Dear Annoying Person (That Means You)

Dear Squeaky Voice Crazy Lady,
Just because I planned something and the person who asked for it to be done doesn't remember asking, doesn't mean I went ahead and did it without their authorization. I'm not a moron. That would be you. And when I hold my fingers to my head like a gun and pretend to blow my head off, well, I don't REALLY want to die, it just feels like I AM when you talk to me. Secretly, I give you the finger all day long.

Dear Target Lady Haircut,
Its so obvious that you have zero self confidence. The volume of your voice does not necessarily reflect that but you're too transparent not to see right through you. You're not cute. You're not funny. You're obnoxious and clearly raised by wolves who never told you that chewing on food loudly while you talk is disgusting.

Dear Twenty-Something Emo,
I get that it must suck that no other retail establishment would hire you. But accepting a cashier position at Walmart does not mean you let go of all your sensibilities. Why would you pack a bag of chips in with 2 jugs of milk? I realize that your mind is wandering over to that brooding, quirky-yet-pretty cashier at till 1 but come on now. Don't leave your common sense in the lunch room.

Dear Really Really Old Waitress,
He's really really fat. I see it. You see it. Everyone sees it. So why would you park him at a booth when the rest of the joint is empty? Give the dude a chair. Seeing him wedged between the booth seat and the table edge makes me feel bad for the guy. And makes me think your skinny little ass enjoys it.

Dear Lazy Doesn't Work A Lot,
When will you start to realize that the people who work around you work WITH you, not FOR you? When I email you a question, please refrain from turning it into something that I am now keeping track of for you. Because I? Am not a sucker. Sorry to disappoint.

Dear Creepy Finance Dude,
The way you hover around makes everyone feel like they need a shower once you're gone. Peering at people over the rim of your glasses perched on your nose also does nothing to further your cause. You've mastered the creep. Also, talking to me like you're flabbergasted that I might actually a) make sense or b) not have an effing clue what you're talking about makes me want to punch you right in the face. You're on the list pal.

Still In Love

I got a netbook yesterday. I had it all confirgured today to work with our wireless account at home. It all worked tickety-boo. And yet, here I am, writing my post on the blackberry. I don't know what it is that made me pick up the old girl and start typing. Is it force of habit? The fact that I can be completely horizontal while writing? The speed at which I have grown able to type? The fact that my bb will put periods at the end of my sentences for me with one click? Or maybe, even with a flashy new shiny red toy, I still love my sweet, unassuming little blackberry?

Or maybe the battery died on the netbook. Whichever.

Sometimes....

...I say yes when I should have said no

...I don't realize this till its too late and I'm knee deep in someone elses paperwork

...my boss surprises me

...I expect too much from people and then end up disappointed

...one email is all it would take

...I wish I had more time in my day

...I wish I knew how to fix it

...there's just nothing you can do

...you just have to figure out who to ask

...its hard to feel important when you don't feel like you are

...I am slack at seeing people that deserve my time and still need to work on that

...I am spoiled by wonderful women who bring lunch to ME

...I just sit and wonder

...thinking is a bad idea

...all I need is a good book

...I really have nothing to write a blog post about and instead I write this

Do Blondes Really Have More Fun?

The leading role. Brooding, conflicted, a little angry, a little rebellious, and always blonde. I suppose in the eyes of a casting director it was what the part called for. But more often than not, the brown-haired-in-the-shadows-everyones-best-friend ends up fast becoming the star of the show. Call it rooting for the underdog, I don't know, but the brainy/geeky/not as athletic/second stringer is usually the guy who ends up with the girl/the scholarship/the accolades.

Case in point. Dawson vs Pacey. No contest. Pacey. Ryan vs Seth. Hands down. Seth. Lucas vs Nathan. Please. Perhaps a more level playing field but still, Nathan.

I think there is perhaps only one show where the blondie beats the pants off the brunette. But in thinking about it now I see that maybe its NOT the hair color after all. Maybe its the level of percieved importance attached to that particular role? In this case, the brunette is intended to have the more prominent role which lends itself to one naturally and automatically favoring the blonde. Noel vs Ben. Doesn't even need a nanosecond of thought. Ben.

Side Note: when I watch Felicity and Julie is on, all I think of when I see her is that she used to be a Power Ranger and I can't take her seriously. Just me?

Chickens on a Plane

I tell you this story not to deter you from flying, but rather to remind you to count your blessings about the kind of passengers you may have ended up sitting beside in your travels. Because this one? Will surely take the cake.

My friend just got back from Vegas. It was a trip that, being over seven months pregnant, didn't really live up to its expectations. But sometimes when a trip starts off on a bad foot, there's just no turning back. Rewind to getting on the plane, leaving Winnipeg. Sitting comfortably beside her hubby. And then he wanders in. A 52 year old man who's odor arrived just seconds later. How did she know he was 52 you ask? Why, he TOLD her of course. So the 52 year old man who had not showered in about a week sat down next to the olfactory-gland-challenged pregnant lady. Nice.

