day 10346: quelle horror… une été sans boozies?

It’s time to stock up on the boozies, boys and girls. The current collective agreement between the LCBO and the Ontario Liquor Boards Employees’ Union ends today and workers voted 91% in favor of strike action. We’re looking at a possible cutoff to my boozie supply as early as mid-April/May if they don’t get their act together.

Either that, or we're going to have to switch to *gasp* beer. May the gods have mercy on our souls.

day 10345 1/2: where art thou, oh mysterious benefactor...

Remember the entry a couple of days ago about someone paying off my credit card and how estatically happy I was?

Turns out that the so-called "credit" payment was actually FAKE. The glorious people at AMEX were playing around with my balances transferring them from old-blue-card to new-not-blue-not-gold-but-really-ugly-yellow-card. Now I actually owe $3900 + because they screwed up the transfers and didn't tell me that they hadn't actually applied the "credits" (i.e. payments) that I had been making.

... and here I was all geared up to do some serious shopping. Instead, I'm living on no-name Cheerios and water for the next month or so.

day 10345: i swallow

It’s always the split second just before you swallow the last bite. Your brain starts hammering you with guilty thoughts…

“You shouldn’t have eaten that box of cookies,” it mutters. “What the hell were you thinking? You weren’t thinking, WERE YOU? Do you know how many calories, how much fat was in that? Do you know how goddamn plump you look in that picture?”

“It’s too late.” your stomach argues back. “Mwuaahahahahaha… I’ve got you now fatty-boo-boo-ness. There’s no turning back. MWUAAAAHAHAHAHA…”

day 10342: my superhero name is… ultimate girl

When I arrived at the beach house late Friday afternoon, I found the boys cranking hard on an ancient carjack trying to pull out forty year old fence posts. There was “no way in hell” that they were going to dig them out by hand. Post #1 came out with only a little difficulty. 30 tons of pressure will do that to you. Post #2 took a considerably greater amount of effort and resulted in a very heavy duty steel carjack bent completely out of shape.

30 tons of pressure will do that to you, too; as will a two feet deep concrete foundation.

So for the lack of a better way (other than to dig by hand), they called it quits for the day, vowing to find a tool that would make their lives a heck of a lot easier.

Easier said than done.

Round TWO… FIGHT!!!

The rented jack didn’t work. The pressure of ripping a hundred somewhat pounds of concrete out of the frozen sand was too much for it to take. Post #3 took an inhuman amount of effort and extraordinary amounts of cussing and swearing and temper tantrums only to discover that forty years ago, the mold used to set the concrete had broken, thus leaking concrete in shapeless blobs, making it all the more difficult for us to try to YANK IT STRAIGHT OUT OF THE GROUND…

It’s kindergarden, really. Big non-circular object will not fit through small circular hole.

Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary.

But no. The lesson would not be learned. Post #4 was tackled the same way. We looped a piece of chain around the fence post and attached it to the jack. We jacked the jack and jacked some more. But the post would not budge except to bend in a way that forced the pole to break and bits of concrete fluffing through the dirt.

[Insert massive amounts of profanity here.]

Still, he refused to dig. Instead he stormed off into the wild unknowns of the auto repair/hardware store known as Princess Auto never to be seen alive again (or so it felt like).

It was time to take matters into my own hands. Patience is as patience does, and I only have so much of it. I grabbed a shovel and dug.

And dug. And dug…

Little by little, I cleared just enough dirt that I could wiggle the post back and forth. I dug a little, talked to the neighbours, checked to see if Mr. There-has-to-be-a-better-way had finally returned, and dug a little more. I was having a glorious time doing it MY WAY. The way that existed WITHOUT grown men having TEMPER TANTRUMS…

One big heave and out came the post. No help from the hundreds of guys that had jogged and rollerbladed by. I DID IT ALL BY MYSELF.

I CAN DO ANYTHING. I AM A SUPERWOMAN. I AM AMAZING. I AM… damn, but my shoulder was throbbing… but I CAN DO ANYTHING HE CAN DO… I am the incredible, independent woman who showed everyone passing by on the Hamilton beach path that I AM REALLY, REALLY STRONG!

Oh yeah, baby. Post #4 is O-VER!!

The look of surprise and admiration in his eyes when he FINALLY came back carrying a second jack was worth it.

“Wow… oh wow… I can’t believe you did it. How did you lever it out? What did you use?”

I tried not to rub it in. “I didn’t use anything, I just lifted it out.”

“That’s a huge piece of concrete…”

“Yeah, I guess…” (See my attempt at modesty? What I really wanted to say was HELL YEAH, and where the heck were you for the past half an hour?)

