I believe in rights. In fact, I am all about rights. The Right to Form an Uneducated and Baseless Opinion and the Right to Be an Idiot are no exception to my unwavering support of one's rights.
But if someone chooses to take those two god-given and incontrovertible rights, and ignore the distinctive chartreuse skull-and-crossbones-slathered-with-radioactive-waste-then-stuffed-with-poison-dart-frogs-and-guarded-by-rabid-pikas-and-also-chock-full-of-trans-fats MSDS warning label that is clearly and prominently displayed on the rights, stating that those two rights should NEVER be deployed in spatial or temporal proximity to each other, and goes ahead and uses them at the same time anyways...
Well, then.
As a Class V Temper regulated under the Hazardous Products Act, I'm obligated to warn the public that I react strongly with the byproducts of Opinionated x Idiocy. However, having provided fair and reasonable notice of potential contraindication by way of my red hair (i.e., the universal symbol for Concentrated Source of Rage), I can no longer be held responsible for any consequences that may be incurred as a result of one's own stupidity.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
It's Only Onychophagia
I've been a nail-biter my whole life. For real - as far back as I can remember, someone was yelling at me to stop biting my nails. Probably been doing it since I first had teeth.
I've tried everything I can think of: nail polish; mittens; snapping a rubber band on my wrist. (Which sucks, by the way, but if I can deal with the pain of mauling my own fingernails a little rubber band isn't going to make a difference.) I've even developed a habit of sitting on one hand while I drive with the other - not sure if this is a better habit than nail-biting, but you can at least tell I'm trying. Trying to DEATH!
You know, I had absolutely no problem quitting smoking - something that's actually addictive - so you'd think that nail-biting of all things would be an easy fix. Wrong! I figure that the difference is, if I don't go to the store to buy cigarettes I just won't have them to smoke, whereas laziness and cheapness just aren't adequate disincentives when it comes to fingernails: they're always there, and they're always free.
Medium Fry discovered the solution at the drugstore the other day: an incredibly bitter liquid that you paint on to your nails like nail polish. It is so intensely bitter and disgusting that even a dedicated nail-biter like myself can't work through it. Simply apply once a day and presto - no biting.
Although it doesn't wash or flake off, the extreme bitterness in the polish transfers readily to other objects, and therefore may have the unintended consequence of curing me of several other habits I've picked up over the years. Like flossing.
And lunch.
And sex.
It's like having the Midas touch, but less lucrative.
Now, I don't much care for the looks of my mangled fingertips, but I do like lunch, and I really like flossing. DH HATES that I bite my nails, but he's enough of a tightwad that my springing for gel nails (an effective, but admittedly pricey, deterrent) really annoys him... and then there's that last item on the list.
Which brings us to an impasse.
Odds are 10:1 in favour of supporting my local nail salon. Stay tuned for results of today's match.
I've tried everything I can think of: nail polish; mittens; snapping a rubber band on my wrist. (Which sucks, by the way, but if I can deal with the pain of mauling my own fingernails a little rubber band isn't going to make a difference.) I've even developed a habit of sitting on one hand while I drive with the other - not sure if this is a better habit than nail-biting, but you can at least tell I'm trying. Trying to DEATH!
You know, I had absolutely no problem quitting smoking - something that's actually addictive - so you'd think that nail-biting of all things would be an easy fix. Wrong! I figure that the difference is, if I don't go to the store to buy cigarettes I just won't have them to smoke, whereas laziness and cheapness just aren't adequate disincentives when it comes to fingernails: they're always there, and they're always free.
Medium Fry discovered the solution at the drugstore the other day: an incredibly bitter liquid that you paint on to your nails like nail polish. It is so intensely bitter and disgusting that even a dedicated nail-biter like myself can't work through it. Simply apply once a day and presto - no biting.
Although it doesn't wash or flake off, the extreme bitterness in the polish transfers readily to other objects, and therefore may have the unintended consequence of curing me of several other habits I've picked up over the years. Like flossing.
And lunch.
And sex.
It's like having the Midas touch, but less lucrative.
Now, I don't much care for the looks of my mangled fingertips, but I do like lunch, and I really like flossing. DH HATES that I bite my nails, but he's enough of a tightwad that my springing for gel nails (an effective, but admittedly pricey, deterrent) really annoys him... and then there's that last item on the list.
Which brings us to an impasse.
Odds are 10:1 in favour of supporting my local nail salon. Stay tuned for results of today's match.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Monotamy? Monogony? Kemo Sabe?
How To Keep Sex Interesting in Marriage
Tip #08: Role Play.
Wear your sleep mask; pretend you're the Lone Ranger.
Tip #13: Keep It Fresh.
