Procrastination Is The New Blog

I saw the sign

“Baby on board” signs used to make me really angry. They would make me want to swerve my little LOLA right into them and be like “Ha! Take that, baby on board.”

I think it starts with my whole issue with new parents. I realize it’s a life changing thing. I do. I got a dog once. I mean, you have to make sure it’s fed, watered, nurtured and doesn’t pee on the carpet. No, I don’t actually think parenting is totally like this. I’m not a complete tool. But why does every new parent think they were the first person to ever push a watermelon out of a water bottle?

Maybe my fear of having kids is taking over. Maybe I have this irrational thought that it is contagious and will catch on like the clap. “Oh, you’re pregnant? Congratulations! Now stay on that side of the room and don’t you dare double dip!”

It could be that I just plain don’t like other people’s children. I have these clients that have the 3 worst kids in the world. They throw shit all over my office and use the ottoman as a trampoline. The worst one is the one and a half year old who tears after his brothers. I didn’t even think kids could walk at that age, nevertheless run with an evil gleam in their eyes. Just when I think their parents are going to save me, that they’ve had enough and have come to kill their children, their mother stands up and shouts “Boys! Mommy loves you!” Really? You gave birth to Satan’s spawn and you want them to know that you love them? Probably so that they don’t kill you in your sleep…

So my friend, Baby Giraffe, and I were driving the other day and saw the sign.

“I hate Baby On Board signs, it’s so arrogant to think that you are better and to be careful around you just because you have a baby. The baby is probably not even in the car!” I ranted. BG turns to me and explains that those signs are actually in case the car is in an accident so the emergency team will be watching out for a baby. Oh! That makes more sense!

“So do you think i can get a sign for my favorite sunglasses?” I asked. BG just stared out the window and pretended not to hear me.

iamuness asked: Loved your post about scarce Christmas songs! thought it was very funny :) I'm a songwriter myself and think holiday songs are amazing. I actually wrote a couple not too long ago!

Thanks a bunch!

I have a gift

I have a gift; a gift to make any and all conversations awkward. It happens from saying the first thing that sprouts into my head instead of what society’s idea of proper conversational manners would be. 

Sometimes this gift is useful. Like when you’re at a party and some creep starts talking to you. You don’t want to talk to this guy, but somehow he draws you into a conversation about which Star Wars movie was better. You have never seen Star Wars and couldn’t care less about anything to do with it. A normal person would smile and nod and find a polite way to exit the conversation or stand there and listen to the guy until he has to leave because there’s some kind of nerdy marathon on TV. In this situation, I would just say something completely inappropriate or just look at the dude until he got creeped out and walked away.

Most of the time, however, this gift just ends up making me feel weird. I’ll be having a regular conversation with someone and then cannot possibly think of anythign to say that follows the theme. I just shut up. And then there’s always an awkward, weird pause. And then, both the person I’m talking to and myself will try to say something at the same time to fill the pause. Then, both of us try to be polite “What were you going to say?” “No you go first.” “No you go first.” Grasping at the idea that whatever they were going to say actually had a possible segway into something I am interested in and won’t make my eyes glaze over. Let’s face it, I have big eyes that can be noticeably glazed.

I am incapable of small talk as well. So if I see you in a public place and don’t really know you that well, I will probably just pretend I didn’t.

I don’t know why I do this, but if something wakes me up in the morning….. like full light morning…. like a text, or a phone call, or someone coming into my room, I’m incapable of opening both my eyes. I keep one eye shut. That’s right, I look at them or it with one eye. 

Unfriending Is Not Evil

Ever been wasting time on Facebook and just thought of someone you used to know and looked them up and found out they *gasp* unfriended you?

Then you feel this sudden disappointment. Then starts the imminent shame spiral. Maybe you did something wrong. Maybe you didn’t post enough or posted too much. Maybe you were the dreaded TMI person (I am sooooo not that person, by the way). Maybe, just maybe, it wasn`t any of those things.

