And now for something completely different....

I'd like to take a moment to go completely off topic here, and talk to you about something that has great importance to the world today. Something that, in my personal viewing experience, has gotten completely out of control as of late.

As you all know, it is Winter. And, in most cases up here in Canada, it gets very cold. Sometimes it's very, very, very cold. Such as this past week. The temperature's been stuck somewhere in the range of -30 to -40something, so, yeah. chilly. As you might Not know, here in Saskabusch, there happens to be an abundance of old people. And particularly in my work environment, Old men. some creepy, most harmless, but still, unavoidably present.

Which brings me back to my issue.

If it's so damn cold, why must I still be subjected to an abundance of hairy old man chest? I mean come on!

Lemme give an example, just to bring an image to the horror that I've faced lately.

-Scream richie, go on! scream like the little girl you wanna be!

That scary enough for you

X-mas comes but once a year! From Nov.15 to Boxing Day, Dear!

Bad Rhymes are us. wow. I don't even know if I want to finish this now. But Plow ahead we must.







I was walking into good ol' Wally World last night, with my son, on my way home, to buy some kitty necessities, and I heard it. It was faint at first, but the closer I got to the deserted animal section, the louder it became. A horrified feeling burrowed it's way to the pit of my stomach, and my son came up close as if sensing what was wrong. 'What is it mommy?' he whispered, as I felt my hands creeping down into the earmuff position on my poor child's delicate ears. 'I'm not sure', was my fearful reply. As I ushered my child quickly to the proper aisle, the sound became louder, as then more and more voices joined the first and all blended into one another, quickly becoming a mish-mash that hurt my ears. I had to make my decision fast. I picked up my son just as tears started to prick my eyes and started running toward the nearest exit only to find it was blocked by security and packed with people staring at a customer denying her obvious problem with paying for things. Turning slowly around to look for other exits, I noticed a blue-jacketed salesperson cowering in a corner, not too far from where I had heard the sounds. I ran to her, hoping for information, and she didn't disappoint me. 'What is that noise!' I cried, trying not to let my histeria show. 'We just unpacked them this morning', her voice was monotonous. ' The senior associates are doing a battery check right now. I don't know if I can take it anymore! This isn't supposed to be happening yet!' and with that, she shuffled off with her hands on her ears, mumbling something about evil Saints, Reindeers, and Snowmen with guitars. By this time I realized that I had not been earmuffing my son and, horrified, turned around to find him holding something so vile and dastardly, it could only come from hell. a Fat man in a Blood red Suit was perched in a gyrating position, wearing sunglasses that I could only presume covered the fact that he had NO EYES. As if in slow motion, My son said' look, Mommy, it sings! see?' and then pressed the little black button beside the bearded demon's boots.







Well, I blacked out after hearing the first few chords of 'Grandma got run over by a reindeer', But I'm told by the authorities that I'm not allowed in any major shopping centre without a supervisor, and Logan won't talk to me about what happened at all, just gets a far away look in his eyes, and then does the Godzilla stomp around the room pausing only to run up to someone's face and roar at them. I don't see the connection...

This one's short, I promise!

I've noticed in recent posts, well all of my posts actually, that I like to write. Pithy and witty sayings, of course, but long and over exaggerated as well. so here's a really short one today.

I Hate X-mas Shoppers.

with a blazing passion only the evil demons of shopping Hell could provide me.

-you can't see their eyes, but you know they're glowing...

attack of the Nine foot snot ball!