“Wow. I’m impressed. Most girls aren’t as cool as you. First the dump and then this. Wow. Other girls would just pretend to help or something, but you… you… you’re the ultimate girl. You ARE the ULTIMATE GIRL!!!”

“Oh yeah, Bay-be…” I Hulk Hogan pose my not so scrawny arms… “HWA… I am ULTIMATE GIRLLLL! GRRRRR!!!”

Post #5 and #6… pshaw… didn’t even break a sweat…

day 10341: i always knew i was a honky-tonk kind-a gal

9:30 am…

Riding in the pickup truck on the way to the city dump, sitting in the middle seat, no less, country music blaring on the radio, singing along with a smile on my face, Triscuit’s hand on my thigh, happy as can be.

“Heehee,” I said, “I put on makeup and we’re going to the dump! How girlie-girl can I be?”

“You can never be too girlie-girl.” Double take. “You put makeup on to go to the dump? Bay-bee… you’re totally white trash.”

“Bay-bee… I’m neither white, nor am I trash. Turn up that ray-dee-oh. I wanna hear me some Travis.”

7:30 pm…

Terry and Triscuit are up to their elbows in cornmeal mash

“Oh, we had a great day. We went to the dump, dug up the fence, drove around town in the pickup...”

“Listening to country music!” I chime in. Chop. Chop. More tomatoes for yesterday’s leftover bouillabaisse…

“Yeah, it was fun. J was sitting right up next to me on the bench seat. I always wanted to drive around in a pickup with my girl next to me.” Triscuit looks over and gives me a wink.

“Aw shucks… how cute. You guys are sooo white trash. Did she give you a blowjob too?”

day 10339: ostrich? who me?

For all intents and purposes, I should be rich. If not rich, then I should have a nice healthy portfolio, own a house, maybe a rental property and be merrily on my way to an early retirement. In the least, I should have a semi-healthy portfolio and a rental property on the lakefront that garners me a sweet $1,700 in rental income per month.

But I don’t.

Instead, I have bonds dating back to 1985, a pittance of a so-called-RRSP, an etrade account that is in the red because they’re trying to charge me for my inactivity, $80 in an ING savings account, half a month’s pay in my chequing account, and a whole whack of debt owing to the bank of mom.

As you can tell, I’m well on my way to financial freedom!!

[notice sarcastic way of saying “I’m in the poor house, and if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to be flat broke and living under my desk at the office…”]

Please stop screaming. You don’t need to yell. Yes, yes, I know that as a person gainly employed in the field of FINANCE I should know better. I can discuss theoretical, practical, hypothetical accounting and give detailed tax-ical advice on the most inane of topics. I can manage the funds of a multi-national corporation, yet I can barely balance my own books.

IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME?

I mean well. I just don’t manage well. I have a pile of unopened mail sitting on my kitchen counter and am dreading the day that said-pile topples over when I’m at work… That would be the day I either find dear-dawg buried under an avalanche of eight month old mail, or deliriously happy running around unfettered in my not-too-tidy condo WITHOUT SUPERVISION. gasp. the. horror…

This is beyond ostrich-investment-personality where if you pretend you don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. This is borderline denial. Screw the ostrich, I’ve barricaded myself in a 4x4 bunker 100’ deep into the ground. I’ve hermit-ized myself from my own personally financial matters. In essence, I’ve become a FINANCIAL DEGENERATE… a FINANCIAL RETARD… a FINANCIAL NOBODY.

It’s time. I’ve bought this book and this book to get me started. This weekend will be filled with paperwork, balancing my debits and credits and getting started on my plan… to gain financial freedom by the time I’m 105.

Freedom 1-0-5 baby… you too can live the dream…

day 10337: i suppose

I suppose in a way that I should feel lucky. It’s not every day that a girl finds out that some mysterious benefactor paid off her credit card bills (and then some) and that she has a nice healthy little credit balance on her favourite credit card.

I should just thank my lucky stars and go on a shopping binge with a devil-may-care attitude. I need new jeans, new boots, new t-shirts, new cutesy skirts and everything else that I’m entitled to because I’m me, and I deserve it. And now I have the funds to do so.

Or do I?

day 10336: oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, oh wowwww…

The rush of adrenaline was almost orgasmic. A hundred people clapping and cheering; the eight of us deliriously happy that the second “Feed Me” Theatre Company production went off without a hitch.

It was grand. It was awesome. It was magical.

It is over.

We’ve gone through everything from bloodshed to tears. We’ve learned things about ourselves we never thought possible. Friendships were forged, some made stronger. We’re still alive, though just barely. I know now that I can do anything.

And the best part of it all... (apart from being centre of attention like my inner drama queen demands)… the bouquet of pink roses that Triscuit gave me IN FRONT OF MY MOM!!

