Oh, woe. How I could go on about how *exhausting* it is sometimes to come up with *unique* and *interesting* blog posts and how I feel so exposed to society and probably, if i really put my mind to it- I mean, I've got like an hour and forty-five minutes left in the work day and I've already accomplished so much by counting bloody jingle bells for the better part of two hours; solid use of my commerce degree and an even more solid use of the time some organization is required to pony up more than $25 an hour for!- I could go on in an existentially themed crisis post.
What does it (and by it, I mean this blog) all mean?! Why do we do (and by do I mean blog) this? And it would probably feature several really difficult to read run on sentences.
But I will spare you, dear blog readers! Because every time I go off on some semi-serious rant, I get no comments.
And I do this for the comments.
I'm a shameless attention whore. This should come as a surprise to none of you.
So instead, I shall tell you that I saw NIN last night at the 'dome, on the floor, and it was pretty rocksauce awesome.
Even though I've probably permanently damaged all of my remaining hearing because *someone* thought it was dorky to wear earplugs.
Yeah, well, sixty years from now, that someone is going to have to listen to me nag even louder because I live for nothing more than to hear the sound of my own voice. Nagging.
Also, I'd post photos, but due to the great Soda in the Handbag incident of 2008, I have no camera. So no awesome displays of Trent Reznor excellence featuring enough lights to make your head e'splode!
Today, someone in my office offered to buy me a Starbucks beverage.
I said no.
Now, normally, this would be a matter of concern; Two months ago I would have checked myself into the nearest Medicentre. (Which for my convenience, happens to be only three blocks away and they're really speedy during the lunch rush)
Do you know what this means, Internets?! This means that I am officially over my Starbucks addiction. I am mere weeks away from becoming the proud owner of a Luxury Vacation Home with the money I have saved!
Actually, my next task in the money-saving - okay, I'll be honest, at this point it's a money-not-spending challenge - is to give up buying lunch.
I don't buy lunch every day. I used to buy lunch every single day. Breakfast, too. No wonder I never had enough money at the end of a pay period. So now, I'll reduce to treating myself to that Coop Salad Bar with Amanda once a week or so.
Soon, Internets, soon, I will be getting a year-round tan in my three-bedroom seaside condo in Boca Raton.
Is there sea in and around Boca Raton? I don't know. I'm upset that Estelle Getty died and that seems like a good place to go wallow in sorrow and happy, peach-hued wicker furniture memories.
This post is numbered such that I feel iffy posting it. So instead, I shall turn this into a list! Ah, the lazy blogger's trusty standby. Like dry toast for dinner. Cheap, easy, filling, moderately un-satisfying. That's what I'm here to provide for you. Blog filler, now with no added margarine.
Things I don't know how to do, and yet keep trying, like a moron. A committed moron.
French braid my hair. Poach eggs. Wear a pencil skirt. (Not happening, but I try, every single year. Damn you, Hips) Open a container of yogurt without mysteriously spilling on myself but not noticing until a few hours later. Apply black pencil eyeliner without looking like a gothic second-string football player who moonlights in an emo band and spends Saturday nights doing body shots at the local nightclub. That yoga pose involving balancing on one foot while keeping your forehead to your shin. Or something. It hurts. I always fall out of it. Oh, my poor self-esteem. Sing.
Yesterday I did laundry. I am no longer living in a state of laundremergency, which is nice. I have at least enough clean unders to last me for two weeks. Which means that I will be back in a Code Red situation by the long weekend. Ahh, planning ahead.
I also found cheap-er gas (how sad is it that I call $1.26 gas cheap?) and washed my car.
Every time I wash my car, it rains.
But I have bested you, Universe! I found a touchless wash with a 48 hour weather guarantee! If it rains or snows ('cause you never know) within 48 hours of washing my Mazda, I get to wash it again for FREE. boo-yah. Take that, Nature!
Totally expecting it to rain exactly 49 hours after I washed my car.
If you know me, or have ever been to my house (wait- how would it occur that you don't know me but have been to my house?), you are well aware that I am a total bookworm.
I love books. Novels, biographies, non-fiction, even encyclopedias and dictionaries. I am madly in love with the written word, and as long as I've been alive, I'm pretty sure that's the case.
Some of my fondest memories are of books. Be it packing the car for vacation and making sure that my mother and I had a giant bag of novels to chew through in the car, by the pool, and during quiet moments at the hotel or campsite; going to Camp Can-ta-ki-ye with my beloved hardcover Nancy Drew mystery hidden in my bag so I could read it with a flashlight in my bunk, or spending hours pacing the aisles in the library at my school, which naturally became spending hours pacing the aisles in the bookstore at the university.
I've almost always got more than one book on the go, and I'm perpetually seeking my next read.
So today, I went online to check reviews for a book I've been contemplating picking up, but am really on the fence about.
The author of my beloved vampire smut recently released a novel (for adults!) about...body snatching aliens.
Maybe it's just me, but body snatching alien smut just doesn't have the same ring to it. I am hesitant.
So I checked out the reader reviews on chapters.ca.
OF COURSE this author has a fanatic group of psychofans. OF COURSE they become extremely irate at any hint of criticism. I can look past that.