So every year that I take sonny-boy out to the trick or treating, there's always sickness afoot to follow us down those dimly lit streets of mask and marshmallow goodness. Usually it's the little one with the sniffles, where at least the right sleeve of whatever costume he happens to be wearing(or not). This year however, I have been blessed with the mass sniffles, the snargles, the loogies, lung butter, quantum nose explosions, whatever you want to call it. It's okay though. I was searching for my winter coats earlier this week, and I came across at least three twelve packs of mini-kleenex, so I apparently had a little pre-cog in the realm of this 'holiday' and decided maybe I should stock up on the nose fluff for future fun with the holidays. yay for me.
Or, as I should put it more accurately, agghhaayy for Bhee.
However, My mind seems to be working properly, at least for the time being, or maybe this is all a big snot induced dream and I'm going stark raving, but I have a story for you. well, more like a tutorial. It's called, How to Wear Face Paint. or more importantly, How to Look like a Tool While Wearing Face Paint.(even though you're not even in school yet.)
This is a tradition that's passed down from generation to generation, mostly through sibling to sibling, then sibling's child then child's sibling, and so on.
Now I have vague recollections of Aunty Awesome wearing Face Paint at some point in my young life , although I'm not sure it was for Halloween, (it was the 80's after all.) But obviously, I thought it looked super-cool, and one year, either my 4th or 5th (or my 3rd or 6th, can't remember, I know I was young, and It's therefore one of my first memories) and on a particularly chilly halloween I decided I wanted to be a witch. I'm sure I wasn't really particular about what kind of witch, but I was dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West, with a lovely costume one of my Kin/clan/brood had made for me, might have even been my mother, she was a whiz with the needle. (in the most respective way!. idiots.) My memory wants me to say that my aunt was there, and that we were getting ready in her apartment, so I will. Also, I believe that it may have been my aunt smearing me with the green paint, and therefore mebbe my theory of sibling-child-sibling contact has been debunked, Mebbe I'm confused, what ever, but all in all what I really, really remember, is the texture. Now if you've ever had your face painted before, you'll know the texture I'm talking about. you might even like it. Me, however, not so much. I gag at even the sight of unnkown snot, drool, unverified liquid, let alone having it rubbed into my face and letting it dry. Not to mention the chalky/acrylic smell of a Face Paint Stick.

side note: I wasnt' even sure they made the Face Paint Sticks any more, as all I've seen are those newfangled Crayons, or pots of paint. These Sticks are basically Tongue depressors that have been dipped in the nasty non-toxic goo that then gets dried Onto the stick and packaged in a variety of Five colours for your convenience.also, the only picture I could find without actually searching was a link to a link, so whatever you do, don't press close window, cuz you'll lose the story. if you pressed it already and the window closed on you, you're a tard. just sayin. kay. back to the story.

So Here I am, in my Black dress-over-snowsuit and my cape, hat and broom, and My aunt is getting up close and personal with my face and this Glow in the dark green paint stick, and all I can do is sit quiet and not complain, because I'm sure at the time there was no reason. Now let me ask something else. Has anyone tried to give themselves a home facial? you know the Face mask that's supposed to peel off that top layer of skin and all that icky dirt in your pores? That gel-ley one that you're supposed to leave on for ten to fifteen so it can dry and then you peel off and feel refreshed? remember that feeling. That's what the paint stick feels like once it has dried. For all those that have never had a home facial before, sneeze in the crook of your elbow, let the snot dry, then try moving your arm. That's what it feels like. bleagh.
I spent quite a while outside covered from hairline to chin in that stuff, completely oblivious to the fact that it wasn't coming off very easy, not even when my face was getting sweaty from all the running and the high from the sugar-adrenaline mix. after that night, I vowed I would never, ever, EVER cover my face in that stuff again. Then I realized I was only five or six, and so probably promptly forgot about it and went back to arguing with my dad over the nibs/licorice. I remember, a few years later, My sister wanting to be a devil for hallow's eve (myself having moved on to gypsies and fairies, smart choice), and she was bedecked out in the hidious stuff, in the colour of red. I also remember her face after about half an hour and thinking, gee they don't make that stuff like they used to, as her face had either disintigrated, or bled onto her mitts and coat collar. Now, this year, My sonny-boy is going as Scooby-doo, something he is very adamant about, and I'm contemplating passing on the curse to him, but I just can't find a paint stick in even a close colour to the baby-shit-orange his costume is. Somehow I don't even think I'll be able to take him outside after I paint him. I'll be too busy rolling around on the floor, peeing my self with tears in my eyes.

