh, woah woah sweet earful atrocity of mie-ine.... ooooh woah woah woah, sweet Slash-Fergie collaboration...

What.The.FUCK? Seriously? Reeeeally? Seriously?

That was brutal. I was in a restaurant with my mom, and even the restaurant noise, restaurant music, and our desperate attempts to speak very loud (to drown out the sound of her dying-cat-like-singing) were no competition.

I think I threw up a little in my mouth.

Oh Slash. Are times that hard, my friend?

So, it took me a while to decide which Superbowl party to go to. I had SO many invites (read: NONE), so I went to dinner for half, and then sat on the floor with the dogs for the other half.

Also?

Last night I got all dressed up to go to Toronto for dinner with BF and friends. Rocked a new dress with a wee patent belt, and patent knee high boots. Rocked out the red Christmas coat. Felt pretty good.

Was sitting in the car, while BF pumped gas, when I realized I was not as sex-ay as I felt:

Goddamn knobby knees, poor vision, dim bathroom lighting and KNEE EFFING HAIR.

Yeah. That is some serious hair on the knee. It's LONG people. How does one miss that? Clearly for weeks? Like, every time I've shaved for the past month?
I felt instantly gross.

Driving home the point that I shall never, ever, feel confident or sex-ay, because there will always be something just lurking around the corner to drag you down and make you feel like a hairy horse.

Just sayin'.

Fuck you, knee hair. Well played.



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To Love A Pet

No, not like THAT you sick pervs.

I have done a lot of thinking over the last many years about the family pets we have had the honour of adopting/owning. I have had moments of such unexplainable, limitless joy with their adorable personalities and the love that they have brought into my life.

I have experienced months (okay, maybe more than that) of the deepest, saddest sorrow over losing such non-judgemental, loving, perfect little creatures.

I find that their eyes can be so expressive, their companionship unfailing, and their kisses uplifting even on the worst of days.

The adoption of this new puppy brings the question up to me again - is it really possible to love a kitty or puppy or other companion animal to your very core? To feel like you are an unstoppable duo together, and that their love is one of the sweetest, most unconditional and honest kinds of love out there?

My heart is just exploding with happiness when I am sitting between my two doggies, or when the new pup is sleeping on my legs or giving me kisses. I miss my Scooby, and I always will. At the same time, I am so happy to be able to have the companionship of these doggies.

To the pets that have gone:

Marnie - our childhood cat who was tormented by me and my sister, who was de-clawed and missing teeth and could still catch mice:

Marnie was around before I was old enough to walk.

You were a fighter, and one kick-ass kitty. I loved your unique markings and Elvis sideburns. I'm sorry for any of the unkind childhood things I did to you.

Casey - our first puppy was a learning experience and a sweet little thing. I hope you know that you were loved little fur ball. I am sorry for any mistakes we made with you, pup.

Clancy - our German Shepherd doggy who was gifted to us by my dying grandpa. You were a strong boy. We were fairly new to raising a dog, and Mom and Dad did everything they could to keep your cancer at bay. Everything that was done was done out of love. I remember playing fetch with you on your last day. You were a regal, smart dog.

Brandy - Our German Shepherd girl with her very own La-Z-Boy recliner. Even jumping into it once in the moving van when we were loading in our furniture:

Brandy on her La-Z-Boy. Such a sweet girl.

Those stinkin' hip issues would become too painful for you, even with Metacam pain medicine. You were so loved, and you helped train my Scoobers to be the wonderful pup she was. I love you and miss you, girl.

Murphy: The brown tabby who chose Dad, as opposed to us choosing him, when we went to the Brant County SPCA. Shortly after we lost Brandy, and just after I started volunteering there. You reached out with your claw and hooked into his jacket. He fell in love with you on the spot:

A beautiful brown tabby, Murph loved playing all along the basement stairs.

You were so pretty, and so playful. Ahem, I mean handsome. HANDSOME. You used to torment my blind Mr. Grey by hiding in high places he couldn't reach. You left us at only 4 years old when something went very wrong during a routine dental procedure. I know there's a hole in Dad's heart, whether he admits it or not. I miss you little guy.

Your ear hair was adorable. As was the way you would sip from running water in the sink, or try to jump across the toilet seat when the men of the house wouldn't latch the door. Wetness ensued.

Always an amusing kitty, our Murphy.

Love you guy.

Mr. Grey - I fell in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you in the sick room at the shelter. Your eyes were crusted up and you were wheezing, sick with upper respiratory infection. (It's rampant in shelters, even with strict protocol... they always did the best they could with what they had).

My sister read your name card on the bulletin board. Mr. Grey - so simple, so fitting, so YOU:

I loved your wide pink kitty nose, and your unending affection.

I remember having my sister take a photo of you and I together that I photoshopped, in the hopes we could guilt Mom and Dad into adopting you. I missed a weekend of volunteering (the same weekend BF told me he loved me for the first time), to come back and find you had been adopted out. My heart was sad, but I was happy you found a home.

A happy cat, blind and all.

Well, fate stepped in, and you were returned to the shelter for some lame reason. After observation by the shelter staff, I asked/offered to foster you at my house to see how you did. We figured out fairly quickly that you were blind. We also fell for you hard... adopted you, and never looked back.

You were always willing to snuggle, always happy to greet me at the door. You would meow if we had momentarily forgotten that Scooby was outside the back door waiting to be let in. How the hell you knew that, being blind and having the door closed, was beyond me.

You'd let me pick you up like a child, arms wrapped around my chest and back, legs on either side of me.

Giving me one of your special hugs that you only ever gave to ME. :-)

You were an awesome friend and I am so sad that I had to let you go. What started as a claw infection with Clavamox antibiotics quickly turned into you stopping eating within a day... then drinking. Force feeding at the vet, IV, and emergency visits ultimately resulted in an ultrasound and a diagnosis of stomach cancer. It breaks my heart that you couldn't/wouldn't eat at the end and were so tired. I cherish that last night that you slept in bed with us, and the few minutes of purring you shared with me. I'm sorry your ending was so sad and painful. I'll love you forever, little guy, and I miss you.

Scooby - My "Akita/Husky" cross "free-to-good-home" puppy that turned out to be Great Dane or Lab or some kind of awesome hybrid who was my very best friend in the world:

Scooby Doo - such an awesome, sweet and gentle girl.

She got me through high school, was with me for every high and every low until January of 2010. I made a video for you here, Baby Girl. I will always love you and always miss you.


Never underestimate how much companion pets can mean... how much love and joy they can bring into your life. Animal shelters are so full of pets who have so much love to give....



Back to funny next time....


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Google LatLong: It’s Groundhog Day!

Google LatLong: It’s Groundhog Day!

Two words:

Gobbler's Knob.


That is all. Pin It Now!

Sometimes Blogging Is Bullshit

That's right.

Here's why:

Know what is bullshit?

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