I'm off work for 11 days starting in roughly 120 minutes. ELEVEN days boys & girls. The shitty part about my eleven days off work is that I don't feel like I need a break from work, I feel like I need a break from life. Sitting on my couch in the post-Christmas mess for eleven days (minus the time I'll spend smoking in my garage and going to the fridge for beer) is not going to make me feel relief from the shitstorm this year turned into. The break I'm looking for goes a little like this:
Moving out of my house for eleven days and checking in to a 5-star hotel where I wouldn't cook a meal, wash or fold a load of laundry, feed a cat, fight with a 13 year old, shovel a walk, fill a dishwasher, change a garbage. Where I would get my hair and make-up done daily, and massages. Probably the type that end with sexual gratification because what kind of break would it be without that? I would pair all that with renting some fancy car whose dipstick fits in the transmission and has a thumpin stereo so I could blast Adam Lambert's Fever repeatedly and then, yes, I would keep going to work. Maybe for like, three hours a day once or twice.
Now that's a break. My eleven days off is going to look nothing like that. But hey, if nothing else, I don't have to brush my teeth or my hair until 6am January 4 if I don't want to. My kid and my cat wont judge. Ok, my smart-ass kid probably would, but she'll be punished enough as I win the fights over who gets to play on the laptop that Santa is bringing her. And does this look like the face of a judging cat?
That's all I have for today, but it felt great to get something out. I've been suffering from this blogging constipation for way too long. I'm leaving you with one of my favorite Christmas songs ... that I can sing off the top of my head and do the running man to
And I'm impatiently waiting for it to be over. I haven't quit blogging like I've pretty much quit soccer, I just don't have any new blog material because, aside from getting ready for Christmas, I don't do a whole hell of a lot. Just wait to see what types of blogs I come up with when I finally have a working computer at home. Maybe I'll start doing product reviews, or become a TV critic. One thing that's a given project is setting up a profile on Plenty of Fish and blogging about those experiences. Or I can set up a Rub n Tug in my garage. I've been told I'm really good at hand jobs and I kinda need the money. Fun times are coming ... I can feel it. But first, this year has to end.
And even before that, I have some black berry pics for Mobile Upload Monday ... enjoy.
This appeared on my phone the other day when I took it out of the holster ... took a minute to realize what it is, but it's clearly my sisters boyfriends bald spot ...
Let's just call him Trichotillomannia Tyler.
This guy smokes outside my building. He thinks he's pretty slick with his cell phone wedged under his earmuffs. Hey ... it's a Canadian blue tooth!
My cat. Watching TV for five minutes
Let's see what she's watching .... Of course .... Bugs Bunny and Tweety
And last but not least, a discovery that Sydnerella and I made at the Antique Mall where we then chased each other around making scary growly noises.
Today is my fucking anniversary. Literally. I became a woman Thursday, November 25, 1993. Oh wait. Don't we become women when we start to bleed? That was March 6, 1993. Yes I was a late bloomer. Quick to get in the sack though.
This is the boy whose virginity I scammed ....
Yes, that is lip gloss. And yes, those are New Kids on the Block earrings. He let me dress him up like that mainly to deceive my mom in to believing he was a homo so she'd let us hang out in my room with the door shut. It worked. I think to this day, she believed he was gay. WAS. He has two kids now.
He was my first love. And even though I was whoring around by age 15, I'm lucky that I can (a) remember his name and (b) remember it as something special, with someone I don't regret. Well, as special as it can get without actually finishing. Ahhh, pointless teenage sex. We never dated in the four years we hungout, but there was always something stirring between us. And it used to piss his girlfriends the fuck off. These weren't make-believe feelings caused by bullshit he was feeding me so I'd show him my boobies. We slow-danced in my bedroom with tears in our eyes because he was moving away. Okay, maybe there were no tears, but it was real dammit. We're still waiting for the right time to get together for the real deal as a matter of fact. Our chances at a long happy life together were cut down considerably though when he moved across the country, got married, and had kids. Years will go by without a word, then we drop back into a routine of phone calls, e-mails, and it's like nothing's changed. A lot has of course ... He's traded his hyper-colour t-shirts in for army fatigues. And his chevy nova in for an airplane. And I've gone from laying on my back for three minutes to crazy sex maniac that demands at least an hour. That might be a stretch, but certainly, things have changed.
