The first time I heard her dulcet voice I was mesmerized. Sultry, sexy... and so informative. Now this, I thought, was a sound I could get used to hearing every morning, if you know what I mean.
It was so sweet the way she would gently remind me which station was coming up next - she knows how absent-minded I can be in the mornings! - and I really admired her patience with those buffoons who always seem to be blocking doors with their backpacks somehow. If not for her, I just didn't know how the world would run on time! What a voice. What a gal.
*sigh* Those were the days.
Then, I don't know. Things just started to... to change between us. I mean, why would someone consistently go out of their way to wake everyone up every five seconds to let you know that you were at one station, then departing the station you were just at, then heading to the next station, then arriving at that station she had just said you were heading to, for every goddamn station down the entire line? Hey, guess what? It's not like they change up the order or anything - I think we got it after the first thousand times or so. Let a person catch some z's in the mornings, will ya? It's just so damned passive aggressive.
Oh yeah, and that bullshit about "this train is trying to depart", could you get any more self-righteous? Like, who died and made her the blocking-the-door police? Take two seconds too long and she's bawling out people on crutches, little old blue-hairs, anyone, totally indiscriminate - surely some people deserve an extra moment to maneuver their wheelchairs or whatever in the doors, don't you think?
And then with the nagging! Jeez, you forget your personal belongings and newspapers when leaving the train once - once! - and man you are in for a lifetime of punishment. Might as well slit your own throat now and put yourself out of your misery because that bitch just won't let it go. I can hardly think with her constantly yapping at me in that grating, whinging frigging voice. Why can't she just shut up and leave me alone for five minutes? I swear, if I hear one single more snotty little "reminder" out of her mouth I may completely lose my mind.
I've asked her to treat me right, but this has been going on for months and she seems completely unwilling to change. I don't want to be stuck in this totally negative, one-sided relationship. I didn't even buy a transit pass this month, just paying cash when I absolutely can't avoid seeing her.
My friends are trying to hook me up with this really sweet gal, quiet and nice, a little 2010 Hyundai. I think it could totally work out between us, but I gotta admit it might be a little out of my price range to take her out every day...
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Workplace Hazardous Persons Information System
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.
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.
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.
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