Creatures of Habits

I love crazy magazine lovin wierdos. I Really do.
Like the guys who match their coats and hats to the cover of their stealth-hunter magazines, or the little old british ladies who think they're part of the royal family just because they buy, well, Royalty magazines. But I sincerly want to put out a big HELLY-O and a thank-you to my favorite bunch: The Overbearing, man-panties-in-a-bunch, Tight-uncomfortable shoe wearing Businessman.
These Gentlemen, or, as some of them prefer to be called, Phat Cats, are true chameleons in the realm of the 'zine. They Can flit back and forth from Rap Mags, Porn rags, and Quilted fags like nobody's biz. ( sorry, I just had to find another ryhme-y word for that last one. Not to mention, it's true.) Now, the normal time of day to spot the P.C's (for those of you who are slow, that means Phat cats) is either 11ish in the am, or just after one in the pm. Basically anytime around the lunch period, but not quite, so they don't have to answer any uneasy questions to any associate/collegue who might also have a penchant for perusing the papers over lunch. You can tell a P.C apart from a normal business-person by the long black high-end looking dusters they prefer to wear no matter how tall or not they are, their tommy-curl hair that looks thoroughly shellacked, and the smell of Geriatric spice or Cowboy-CAN'T YOU TELL I AM A MAN- perfume Emanating from every pore on their person. These such people always elude me when they come in, sometimes, I think, just from the pendulum effect their coats have on me, and then I'm completely oblivious to the fact that there's a sub-human being under all that pizzaz. These P.C.'s always walk with a purpose, though they usually take 5-10 minutes( or whenever all the other customers have left) to purposefully stride to their glossy destination. Which is almost always one of the three sections I have mentioned earlier. However the Typical P.C. is careful not to let on that they are purchasing anything suspicious, so before making their final stop at the counter, they swish over to the News aisle and pick up whatever Market paper is available, ie. Barrons, Newyork times, wall street journal, western investor, etc. Then these crafty buggers hide their true purchase in the folds of a paper and return to the cash register looking lofty and pristine. I've learned to look in all papers that a business-person is carrying now just to make sure there isn't a hidden glossy somewhere, as most times they, as do all other customers, think that we retail personnel are experienced mind-readers and shouldn't need to be told that they are hiding dirty, dirty smut somewhere between the Housing and Stocks section. and hey, to give credit to them, it's not always smut. Sometimes a Real Man just has to loop a coupla Circle Shell Stitches to unwind, ya know?

-manly AND Complicated!

Anyway, they almost always pay with some form of Mastercard super-multi-platinum-double-gold-fingered card, just to let you know that they still are an imposing figure when it comes to using other peoples cash, and it' really surprises me that they don't use, you know, cash, cuz that would just make it impossible to trace, and so, not letting the entire banking world know that they bought a 'no-no'. I dunno. just thinkin aloud. through my fingers.

N-E-yways, after which, they throw a smoke bomb down on the floor, and with a swish of their coats, disappear into the smoke laced interior to the external life without leaving a trace! exept for, well, the door chime thingy going off as they make their escape. ;)

Of Sweat and Snot, Of Balls and Tots

Kay, so I'm running on about 5 hours sleep, and about 9 pots worth of coffee, so if the following thingy doesn't make a whole lot-a sense, then.. whatever. I don't really care. I just feel the need to express to all of the 40+ gentlemen out there, and even some of the women, that it is NOT OKAY to have mass amounts of spare change in your pockets when wearing sweatpants. you probably shouldn't be wearing sweatpants out in public anyways, but especially not with 10 bucks in change. Small, small change. This leads to the question of why you were wearing sweatpants in public, as most people who do are, well, exercising and sweating, or just a tad to big for any other material, and therefore, probably sweating also. This leads me into the knowledge that all of that big hunk of change vicariously swinging around your nether regions has probably also been co-mingling with the inevitable sweat of your said regions ( See: why people wear sweats in public), and saying that, I have just one question for those who apply to the previous. WHY DO YOU INSIST ON PAYING FOR SOMETHING ENTIRELY IN SWEATY BALL/GUNT CHANGE!???!?!?!??? eww. This is why every store should buy stock in Purell. or any kind of sanitizing agent. I seriously do not want to be touching coins covered in unknown/unverified liquids and/or moisture and heat of some kind. makes me kinda barfy. Maybe that would stop the sweaty change-exchange. If you hand me your taint-ed coins(get it? taint-ed? heh? heh? ahh.. nevermind) and I barf on your purchase(no refunds, sorry) that'll teach you a lesson. or maybe I'll just lose business. damn. no way to win.

