cynical laughter

Peroxide Sunday

2009-04-26T19:26:00.003-04:00

Sitting over the bathtub with my hair soaking in Red Rose tea, I couldn't help but think anything but, "this would probably be something I should blog about". Or not, because it definitely will make any sane person question my (questionable) intelligence. But nevertheless, I hope you can enjoy this story of my Peroxide Sunday.

Perhaps it was wrought by watching too many episodes of Green Acres, with Lisa in her pretty dresses and tarty blonde hair. Perhaps it was brought on by my missing my old schizophrenic hairstyles, back when I would decide on a whim that I wanted burgundy hair and would dye it myself and cut it a few inches shorter all in a half hour timespan, when I didn't care if it wasn't straight because I was younger and I could just pretend that I was trying to go for the non-conformist look, like that time I convinced my hairdresser to do opposite spikes at the bottom of my longish hair, so I had blonde streaks that were a good three inches longer than my brown hair. Anyway, whatever it was, and despite any excuse I can think of, I can hear my mom in the back of my head saying, "Damn. Well, that was stupid."

Anyway, I decided that my reddish brown hair with non-tarty blond highlights that I'd been salvaging since December was no longer fun. I decided to bleach that bitch, bleachier than I've bleached it ever before. And so I decided that I could do it myself, despite all the advice I've ever received ever in my life. Whims are not brilliant things, you know. The first bleach job turned it a fierce shade of orange, which would have been really awesome if I were auditioning to be Carrot Top's stage crew, or maybe Ronald McDonald's cousin... but not so much for my conformist occupation as a clerical assistant. So I turned to Google. Google advised me that I probably shouldn't dye a darker colour over it. It might turn purple. Or green. Which I would have valued in my youth, but today... not so much. So being the ohhh so intelligent (snerk) person that I am, I procured another container of bleach.

And this one promptly took away the orange. Yay! Unfortunately, it only stripped the orange at the top. The top was left a lovely shade of white, leaving the bottom to be a lovely shade of orange. The sad thing is, this has happened to me on more than one occasion. You think I would learn. But damn, that was stupid.

I furiously turned to Google once more, where I read about naturally dyeing hair with coffee and/or tea. Seemed easy enough. Brew some tea. Dunk head it in. Horrible hair colour gone, yes?

So I considered myself lucky that I had just bought a box of 48 tea bags. I made a big pot of tea. I waited for it to cool down. I dunked my head in it. It ran down into the bathtub, dripping and dripping. I got an old cloth, saturated it in the tea, and sat there with it on my head, laughing hysterically, holding a pair of scissors, willing myself not to cut my hair into a Pixie cut. I dipped my brush in the brown water, ran it through my hair...waited and waited and waited. Nothing. Soaked my hair. Nothing. Got out the hairdryer. Furiously blew my hair dry, hoping the heat would cause the stain of the tea to set. Nothing. Ran out to the kitchen, grabbing the 3/4 cup or so of coffee that was left in the coffee pot. Soaked the top of my hair in that. Nothing. Except now my hair smells of coffee.

Moral of the story? Stick with your natural hair colour. Not that I'm absolutely sure what exactly mine is. The second moral of the story is that two wrongs don't make a right, especially when the wrongs involve overpriced bottles of peroxide and being mistaken for Carrot Top's little sister. Or something like that. Breakfast drinks probably can't fix it, though I did not yet try orange juice. I live in mortal fear now of anything with the word "orange" in it.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

90s revival and other such things

2009-03-11T22:30:00.002-04:00

We spent the last two weeks attempting to beat Super Mario Brothers 3. That's right. We paid cash money to purchase Wii points to purchase a game that was released in 1988. When we were two. Videogames have come quite far in the past twenty one years.

For one thing, even though we could play this game upside down and backwards in our sleep when we were youngins, we had the assistance of the Game Genie back then. I remember my mom used to write the codes out for my brother and I on giant posterboard in thick red magic marker, which she would hang on the wall beside the TV. This leads me to believe that I was playing this game before I could read, because otherwise I would have just read the book myself. It also leads me to believe that it is quite sad that I can remember stupid things like that but not my own cellphone number. But I digress.