Wear your flannel nightgown; pretend you're Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Tip #45: Mix Things Up.
Wear your apron; pretend you're Martha Stewart.
Tip #52: Try Something New.
Wear nothing to bed. Pretend you're you and he's him.
(Super trippy, eh?)
Tip #08: Role Play.
Wear your sleep mask; pretend you're the Lone Ranger.
Tip #13: Keep It Fresh.
Wear your flannel nightgown; pretend you're Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Tip #45: Mix Things Up.
Wear your apron; pretend you're Martha Stewart.
Tip #52: Try Something New.
Wear nothing to bed. Pretend you're you and he's him.
(Super trippy, eh?)
(Who was that masked woman anyway?)
Friday, June 24, 2011
Helpful is the New Hunky
So about three weeks ago I reported to you that I was the proud new owner of two cases of wine, and - what's that? I said three before? Hmm, you must be mistaken, because surely I couldn't have consumed an entire case of wine already...
But that's beside the point: this week, I won another work prize draw! This time I came home with a pound of excellent coffee. Everything's coming up Frecklepelt! What really impresses me is how all these work prizes are geared toward my favourite vices. Coffee to get me going before 9am - wine to keep me going after that - man, I can't wait for the next draw! Carton of smokes and a hunky fireman for sure!
Those folks at the office, they really know how to keep a hedonist like myself coming back every Monday.
(And Wednesday...)
Hmm, DH seems to be objecting to the idea of "hunky fireman as vice". No, no, dear - you misunderstand - I just want someone to, uh... carry me around... over their shoulder... firemen do that, right? You see, I've been having this trouble with my, uh, knee, yeah knee, that makes it hard for me to get up the stairs sometimes after a bottle of wine, and a fireman could really help me out with that little problem. 'Cause that's, like, part of their training or something. Carrying middle-aged inebriated ladies up the stairs. They're good at that.
Which is why women like them. Hunky firemen. They're so... helpful.
But that's beside the point: this week, I won another work prize draw! This time I came home with a pound of excellent coffee. Everything's coming up Frecklepelt! What really impresses me is how all these work prizes are geared toward my favourite vices. Coffee to get me going before 9am - wine to keep me going after that - man, I can't wait for the next draw! Carton of smokes and a hunky fireman for sure!
Those folks at the office, they really know how to keep a hedonist like myself coming back every Monday.
(And Wednesday...)
Hmm, DH seems to be objecting to the idea of "hunky fireman as vice". No, no, dear - you misunderstand - I just want someone to, uh... carry me around... over their shoulder... firemen do that, right? You see, I've been having this trouble with my, uh, knee, yeah knee, that makes it hard for me to get up the stairs sometimes after a bottle of wine, and a fireman could really help me out with that little problem. 'Cause that's, like, part of their training or something. Carrying middle-aged inebriated ladies up the stairs. They're good at that.
Which is why women like them. Hunky firemen. They're so... helpful.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Woman of Loose Morels
DH and I went morel hunting today out at a friend's place. Our friend hates mushrooms, so we assured her we could help out with the "fungal infestation" she said she was having trouble with on her property. (Sadly, she also has a wood paneling infestation, which was beyond our powers to address.) Turns out I'm a pretty good mushroom finder - must have picked that up at work or something - and we made out like bandits with probably two hundred bucks' worth of the gorgeous little wrinkly critters.
If you can call something that looks like a cross between a citrus reamer and a decomposing kitchen sponge "gorgeous". But I'm also pretty good at appreciating, er, "under-charismatic" plants - another little something I guess I picked up at work.
As I understand things, it's good manners to use a mesh collecting bag when hunting mushrooms. That way the mushrooms you're taking still get a kick at spreading their spores. (Hey, when you're that ugly you need all the help you can get.) I was feeling pretty altruistic about my role as wingman - "my friend Morley, he's a real fun guy" - until we got back to our car and noticed a faint yellowish tinge on her normally sleek black exterior.
Yellow? Yellow dust? What the heck?
Oh, wow. Pollen, and lots of it.
Come to think of it, probably spores, too.
I peered at our mushroom bag with new suspicion. My gawd. These things don't need my help. In fact, they've got so much to spare that they're indiscriminately blowing it over the whole of creation, Hyundai Sonatas and all. It's a regular chlorophorgy out there! Maybe even a plantgasm!
I shook my fist at the mushrooms. "Hey! You dirty bastards! My car is not that kind of girl, you hear me? I don't want no funny business on the ride home, alright?"
I can't prove anything, but I am sure they spored all over the back seat on the drive home. *sigh* Really, what can you expect from a bunch of loose morels like that?