If that doesn’t scream WOW… I don’t know what does…

day 10333: i am still alive!

There are a lot of things I refrain from talking about. Not so much because I don’t want to, because HELL YEAH sometimes I really, really DO want to share my deepest darkest secrets, but more so that some things (i.e. my favourite “chocolate-chip eating” position) really doesn’t need to be known by my nearest and dearest. I can share anonymously on someone else’s site, but the thought of a friend coming up to me with a knowing nod of his head and saying, “Hey, I know you like your coffee crisp!” (and then leer at me) disturbs me.

Ah, the joys of sharing one’s life in semi-full glorious detail and then having to edit it, because you think that if people knew about the full extent of your life, they’d probably disapprove. (Not like I’m talking leather or whips or chains or anything… though with all the what’s- it and going-ons over the past few weeks, leather, whips and chains have become almost regular every day vocabulary.)

I’m feeling the need to shake things up, and reach beyond my familiar comfort zone. I’ve tried almost every single hobby known to mankind, yet, I still feel like something is missing. Something exciting and unique... something that screams out “SCHMASSION, YOU’RE SO COOL!” Something that will give my inner drama queen the recognition and fame she deserves.

Tomorrow is play-day. We’ve spent months agonizing over a hundred pages of script, arguing over who’s-on-top and whether or not Victor should be dressed like a Catholic school girl. A hundred people have been suckered into driving out to god-forsaken suburbia (i.e. my old hood) and paying the exorbitant amount of $5 to watch the eight of us prance around in all our tom-foolery. And then it’ll be over. No more Tuesday night “rehearsals.” No more “practicing” on the weekends amidst choruses of “I don’t feel it today…”

I’m going to have time to spare, and tons of time to kill. I’ll need something new and soon, especially since Triscuit’s Friday night sailing lessons are going to start soon.

I think I’m going to start bartending. After all, that was today’s monkeyco cool thing of the day… I’m Smart Served now. I can serve drinkies for tips so that I can be tipsy. Oh yeah, baby...

day 10332: by-the-ways

Triscuit and I officially "came out" as a couple to the people at the gym last night... or rather I did. Apparently in my drunken post-Paddy-Day-celebration haze, I called out "Good night, gym! I love you!" and when everyone turned to see what was going on, I had my hand down his pants.

day 10331: i'm only wasting precious blog space on idiotgirl because it's just so freaking funny

Triscuit (programmer extraordinaire): I spent the whole day on four lines of code!

Idiotgirl: Oh I HATE that!

Someone else: Aren't you an admin assistant or something?

Idiotgirl: Yeah, but I took a computer course in HIGH SCHOOL and I had to write code...

Me (thinking): Code for what? IF 1+1 = 2 then print happyface, ELSE print sadface? You freaking flake... what are you trying to prove? How cool you are because you wrote four lines of code FIFTEEN YEARS AGO?!

day 10329: the mystery of *gasp* the bachelor party

I don’t get it. Why the last hurrah? If a guy really wanted to go out, get smashed and see nearly-naked hoohas dangling in front of his face, he would have done it anyway, regardless of whether or not he is getting married.

Of course, nine-and-a-half out of ten guys are probably not planning their own bachelor party, so in actuality, it really is just an excuse for the planner to drag out ten to fifteen of his buddies who also want an excuse to get smashed and see nearly-naked hoohas and not get in trouble with their significant others.

I wish I could be cool about it. I wish I could be one of those non-prudes who tell their honeys to have fun, but just don’t bring home anything. But I can’t… I don’t love the idea – but then again, what girl would?

Nearly-naked-hoohas… yucky…

I don’t get it. At. All. Boo. Boys are icky.

day 10326: you should be worried when you boss calls you into his office at 5:30 and asks you to shut the door

Let’s see… all the things that have happened in the past week that I wanted to blog about, but couldn’t because I’ve been locked up in the boardroom from Monday morning until 12:30 this afternoon…

~ monkeyco is really, really, really cool…
~ I love www.torontobartending.com... love it, love it, LOVE IT!!
~ I can’t climb for schmuck anymore
~ imported chocolate cupcakes (THE BEST IN THE WORLD, btw) totally rock…
~ Sista who sends imported chocolate cupcakes (and new clothes) totally rocks
~ Crazy-cousin-Bo who imported said cupcake and almost got cavity searched at the airport totally rocks
~ PDA totally rocks
~ I love my monkeyco… it’s going to be a totally “euphoric” summer… you just wait and see!
~ oh, and did I mention, they changed my contract so that NOW I’M FULL TIME!!!

Did I say I love my monkeyco, yet? Y'all should be totally jealous of me... ;)

day 10325: reason #14937 why i love my monkeyco…

Because yesterday they sent me here, so I could learn how to make candy apple martinis, purple hazes and 19 other martinis.