Maybe that person decided that because you weren`t friends in real life, you maybe shouldn`t know everything that goes on for them. Or maybe, as in my situation, you know that having 500 friends on Facebook doesn`t mean you actually have 500 friends.

Roomie said once that she never deletes people off FB because she enjoys creeping them. Now, I`m not calling her out on this. It`s true. I have an obsession with names, so I like to find out what people name their babies. Or what`s going on with their lives. I like to find out if people I went to highschool with got married or divorced or any other thing. I like that. But do I need it? Absolutely not.

I’ve deleted over 100 “friends” in the past month. Not because these people did anything to me, but because I don’t actually know these people. I feel like it might be an invasion of privacy…. for them. I’m pretty sure every single person I met in High School was, at one time, my friend on that dreaded website. That’s really unnecessary.

So, I didn’t delete you because I didn’t like you, or you posted too many photos of yourself with the duck face, or because you’re a raver. I deleted you because we aren’t actual friends in real life.

A good rule of them is if you’re not going to say hi when you see them in public, you probably shouldn’t be their friend on Facebook. Just sayin’.

How about if we meet in the future and decide that we have something in common, we can be friends then, ok?

Calling All Songwriters

I was so excited that I finally got around to downloading Christmas music the other day. Daddio, being an avid Christmas hater since I can remember, has grilled into my brain that nothing Christmas-y should happen until after December 1… and everything must stop by January 1. So, a couple days ago, I got down to business and downloaded nearly 200 Christmas songs. I was so excited. I was going to rock out to Christmas music in my car, while I was getting ready and ALL DAY LONG at work.

Day 2… I’m beginning to hate my life. Before, knowing all the words to all my favourite Holiday tunes was exciting! Now, I may be suicidal. I listened to Christmas music for a total of 2 days. Yes, that’s right. 2 days.

Seriously, someone with any writing talent whatsoever, please write new Christmas songs. Please. Some bah-humbuggers might say that it’s all been written. I disagree.

I’m fairly certain that there are  A BAJILLION songs about love. And that’s just one word. There is a tonne of stuff yet to be written about Christmas. Come on people! Start a Christmas song writing movement! We need more! Not just the same song being sung the same way by a million different people. Except for Christina Aguilera, she gets props for changing it up, but loses a thousand points for wrecking every cover she does with her — for lack of a better term — yodeling.

I don’t want to be done with my Christmas cheer 3 days in to December. So lets go, all you songwriters out there. You know how many royalties you can make off writing a Christmas song? A song that will be listened to year after year until the end of time? Just look at Hugh Grant’s character in ”About A Boy”.

Bajillions. 

I need Ginkgo Biloba

So you know how sometimes your memory plays tricks on you? Like you remember something COMPLETELY different than how it happened? Ya, this would be the relationship I have with my bed.

While I was gone for the year, I kept remembering my bed as this magnificent, ridiculously comfy universe full of blankets and pillows and everything people enjoy when they go to bed.

This is totally not true.

If you were to run into the room and flop down on my bed, you would most likely break your hip.

It’s absolutely horrible.

I haven’t really had a good night’s sleep since I’ve been home. That could be for a variety of reasons like the fact that I’m living with my parents for the time being. This is actually not that bad at all. I thought they would really cramp my style. It turns out “my style” doesn’t arrive from Ireland until the 8th of November so that solves that. Another good thing is that they’re not charging me rent. This is always a good idea. However, this still doesn’t mean I have any extra spending money. Mostly because I don’t get paid until THE END OF TIME (read: November 15). 

The other reason I haven’t been sleeping could be my parent’s evil little dog who can tell time and has decided that the world will end if he does not have a pee break at 11pm, 2am, and 4am and breakfast at 6am on the dot. He probably has a union. I hear they’re really strict about employees break times in Alberta. He might sue me. The legal documents are pending.