Now. What a treat she had in store. Because not only did his BODY come with odor, but so did his breath! And how boring would bad breath be if the owner of the bad breath wasn't a close-talker?? Cue the close-talker! Imagine if you will, airplane seats. The proximity of person-to-person. The availability of "personal space". Its limited, no? No. Not to the 52 year old, stinky breath, body odor man. He leaned his stinky self right on over into her personal space. But wait. Its gets better.

So Preggo is one of those women who has a hard time being nasty, has difficulty saying no, can't really be mean without some coaching (where I usually step in to assist). So Stinky 52 is all leaning up into her biznizz and chatting her up about this and that and then she sees it. The spit. The spit that comes flying out of his mouth when he talks. It comes flying out and lands on her arm. ON HER ARM. Where it glistens in the sun and he just keeps talking. Casually, she wipes it away and tries to turn her attention to her TV. She pops in her ear phones and realizes that HE IS WATCHING HER TV TOO. Even though he has his own. Creep-eee. She hears him nattering away and in her politeness pulls out an earbud to hear what Stinky 52 is saying and that's all it takes.

Enter worst-conversation-ever. Stinky 52 starts to tell Preggo all about his dislike for airplane food. Its no good. Its too expensive. Its like cardboard. But he has a fix. He brings his own. Oh good, preggo thinks, maybe he'll shove his yap full of a self-concocted trail mix and be quiet for a bit.

"You know what I do?" Stinky 52 asks Preggo. "I fry up two chickens and bring them with me."

Oh please no, she thinks, for the love of all things airborne, no. He bends down to his carry on stowed neatly in the underseat compartment in front of him and proudly pulls out a tupperware container. Full of chicken. Yes. Chicken. Fried, greasy, homemade chicken. At ten in the morning. Because heaven forbid you just shut up and take the pretzels.

So now Stinky 52 is eating his greasy, white-ish chicken and waving his greasy, disgusting fingers around, talking with his greasy, chicken-flavoured breath and Preggo is just about to die. She lays back and pretends to sleep for an hour, one eye open to try and catch some of her in-flight movie without getting busted by Greasy Stinky 52. Her hubby, to his credit, offered to switch seats with her. But being the sweet gal she is, she declined, saying it "wasn't that bad". ON WHAT PLANET??

And so ended the longest two hours of Preggo's life. So please, when you're next to a crying baby, or a snorer, or an incessant talker, please remember, it could always be worse. You could find yourself sitting next to your OWN Greasy Stinky 52 wondering how the hell you can get two chickens past security.

How Do Anorexics Do It?

So I pretty much half-died this weekend. I'm only just getting over being out of commission. I have not been in such utter discomfort since....I don't know when. My umbilical hernia was different cuz that was just straight PAIN. And giving birth to Mck was a mix of pain and discomfort quickly soothed with a long needle to the spine. But this weekend? I writhed within myself. I needed out of my own skin. I did not know how to be comfortable. This was very very new to me.

I guess it was a bug, or a stomach flu, or some food poisoning. I don't know. I just know it snuck in on Friday night and only just left a few minutes ago. I managed to still get things done during the day yesterday though I'm not sure how because every fiber of my being, every ounce of my concentration was spent making sure I did not throw up on the cashier at Dollarama or on the side of the road or anywhere else for that matter.

I bought Gravol. Paid a little extra for the fast acting/long lasting ones. I'm not sure what their version of fast acting is. I don't think its quite the same as mine. See, MY version of fast acting would be me feeling decent by the time we got to the Santa Clause Parade. Didn't happen. I actually was pretty certain I was going to toss right there on Portage Avenue. I kept having to go sit down along the side road just to focus myself and get the nausea under control. I DID, however, make sure I was standing with McK when Santa went by. Couldn't miss THAT.

The drive back home was debilitating. I wouldn't even let them stop to get themselves food. I needed out of the moving vehicle, pronto. Home, James. I weebled and I wobbled (and I very nearly fell down) and eventually I passed out on the couch and woke up to die. Then I passed out in my room and woke up to die. Then I passed out in my bed and woke up to Saturday Night Live (who WAS that hosting??) And then I died.

It was a slow, agonizing night in which there was but one position that didn't leave me feeling like tiny little people were tearing out my stomach lining and trying to shove it up my throat. So I stayed in that position, naturally, all night long. Which resulted in neck pain, shoulder pain, and head pain. A small price for a few hours of nausea-free slumber.

Today? Today was so-so. I have never been more hungry yet more afraid to eat. Like an anorexic at a candy store. I have never been more desperate for a flavored beveraged, or stared so longingly at a bottle of pepsi. And milk. Oh sweet sweet milk. I'm sorry for ignoring you all weekend. It wasn't my intention. I wanted you, I swear, so badly. I wanted you on cereal, with chocolate, for my cookies, with cheese on toast. But I couldn't. I just couldn't face the idea of how you would end up. I want to remember you the way I love you, not the curdled mess I knew you would become.

So I had toast. With water. And a popsicle. With water. And a peanut butter sandwich. With water. And I? Am one crazy hungry chick. Tomorrow, dear belly, tomorrow.