I just can't look past extremely bad grammar, poorly constructed arguments and horrendous spelling.
Look, I get it. You LUUUUUUURVE our teenaged vampire smuttress. But LUUUUURVE is not a word, and if you want me to agree with you, you'd be best not to jump down the virtual throat of anyone who dare threaten the genius of your favourite author- while using outrageously bad grammar. For the love of toast, you are posting a review on the website of a BOOKSELLER! You are obviously at least partially literate: prove it!
Also, vowels are still important, particularly when making a point.
The Laundry pile chez moi has reached epic proportions.
So much so that I have nothing to wear to ye olde pubbe for wings tonight. Well…almost nothing. Much like the days when I’d show up for my 9:30 Thursday morning marketing classes in a gold sequined tank top and a green polar fleece jacket, I make do with what I’ve got. Here are my options:
Hot pink terry romper, white knee socks, pink bunnyhug. Because I always get cold.
Black cocktail dress I wore to my convocation, sparkly red hooded cape.
Yoga pants, uber-sexy neon orange “Saskatchewan: Hard to Spell, Easy to Draw” tshirt, purple flip flops.
Two-piece bathing suit.
Blue and white Apres-ski-style wool sweater and floral print sarong.
So! Which of these sultry ensembles is least likely to embarrass my roommate, the friends of my roommate, and the man I so artfully conned into being my sig.oth.?
Thank god. Only 3 more days of tramps, frat boys in hats, pancakes and excessive boozery. I don't know if I could handle 365 days a year of lycra used where lycra should not be used, people lined up outside a bar when I'm on my lunch break, the smell of stale beer and urine lingering on the sidewalks in the morning, and enough skin exposed during happy hour to require a NC-17 rating.
Just to prove that I'm not totally Constable Bailey of the Fun Police, I will let you know that I could definitely go in for a Stampede full of legitimate rodeo events, more visible rhinestones than upper thighs, and community-focused events that have more to do with getting to know your neighbour (not "getting to know" the hot blonde in payroll) than nursing a hangover.
Why is it that some days, I can sit down and hammer out 10,000 words without any real problems, and other days pulling a paltry 500 words out of a hat seems impossible?
I'm working on a writing project at that place I go from roughly 9-5, five days a week that pays me so I can pay the bills. I feel like I write one paragraph, then delete it. Fourteen words forward, three phrases back. Cut, copy, paste, move around-it's just not working for me today. It wasn't working for me yesterday. I slept on it, but I suppose that my boozey slumber wasn't really conducive to waking up at 2 am with a jolt and the perfect burst of gotta-write-that-down inspiration.
This is why I'm afraid that I'll never really write a novel. Even a novella. Because I always get to a certain point and stop. Delete. Give up, because what I've written is crap and I'd be crazy to believe that anyone would ever want to read it. At this point, I'm not even sure I could write convincing young adult smut.
Grumblecakes. Back to work. I have some text that needs to be highlighted, re-sized and changed to a different font.
On Friday morning (mid-morning, as I had the day off and was en route to brunching), I was sitting idly by at a red light on Memorial, minding my own business, lamenting the fact that the radio options available to me really le suck sometimes, when I was met by some rather inconspicious and completely normal mid-morning Friday traffic.
A man driving a hearse with the window rolled down, wearing a sombrero.
I'm not so keen on this regular-length workweek thing we've currently got going on here. Sure, there's enough to jazz it up right- like tonight's yoga class, some mid-week downtown dinner plans, and potentially a few loads of really clean laundry- because laundry is, as Amanda says, always an emergency situation as far as I'm concerned. I am so exciting that sometimes I can't even believe it.
In fact, I've currently discovered that not only is the skirt I put on this morning actually about a size and a half too large, to the point where if I am not careful when I stand up, it's going to be Free Show time in my office, it also has one of my trademark supicious yogurt stains on it (I actually think it's from the yogurt I just consumed because the skirt is CLEAN, or it was, until about 3 minutes ago).
People are losing their jobs! I am so conflicted. I feel so torn. This is terrible terrible news. Oh, the guilt, it weighs heavily on me like the 10-day-bender hangover of an oil company employee on the first Monday after Stampede.
Yeah, that title has almost nothing to do with the following post. Well, sort of. But not really. I can't decide if I need to drink more coffee or just surrender to the caffeine shakes.
My musical taste runs to artists with tight pants and bad hair. This can go two ways: tight spandex animal print pants and hair too big to fit through a doorway that inspires wicked air guitar solos, or tight skinny jeans worn by mopey indie kids with shaggy bangs in their eyes singing about daily injustices, socialism and unrequited love.
But when the thermometer hits that zone above 26 degrees Celsius, I find that there is no place for musical existentialism.
No, in the hot hot summertime, all I want is some three-or-four part harmonies, a choreographed dance break, and happy rhymey simple songs about sun and sun and more sun. Bring on the boy bands. I'll admit it. I'm rocking out to the new single by the Lords and Masters of all Boy Bandia.
I challenge you not to bop your head along with the windows rolled down and your wayfarers on.
(The 80s hair bands can stay, btw. They're seasonless.)