Mostly, I think I can’t sleep because laying on my bed feels quite similar to laying on my parent’s driveway. Actually, that might be a little more comfortable as my pillows probably wouldn’t wedge themselves between the mattress and the wall constantly. It’s a really noisy bed too. Every time I move, the thing squeaks outrageously. The mattress, not the frame. My dad thinks I maybe didn’t unwrap it right, I figured he rigged it because I’m old enough to be allowed to have my boyfriend in my room. The reason that it makes noise doesn’t really matter, the point is it’s annoying.

I need a pillow top thing or a gel pad for it. I also probably need to start taking something to make my memory better. Or something to make me stop rambling. You know, either/or.

Thanks for the chicken balls, world!

So it’s my last week in Ireland and I’m missing Thanksgiving dinner with my family, but I’ve also been thinking of all the things I’m thankful for, as you do if you’re are Canadian at this time of year, or American at the end of November.

Lots of people go really deep about this holiday and say they are thankful for the food on their tables and being able to live in free countries and all. That’s awesome, not trying to put that down, but I’m always thankful for the little things. I know I’m already so lucky to have been born a Canadian. Let’s face it, unlike some other countries, I can travel anywhere around the world with a Canadian flag proudly displayed on my backpack and people will be glad to meet me. They’ll want to talk to me… until they actually talk to me… then they make their decisions from there— good or bad. 

Here’s a little list of the things I’m thankful for this year, in no particular order:

- slumber parties in the sitting room

- coffee. (It always comes up on this list.)

- skype dates with people across the world

- Furball, the American and all the Irish I’ve met in the last year or so

- books in general and my kindle in particular

- surprising my dad (and the photos a dear friend took of the event)

- lazy fridays

- hot showers

- impromptu nights out with friends

- board games

- senses of humour (these should be treasured anywhere they show up. They might turn up in the most unlikely places)

- friends that are family and family that are friends

There’s all that and more and I think about them everyday. So Happy Thanksgiving, Canadians. Don’t be afraid to let people know what you’re really thankful for.

I May Be A Hater…

I’m off work today and by myself and a little bored so I thought I would make a little potpourri of things other people do that I find extremely annoying.

Caution to those that might get offended: I’m not saying I don’t like you as a person, but these actions may cause me to a) make fun of you… a lot and b) roll my eyes when you talk. This is not meant as an insult, just an outlet for me to express my issues… as we all know, I have an abundance.

1) Girls that call their boyfriends/significant others “My Man”

I don’t know why this bugs me so much. I rarely use Furball’s name when I talk to him and usually call him Babe or Hey You. I distinctly remember a conversation with some friends of mine that thought that couples that “babe” each other constantly are so irritating. I cringed a little because I am definitely guilty of this. But “my man” is just plain territorial. To be honest, it total makes me uncomfortable. Like I feel like I’ve just been an unwilling guest in your naughty bedroom exploits. Whenever a girl calls her boyfriend “my man” I just feel like I need a scalding hot shower and a sleeping pill.

2) Pregnant couples that name their baby before it’s born and proceed to call their unborn child by that name

I’ll admit, I’m not into people finding out the sex of their baby before it’s born. I know it’s a personal preference but, for me, life just has too little real surprises to just go and ruin this fabulous one. I know some people are control freaks and just need to know. Fine. Do it. Whatever. It’s when these people find out they are having a boy and name it Michael or some other generic name (well, it doesn’t have to be generic, sometimes it’s Flash or something equally embarrassing) and then call their pregnant bellies by that name. “Oh, Michael just kicked!” or “I went for lunch with Julie and Michael.” I just don’t think a person who hasn’t breathed yet should have a name. I know there’s this whole other issue of pro life and blah blah blah. That’s not what I’m talking about. This is just plain weird to me. Plus, guess what? The medical professional who told you the sex of your baby should also have told you that this is not an exact science and in most cases is only something like 80% accurate.

Shocker! Little Michael is actually little Michelle. Hope she likes toy trucks and the color blue.

3) Overly personal or super vague statuses on Facebook

We all know that, in part, Facebook is just a giant popularity contest and there are people who play this to a T.  There’s vague status person “Why do these things always happen to me??” So that they can get a bunch of people asking what horrible thing happened to them and they can reply, “I got another papercut!” Just because you may have 3 million Facebook friends does not make you likable, pretty or interesting. It would be really easy if all friendships only required a click of the button.