Ghost Shmost - or The Night I Watched Paranormal Activity

Tonight Pat insisted on watching a scary movie. I have not been a fan of scary movies since approximately the day I brought mck home from the hospital. But I'd heard this one was more of a psychological thriller, a mind tease that never showed a demon, not a drop of blood or a second of gore. So I agreed. Reluctantly.

I lasted about half an hour. I didn't mind the daytime scenes where they chatted it up but the night time filming? Creeped. Me. Out.

So I went and played on the computer and watched tv upstairs. I know my limits. I know at what point I am JUST about fully freaked out and I know when to stop watching. Pat? Does not.

Suffice it to say that in the last half hour the remote controls have managed to slide off of the little side table beside the chair he's sitting in (not a completely flat surface, to be fair). And I guarantee that each time those remotes crash to the ground, a grown man jumps out of his skin. And me? I just laugh. A lot. Loudly. And then I tell him I'm going to whisper at him in the night, turn on all the faucets and slam the door. Hahahaha.

Know your limits. Boo.

Shopping and Watching

I threw my company credit card around today like it was the last day that the planet would be accepting MasterCard. I bought gourmet gift baskets of my own creation from a very fancy pants store. I assume they make good money off of their high end products because I don't personally know anyone who would go there and pay $2.95 for a tin of Green Giant niblets that cost .97 elsewhere. But they sure do have fancy crackers!

Then I went to Chapters and bought greeting cards and a chicken. Don't ask.

Then I got to go buy the most expensive knife in the cabinet for someones "wow you actually stuck around here for 30 years" present.

I was in the knife-buying store and had to ask someone where the washroom was. I used to work in the knife-buying store about 11 years ago and wouldn't you know it, this incredibly old gentleman, the one who I of course stopped to ask, remembered me. Ugh. Hello small talk, nice to see you again. We chitty-chatted for a bit and I realized that while I normally don't mind small talk, I really hate it when I have to go pee.

I bought gift cards and movies and books. It was a fun morning. Spending other peoples money usually is.

Second item of business. The Mentalist. It has come to my attention that a good number of folks do not watch my Mentalist and I am saddened to hear of this. While Robin Tunney has the standard female in a male role and associated acting skills to match, the other cast members are amazing. Patrick Jane? My word. Please. Cho? So straightforward, no unecessary words, no BS. Rigsby? Something about that underbite, that teenaged crush on the girl, that tough guy innocence. Van Pelt? I was not your biggest fan at first but I have warmed to you. I dig your restraint with Rigsby because you want to suceed at work. But lady, have you SEEN him? Wow. Willpower central. Anywho.

So for those of you who haven't watched an episode, please do. Snapshot: Patrick Jane's wife and child were killed by a serial killer, Red John. Everything else is just details.

Answer Me This...

Where does one put an antique upright piano when you really have no available wall space but 4 different people locally are giving one away free on Kijiji?

Why haven't I checked out Kijiji sooner?

Does that Enzo kid on the Hills creep anyone else out or is it just me?

Is the Hills actually wayyyy better than the City this season?

If today is Wednesday but it feels like Saturday, will Friday feel like Tuesday and will I keep getting pleasant little surprises everytime I realize that it is, in fact, Friday?

Why haven't I been watching commercial-free Coronation Street online up until now? Brilliant.

If the Mentalist was a nightly show would it lose some of its magic?

Do people who eat organic food realize that their precious, non-GMO ingredient items are only still around because they are owned by some of the largest corporations in the world who use and thus support GMO ingredients? Prime example. Kashi, uber organic granola products owned by Kellogs who, I'm just guessing, rock the high fructose corn syrop pretty good in their frosted cereals. No?

How can miserable people put on such a fake happy face around other people? Isn't that exhausting?

If you have come across a really fabulous chair but can't think of a single place to put it but its just being given to you at no charge, do you take it and hope for a brainwave to hit with the perfect spot?

Is it wrong to buy a new book when you know you have at least three that you have not yet gotten to the back page of?

If you have enough airmiles to get to England but you'd have to go alone with no kid and no husband, would you? Take into account you have enough to get all three to Vancouver Island to see a parent.

These are the soul-searching questions I am mulling over right now.

The Light! I See The Light!!

So by the lack of incessant emails requesting this inventory data and that inventory data infiltrating my inbox at mach speed, I am tempted to think that it just might be over. I hesitate to say that out loud for fear of totally jinxing myself but all signs point to finito. I had one email yesterday with a simple request, one today with the last company data included and only one desperate note from the guy heading it all up asking if I was in yet. In the heart of this mess I would get the "Are you in the office?" email just about every time I got up to go to the bathroom. Yes, I would assure him, yes I am in the freakin office. Can a girl not go pee in this our time of crisis? Geez.

And now? I find myself planning a whopper of a trip to New Orleans. I find myself booking meetings with big wigs from the states and simply adoring all of the assistants I am dealing with for this. I find myself shopping for thank you gifts and creative promotional items and can feel those juices start to flow again. I find myself, quite simply, catching up. But most importantly, I find myself loving what I'm doing again.

Its about time.