Bubble, two, three, four... the perfect oz.

Candy Apple Martini:
1.5 oz Polar Ice Vodka
1 oz Sour Puss Apple
1 oz Phillips Butter Apple
4 oz cranberry juice

day 10322: violated (almost)

We went because someone told us that we had a 1-in-16 chance of winning a two year lease on a Mercedes. They actually wanted to sell us timeshare. There was no hope in hell of winning a two year lease on a Mercedes. It wasn’t 1-in-16… it was more like 1 in a drawerful of keys.

“That guy just told them that they’re in extreme financial difficulty!” my mom whispered. “Maybe we should just tell them the same thing.”

“Why don’t we just tell them that we don’t fly?”

“Because they have places in Collingwood… you don’t have to fly to go to Collingwood.”

“Yeah, but you don’t drive on the highway. So you don’t drive on the highway, and I’m afraid to fly, so we can’t go anywhere…” That was the plan.

They called us into the room, told us to pick our prizes (2 nights stay in Tremblant, and a dinner for two… oh-yeah-baby) and sent us on our merry way. No sales pitch, nothing. Just thanks for coming, have a nice day, etcetera, etcetera.

Wow. We weren’t violated. They didn’t try to high-pressure-sales-tactic us into buying timeshares! Whooo hooo! We beat the system!

And all because we’re single… bonus.

day 10319: girlie troubles

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say. I have a million thoughts tumbling around riotously inside my mind. My “what-ifs” are conflicting with my “who-cares” as are thoughts of Tricuit-the-idiot-WINGNUT, bizarre-love-triangles, used-to-be-friends, and wanna-be-used-to-be-friends.

It doesn’t help that I’m pms-ing beyond belief either.

If you’re drinking this weekend, have a drink for me… god knows I’ll need it.

day 10317: brown paper baggin’ it

For much of my childhood, I hated carrying anything in plastic bags. Kids that carried their school papers in plastic bags annoyed me to no end. I thought them uncouth, and well, icky, and could never bring myself to socialize with them. Packed lunches could never be carried to school in a plastic bag; otherwise it was yucky and food could not be eaten without a vast amount of grimacing and nose-holding. The only exception to the rule was groceries. Groceries, as we all know, come in plastic bags, not dumb-ass-hard-to-carry paper bags like in the States.

Of course, there was the hierarchy of plastic bag carrying. Anything foreign was a direct no-no. Thus, Big Land Farms, Lee’s Poultry Supermarket, etc etc. were the ultimate faux pas in my mind and the mere thought of having to touch them would almost make me puke. No Frills, A&P, and Miracle Mart were barely acceptable, with Loblaws and Dominion being the preferred bag-o’-choice.

I was a baggie-snob; a memory I had suppressed over years of self-denial.

I’d forgotten until this morning. I reached into the baggie drawer and pulled out a T&T Supermarket… ew… can’t have that touching my boots… must find a new bag…


On tap for tonight… chicken stew:

Take onions, carrots and potatoes… boil the heck out of them in chicken broth, and then add some chicken breast marinated in soy sauce and sesame oil. Salt and pepper to taste. Comfort food totally rocks.

day 10316: why all this talk about babies?

A couple of weekends ago, Triscuit and I took my coworker’s two year old to the climbing gym. Cute and shy, she was no more interested in climbing than she was in running around and playing in the caves. Her “daddeee” tried, in vain, but a combination of lack of sleep and a little too much arm effort rendered his climbing experience very, very limited as well. Nevertheless, it was tons of fun – coworker, daddeee and I getting little Jaya to attempt to climb and Triscuit snapping pictures of them like a madman.

They got tired soon and said their goodbyes; dissection of the day and comments of Triscuit not to be relayed until I returned to the office almost a week later.

“Daddeee asked me if you were pregnant,” Coworker said. “I told him NO and he goes, THAT GIRL WAS GLOWING. If she’s not pregnant, then she’s in LOOOOVE with that boy…” No. I refuse to admit anything of that sort.

I told Triscuit the story. He laughed and agreed. “You WERE glowing.”

“Green? I AM RADIOACTIVE WOMAN!”

“No, white. You were covered in chalk as usual. It’s cute...”

Then, Sunday night, after a long, hard day of walking around aimlessly in the mall, we sprawled across his couch to dissect our purchases of Dr. Seuss books. He… The Cat in the Hat and me, well I’m a sucker for Green Eggs and Ham. Roommate walked in, raised an eyebrow and quipped…

“You two have something you want to tell me?”

"Yeah, enough about the baby talk. We're just trying to read things that appeal to our child-like intellect and undeveloped, undermatured sense of humour."