Then there’s the “personal” info person. I’m not talking about TMI personal. (Although that can be pretty gross when I’m trying to eat my cereal) I’m talking about things that would be better talked about face to face or like adults (especially if it has something to do with legal proceedings) instead of announced on Facebook. Even if you’re in the right, you look like a douche, sound like a douche, and are probably hurting your moral character.

I think more people should use Facebook the way I do, for humour’s sake. Really. It’s fun.

End of rant.

Things I Don’t Understand. Part 3: Camping

Ok, all the rumours you’ve heard are true. I’ll admit it, right now, for everyone to see.

Big breath! Ok, here it is: I. HATE. CAMPING.

There I said it. It’s out there. Now let me do a bit of explaining.

It’s not that I’m not a fun girl. I totally am. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I have a wicked sense of humour and can have a pretty good time with anyone doing anything for any amount of time. Just not camping.

First of all, I’d like to say that my parents never did the camping thing with us when we were younger. I think I heard stories about Mamacita and Daddio taking The Sister and T out when they were little (before The Wild Card and I were born), but these stories are only told on dark, scary nights with lots of thunder and lightning. I kid. I have no idea.

I think I might have mentioned before that we only ever took 2 family vacations in my whole life. Once, we were all scared for our lives while Daddio drove on the edge of the “Road to the Sun” down to Montana to get the “full experience”. The second one was when we went to Fairmont, B.C. to stay at our landlords condo. My only clear memories of this trip were that my dog rolled in A LOT of horse shit and I had to bathe her.

So ya, we didn’t really do the camping thing when I was a kid. I mean, I wasn’t dejected or anything. We played outside all the time, built forts in the neighbouring yards and could be heard making gun sounds on any summer night running up and down the street playing war with all the boys.

Camping is my nemesis.

Think for a moment everything you do on a regular, uneventful day. You wake up, brush your teeth, go to the toilet, get dressed. You might make some breakfast, wash up afterwards. You might read a book or do a crossword. There’s coffee in there somewhere and in between all activities (for people like me).

Got the idea?

Now (this is the part I REALLY don’t understand), think of a way to make this all a thousand times more difficult. That is camping in a nutshell. It goes kind of like this:

You wake up…. at 4:30am because your dewy, humid tent is now being roasted by the sun and has turned into a greenhouse. If you didn’t get out of it, you would probably be steaming like asparagus in a matter of minutes. Also, you had been sleeping on a cannot-possibly-stay-inflated blowup mattress, and your side has been pretty much pretending to be a mattress all night, but was really just a double thick plastic mat on the rocky, hard ground. All of the factors are really conducive to a good night’s sleep and you’re in a really awesome mood because of it. Don’t forget the bugs. There’s always bugs.

You need to brush your teeth and go pee. Now, most campsites nowadays have a public toilet conveniently located as far as possible from your particular site. That’s definitely an option. Except, for some reason, there is ALWAYS a line in a girl’s toilet. Always. The other option (and the only option in the not-so-fancy places) is to turn on the water tap (that is shared between you and the other two hillbilly families with 17 screaming children on either side of you) and brush your teeth with the more-than-slightly metallic water that comes out. Then you need to do your business. Let’s just say this, for a girl, everything about peeing in the woods is exponentially harder. First thing’s first, find a place that does not resemble poison ivy. Secondly, hank down your pants and squat in such a way that you are not peeing on your feet, pants or hands (this is way harder than it sounds). Don’t even think about paper, just shake your money maker and leave the joint. Oh, and there are bugs.

Now to get dressed. Lucky you! You kept your clothes in your sweathouse/tent. Your clothes now feel wet, smell questionable and are full of bugs.

Making breakfast, or any meal, is a special treat because you get to pretend that you’ve never heard of electricity. Everything ends up tasting like burnt smoke. No matter what it is. And then you get to use burnt, smoky water to wash it in. In a tub that’s always too small. With dead bugs. 