If you can call something that looks like a cross between a citrus reamer and a decomposing kitchen sponge "gorgeous". But I'm also pretty good at appreciating, er, "under-charismatic" plants - another little something I guess I picked up at work.
As I understand things, it's good manners to use a mesh collecting bag when hunting mushrooms. That way the mushrooms you're taking still get a kick at spreading their spores. (Hey, when you're that ugly you need all the help you can get.) I was feeling pretty altruistic about my role as wingman - "my friend Morley, he's a real fun guy" - until we got back to our car and noticed a faint yellowish tinge on her normally sleek black exterior.
Yellow? Yellow dust? What the heck?
Oh, wow. Pollen, and lots of it.
Come to think of it, probably spores, too.
I peered at our mushroom bag with new suspicion. My gawd. These things don't need my help. In fact, they've got so much to spare that they're indiscriminately blowing it over the whole of creation, Hyundai Sonatas and all. It's a regular chlorophorgy out there! Maybe even a plantgasm!
I shook my fist at the mushrooms. "Hey! You dirty bastards! My car is not that kind of girl, you hear me? I don't want no funny business on the ride home, alright?"
I can't prove anything, but I am sure they spored all over the back seat on the drive home. *sigh* Really, what can you expect from a bunch of loose morels like that?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Slacker
Today's post has been forsaken in favour of less productive activities, namely:
I call it "View from a Hammock." Aaaaahhhhhhhhhh. Lovely.
See you next week.
Maybe.
See you next week.
Maybe.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Booze Hound
My new lucky number is 04724338.
I'll admit it lacks a certain roll-off-the-tongue-ness when you're shooting craps at the casino, but there was this fundraising raffle at work and today, that very ticket number won me three cases of wine.
Ooooohhhhh yeaaaaahhhhhh.
I think you'd be surprised what three cases of wine can do for your social life. My Popularity Index reached an all-time high today! I mean, it's always pretty stratospheric, what with the baked goods and the glorious hair and all, but if I were publicly-traded, today would be the day you'd kick your own ass for not buying shares in me. I have drinking dates well into the foreseeable future! And not only does three cases of wine greatly improve one's social standing, but I also have a feeling it's going to go a long way toward taking the edge off, like, the rest of the year for me.
As soon as I got home, DH and I spread all the bottles out on the kitchen floor and developed a complex algorithm for sorting them involving country of origin, year, varietal, and label cuteness. It was like some kind of awesome grown-up Halloween where the people actually care enough about their loot to afford it an appropriate level of respect in their sorting decisions. No crappy "chocolate; not-chocolate" system for us! I felt so vindicated!
The kids quietly shared a bowl of popcorn for supper and watched us haggling over an appropriate sorting schematic. Every so often we'd shout, "Now THIS is how it's DONE, kids!" and laugh maniacally.
After a couple of hours of intensive sorting, re-sorting, revising the taxonomy, and calling each others' credentials and methodologies into question, we had created thirty-five individual piles based on our carefully selected criteria [patent pending]. (We would have had thirty-six, but we drank one.)
*aaaaaahhhhhhh* Best. Halloween. Ever.
I'll admit it lacks a certain roll-off-the-tongue-ness when you're shooting craps at the casino, but there was this fundraising raffle at work and today, that very ticket number won me three cases of wine.
Ooooohhhhh yeaaaaahhhhhh.
I think you'd be surprised what three cases of wine can do for your social life. My Popularity Index reached an all-time high today! I mean, it's always pretty stratospheric, what with the baked goods and the glorious hair and all, but if I were publicly-traded, today would be the day you'd kick your own ass for not buying shares in me. I have drinking dates well into the foreseeable future! And not only does three cases of wine greatly improve one's social standing, but I also have a feeling it's going to go a long way toward taking the edge off, like, the rest of the year for me.
As soon as I got home, DH and I spread all the bottles out on the kitchen floor and developed a complex algorithm for sorting them involving country of origin, year, varietal, and label cuteness. It was like some kind of awesome grown-up Halloween where the people actually care enough about their loot to afford it an appropriate level of respect in their sorting decisions. No crappy "chocolate; not-chocolate" system for us! I felt so vindicated!
The kids quietly shared a bowl of popcorn for supper and watched us haggling over an appropriate sorting schematic. Every so often we'd shout, "Now THIS is how it's DONE, kids!" and laugh maniacally.
After a couple of hours of intensive sorting, re-sorting, revising the taxonomy, and calling each others' credentials and methodologies into question, we had created thirty-five individual piles based on our carefully selected criteria [patent pending]. (We would have had thirty-six, but we drank one.)
*aaaaaahhhhhhh* Best. Halloween. Ever.
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