Coming back to why I'm on minimal sleep/maximum caffiene exposure, I have one very sick little boy.This weekend was long, tiresome and snot filled due to my kid contracting some kind of throat icky. I tell ya, even though it may be cute when your little one sounds like a mixture of Big Gay Al and Miss Piggy when talking, throat infections are not fun. Sure the 'banana' medicine is awesome! I mean who hasn't actually looked forward to that tasty concoction when diagnosed with some ear/nose/throat malady? I certainly haven't. But even with the mass advancements in making all our drugs taste like candy, no one has entirely figured out how to make acetominaphin (spelling? bah. who cares, you get the gist.) not taste like ass. First they had grape and orange (Tylenol people. still have nightmares about it myself) , then cherry and bubblegum(even in the no name brand!), even mint(didn't last long as the menthol came off on your hands and subsequently went into your eyes. stingy.), and now a 'fruit medley' and 'citrus squeeze' or something like that. And My son Still Runs screaming from the room with his hands over his mouth while blubbering and choking on his own snot any time I mention the 'chewy pills'. They made Chlortriplon taste all right, why can't they perfect this? gawd, even my Allergy pills have a candy coating, and they came out with those Halls dissolvable sheets, like the listerine thingys. silly pill makers! get it right! for all the parents of sick kids! do it for us! pleeeaaaassssseeeeee!!!!
that's it. for now.

The NEW! Newfie Spa

I seriously don't know what people see in lobsters. this past friday I had the um... *ahem* privelege to work during a city wide lobster boil. These people paid 70-some bucks to eat a lobster and some high class mac and cheeze. yup. mac and cheeze. Special people. They didn't even know how to eat with their HANDS, let alone a lobster cracker and a special fork. Lemme tell you, butter was ev-ery-where. First off, I don't know if our linens will survive the messy butter carnage. Second, I have pimples starting from the sheer amount of melted butter in the air. And these people were in awe of the smell of the beast! Like, LOVIN it.
YouTube - Swedish Chef and lobsters

I personally want to gag any time I smell the odour of dead sea creature and ocean water, but there a total of about 150 of these things being boiled, so it was inescapable. the air was permeated with the stench. A literal Newfie spa. Most of the people eating these things were drooling hardcore. It was kinda like the Pavlovian bell of crustaceans. icky. Most of us working there were smiling simply to tamper down our gag reflexes, which were working over time. By the end of the night (lemme tell ya, late) every pore of mine had absorbed more lobster juice than a month's worth in a Halifax harbour. I swear, I turn a certain way and I can still smell it, and that's After 3 equally long and scalding showers with only the best perfumed soaps and such. I'd take the stench of dead cow any day after this. And I will never, Ever, go near or eat butter again. well.. at least not til thanksgiving.

tired

First of all, I'd like to apologise to everyone, and mostly to my self for being so tardy with this thing, I would like to write more, but I have a very hectic schedule... which brings me to second of all. I never want to work again. never. ok... mebbe just not so much. plus around christmas time, there's all these x-massy thingys to go to, hence any day that I'm not working on, I have been assigned to for bringing a dish that I don't have time to cook, to a party I'm not gonna be awake enough to enjoy. Here's just a little tidbit of my schedule.
Sat.15-Work 10-3, Work 4:30-11:30
Sun.16-Work 10-3,x-mas shopping, 6:30 x-mas party (potluck),
Mon.17- Work 8-4:30 wrapping,7 pm dance recital for a grown man( the first really fun part of the week)
Tues.18-Work 8-4:30, hair cut @ 5:30(getting a foot or so cut off, YAY! finally), dinner at 7:30 (potluck)
Wed.19-Work 9-4:30, Work 5-11:30
Thurs.20-Work 9-4, Work 4:30-11:30
Fri.21-Work 9-4, Work 4:30 11:30
Sat.22-Work 10-3, Work 4-11:30
Sun.23-Work 10-3, Work 3:30 to 10:30
Mon.24-Work 8-4:30
tues.25 X-mas
blah. I get tired just looking at this thing... and a little sad that there's only another week to go...
too much work... I better get F**king fantastic tips this next week.