And for your listening pleasure, the song that I repeatedly cried to after My First Love moved away ....
And utter hatred (now that I've gone back and re-read what a hateful angry bitch I sound like ...)
This actually started out as a comment I was just about to leave at So ... What Else in reply to her blog about hating winter (go read her, she's very funny). I got way too carried away in that little comment box and decided it wasn't really my place to use such profanities on someone else's blog. In case you're wondering ... I am ok with most profanities. As a matter of fact, I don't know how I'd survive without being able to say Fuck when I need blow off some steam. How do some people not need to say that word? Must be nice to be so fucking happy.
Back to the snow. The goddam blasted snow whore. I fucking hate winter. I live dog-sledding distance to the North Pole where it usually snows from September to May. I hate letting my car run for ten minutes to thaw it out. I hate it more because I hate my car. I am lucky enough to have a garage. A garage that is on a slant and pools all the snow that falls off my car to the walls and make them mold. Good job dumb asses. But when I can't use my garage, like when I am work five days a week, my car sits on the street. Collecting inches of snow and freezing up like a popsicle, but worse because popsicles are nummy. In the winter, my evenings go something like this after work (because I am not Oprah rich and can not afford an indoor parking spot in my building):
-put on boots that have been drying under desk for 8 hours
-put on jacket & scarf
-put on gloves last because when I have to pull my hair out of my scarf, it gets static as shit if it's touched by the gloves
-shuffle down to the lobby doors like a big fat sumo wrestler sweating like a fucking pig because the building heat is turned way up
-step outside and almost get knocked over from the hurricane strength blizzard
-walk slowly and carefully because vision is compromised by scarves and eye lashes that have froze together
(at this point, I'm walking in either deep snow that may or may not be on the road, or on a slick sidewalk)
-huddle in a circle for 30 minutes at the bus stop with several other poor bastards who also are not Oprah rich, missing bus after bus after bus because more people seem to take the bus than drive in the snow. Idiots.
-try to keep my balance standing on the bus with 15 pounds of extra clothes on, on a slick floor, while sweating like a whore in church (like that? I've never used that phrase before but it fits here) again because of the 15 pounds of extra clothes.
-possibly get stuck trying to climb a small hill because buses are not snow buses in Calgary, although they should be, and most definitely get stuck behind some sort of incident on the road (cars that wont move on the ice rink we call our roads, etc)
-finally. reach. car.
-carefully, carefully open the door so the foot of snow on top doesn't fall onto the drivers seat. Most likely it will so I drop more fuck bombs at this point. loudly.
-reach over mound of snow on seat to start car, which sounds like a cat puking up a hairball because it's frozen fucking solid.
-CRANK THAT HEAT
-get snow brush. Yell Fuck again when footing is lost and I'm now UNDER the car.
-get up, use snow brush to wipe off
-brush car off. Never look directly AT the car when brushing because that big gust of wind will only come at that second
-fuck. fuck. fuck.
-shuffle around the car brushing for ... oohhh .... three minutes, get myself up from under the car two more times, then hop in
-make phone calls, have a cigarette, play some games on the phone, listen to music, watch the fucking chaos on the roads build.
-Finally, after 10 minutes, the car is warm enough to move.
-once out of the nice snow hole dug by spinning tires, sit at traffic light for three cycles each because only 1-3 cars can get enough traction to move at intersections.
-there are about 15 sets of lights between where I leave my car and house. You do the math.
All the while, heat absolutely cranked to keep snow and ice from building on the windows even though I can't fucking breath and am wearing a big puffy winter coat, long-johns under my already too tight pants and a pair of winter boots. fabulous attire for sitting in a car for 90 minutes. And the fun doesn't end there people. Once I get home, I have to shovel my way out of my garage and to the house. And shovelling is not easy like they make it look like on TV. I pull muscles in my hands most people don't know they have shovelling. No lie, one year, I sprained my thumb shovelling. Stupid whore snow.