You maybe want to read a book or do a crossword afterwards. But first you have to set up your lawn chairs. They usually come in a bag (that you can never get them back into) and you have to balance just right as to not topple over at any second. Your book and/or newspaper is also damp from spending the night in hell your tent and the only pen you brought doesn’t work. So you use the dead bugs.

At this point in time, after percolating your coffee to something that resembles coffee except a little smokier, a little burnter and a lot higher grounds per cup ratio, you just say, “aw f*** it!” and start drinking.

It’s only 7am.

I just don’t know why people subject themselves to this torture and call it a good time. 

I’d rather shove bamboo shoots under my fingernails.

People are absolutely nuts

So, of course, I was watching crappy reality TV last night and there’s this show on that’s called “My Weird Addiction” or something to that effect. This 20-something gorgeous girl was addicted to taxidermy. TAXIDERMY!!! She would literally go on walks and find dead animals — that she picked up with her BARE HANDS — and bring them home to stuff them.

Firstly, vomit.

Secondly, the creepiest part of this, if the act alone wasn’t enough for you, was how detached she was. Like this vacant look would come over her eyes and she’d have this frighteningly sweet smile on her face as she talked about dead things and how much she loved them.

This just proves my theory that people are f***ing crazy, pardon the expression. I bet you everyone you know has some super obsessive thing that they do that they think it acceptable or normal. 

All I got to say is that I have enough of my own neurosis to prefer not to know these things about people. I don’t want to learn about your idiosyncrasies, honestly. But I know that everyone has them. Hopefully they’re not as extreme as doing your own amateur taxidermy. Hopefully. Just know that even though you may think these behaviours are normal, they probably aren’t.

I just hope they don’t find stuffed and preserved humans in her basement in 30 years.

Movie Quotes and Douchebaggery

Now that everyone is running to the theatre to see “Hangover 2”, I feel like I’m going to bombarded by ridiculous movie quotes for the next 5 years. 

You know, I don’t hate all movie/television quotes. But there’s a time and a place. I’ll be the first to quote old “Friends” episodes like nobody’s business. But in effing context. 

Like seriously, there’s nothing more annoying than that guy, you know that guy, who’s sole purpose in watching a new comedy flick is to memorize every single funny line in the whole thing and then say them at random intervals for the next 3 months. 

Guess what? This:

 a) makes me never want to watch this movie. Ever. Or movies ever again.

 b) makes me highly irritated and makes that guy look like he’s incapable of carrying an adult conversation

 c) makes that guy sound like a complete douchebag with all the douchebaggery involved

The only way that movie quoting works is if the people around you have also seen that movie. You can reminisce about how funny the movie was and how it made your feelers feel. Or if it’s a super classic or cult type film, that works as well. Because those quotes have shaped generations (maybe that’s a little far fetched, but still, you get the jist of it). 

Quoting just for quoting’s sake, just to prove that you can remember idiotic phrases from forgettable films is not cool. Nor is it entertaining. Or impressive. It honestly makes you sound like a dumbass. Someone who has nothing interesting or productive or funny to say, who can not contribute to a conversation, and who is not someone I want to spend time with.

I like people who can be witty and have an intelligent sense of humour without having to rely on phrases that have lost their meaning because they have been repeated so many times by so many people - most of the time incorrectly.

So come up with some of your own one-liners, people. It’s way more amusing that way!

“Friends” quotes, on the other hand, are always ok.

Things I Don’t Understand. Part 2

Mushy Peas.

If you’ve never lived on this part of the world (namely Ireland or the UK), you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. Mushy peas are a part of pretty much every big holiday feast here. What? You’ve never heard of them? Doesn’t surprise me. They’re disgusting.

Firstly, they look like green mashed potatoes. Now, that might not sound so bad. Except that they are not a shade of green that food is supposed to be. They’re more of a “soft, lime” green. I don’t know if I’m explaining this right. It’s as if this color couldn’t possibly come from anywhere but a very expensive Martha Stewart-esque food coloring kit. Something called “Spring Leaves Green Covered In Dew”. 

Secondly, they come in a can. Yes. The people of Ireland cannot mush their own peas. This is done for them at the Mushy Peas Factory or somewhere, canned, and conveniently ends up in the back of the cupboard to bring out on special occasions… and funerals. I’m pretty positive that Mushy Peas could be classified as a funeral food.

Thirdly, they sure the hell don’t taste like peas! In fact, they don’t taste like much of anything. They just take up valuable plate real estate. 

Lastly, who named this shit anyway? Is mushy even a word? And way to make your food sound appetizing. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to run for a buffet if I hear anything described as mushy. Yuck.

Someone, please make me understand.

P.S. While googling this photo for your viewing pleasure, I came across a mushy peas recipe…. because that’s necessary…

P.P.S. On the subject of unnaturally colored food, why is KFC’s coleslaw lime green?

Furball Is A Slave Driver

So we moved into our summer house today. Last night, I snuck into the conversation that I didn’t want to be woken up before 9:30 AM. Although Banagher is a bustling metropolis at 2000 people, I figured it wouldn’t be too hard to weave in and out of the 1 person on the street today to get to the shop to buy some essentials we need for the summer.

Furball had different thoughts on this matter. And he’s a f***ing sneaky shit too. He wakes me up at 10 to 9…. and you should be the first to know, I haven’t seen any part of the 8 o’clock hour in over 6 months. The bugger brought coffee. How can you be mad if your blasted boyfriend wakes you up at the crack of dawn (YES, CRACK OF DAWN!) when the shit knows that his best defense from your random closed-eye punches and kicks would be a fresh cup o’ joe???

I was still a little peeved. Let’s be honest, I’m not the most rational person in the world. It might be safe to say that I probably fit into the category of “The Planet’s Most Unreasonable People Who Ever Lived”.  I may have thrown a little hissy fit… a private one… where I just mumbled to myself as I had to listen to chipper Furball laughing and joking with his little sister. Yes, he had the gall to be happy about being up at that hour, too. Grrr.

Turns out we didn’t leave the Mansion until well after noon. After we arrived at the summer house, I hung up my clothes real fast, set up the bedding and was ready for a well-earned nap….. 

Nope, Boyfriend has other ideas. 

So we walk to the shop. I’m miserable at this point. Anyone who knows me knows there are 2 times when you avoid me at all costs:

1) I’m hungry. Or should I say h-angry. I just don’t do well with being hungry. I get short. I can’t help it. You’d be hard-pressed to get more than one word answers out of me. Sometimes it’s 2 words, but they’re mean words you shouldn’t ever say to someone you love… or even like a little bit.

2) I’m tired. Now this one is a little tricky. If I haven’t slept very long, but I get up of my own volition, I can actually be very chipper and happy and fun. If it’s someone else who is the cause of my lack of shut-eye, I’m just a downright bitch.

Either of these times can also cause spontaneous eruption of my tear ducts. Particularly if you look at me the wrong way. Or say anything at all. 

So we went to the shop where I proceeded to mope around and push the cart behind Furball who has to touch EVERY garlic clove before he picks one and who gets me to smell EACH kind of dish soap before he throws the winner in the cart. (No offense, honey, but why do I care what the dish soap smells like??? Oh, wait. I don’t.)

At one point, I snapped at Furball because he wasn’t going through the aisles in an orderly manner (even though the poor guy had made a list and was dutifully checking off each thing). I apologized right after. This is a gift of mine. Being able to realize I’m being unreasonable, but only after saying completely rude and unnecessary things. Anyways, being the gentleman that he is, Boyfriend told me to stop being a complete bitch. 

In my defense, not only was I tired, I was starving. Not a good combination. 

When we got home, Boyfriend pretty much threw me into our room and told me not to come out until I had transformed into a human again. Then he went about his business and I took a nap like a 5 year old child.

I feel much better now. Maybe it’s because I can smell the dinner Furb’s cooking and I know there’s wine in my new future too. Yes!