Anyway, regardless of the fact that my thumbs still sort of knew my way around, I could not fly this time. I did not have infinite lives. I could not put in a code and start at world 8. I could not pass world 8.

Alas, it took us WEEKS. I would come home from work and sit down and play this horrible horrible mindsucking game. I would cuss at it and stomp my feet and get very angry.

And tonight we passed it.

And what did we do?

Started that thing right over again to beat again, that's what.

In other news, I have finally found my iPod. It was in my laundry hamper, and no, I do not know why. I had finally given up on looking for it, assuming I had left it somewhere and it had a new home. I was hoping the new owner was enjoying the eclectic mix of Counting Crows and Travis and Elton John and Radiohead and everything else that is awesome, that I was missing. I was cursing myself for not having any of that music backed up. And as soon as I started looking for that $200 piece of freaking plastic, I found it. Moral: Quit looking for things and they will appear in absolutely ridiculous places.

Stupider still was my attempt to clean off music from said iPod to replace it with new music. I couldn't delete the Spice Girls. It was like stabbing my youth in the back. I couldn't delete the Barenaked Ladies, either. I am still in mourning over Steve's leaving the band. Deleting any of his work would be impossible. I am more than happy to be reunited with my Counting Crows, as I was getting sick of listening to Films About Ghosts over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Also: my mother has been badgering me on Facebook to write a BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG every 2.43 seconds like some sort of small mechanical dog stuck on repeat, so if it seems like this entry is contrived or about nothing it is all her fault. :)

Blog.

2009-03-06T16:08:00.001-05:00

Blog blog blog blog blog blog.

That is all.

Dear Wii Fit,

2008-11-23T20:39:00.001-05:00

Dear Wii Fit,

Please read and understand the following notice of dismissal from my life, effective Monday, November 24, 2008 at 12:00 a.m. EST. If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to call me between the hours of 8:01 a.m. EST and 8:05 a.m. EST.

Mr. Wii, unfortunately, it appears that you have been having some difficulty fulfilling the original terms of your contract. Your motivational skills are poor and your clients complain that you practice weight discrimination and posess an inate inability to increase morale.

Since your hire date, on or approximately September 15th, 2008, you have only shown up to work approximately eight days of each month. Each of these days, you had the gall to ask a client why s/he had been gaining weight. Was s/he wearing heavier clothes? Had s/he been late night snacking? Was s/he stressed? Perhaps s/he was not getting enough sleep?

When your client informed you that she was extremely guilty of all of these offences, you proceeded to ask her what else s/he had done today. Had s/he been "heavily" exerted today? For how many minutes, approximately? When client complained that she felt these questions were highly inappropriate and perhaps of a disturbingly sexual nature, you advised her to practice Yoga positions to be more flexible. You then called the client "extremely left of centre" and unbalanced.

While we do appreciate the unique skills and assets of every team member, you have proven to lack personality and make things awkward for everyone in the room. You have breached confidentiality a great many times, by announcing a client's weight and then stating very loudly, "THAT'S OBESE". Quite frankly, Mr. Wii, we feel that we have given you more than enough chances to redeem yourself.

An attempt was made to present you with this information in a more personal manner. However, upon our arrival you advised us to "run on the spot" for several minutes. When we were completely finished phase one of your distraction strategy, you proceeded to throw hula hoops at us.

You may pick up your batteries and software at the reception desk, anytime before noon on Friday. We ask that you hand in all company property at that time. You will be escorted by security if any issues should arise.

Kind Regards,

Jennifer

Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got, I'm still I'm still Jenny from the block.

2008-07-24T22:16:00.004-04:00

My name is Jennifer.

Yep. That's right.

Just like at least 1,440,203 other girls in the world. Oh no! Not the world, at all! One country in the world - the ~~great~~ USA!. No, seriously, I have a source: Jennifer - Its Origin, Meaning, and Popularity.

So when you call my office and I say Jenn is speaking, and you say "Oh, great! That's just who I'm looking for!", undoubtedly you are going to start talking about something and I am going to have no idea what you are talking about. And I'm going to say, "Excuse me, I'm not really sure that I can help you with that. Do you know which Jenn it is that you are looking for?". And then you are going to say, "No!" and I'm going to have to go through a big long list of everyone named Jenn who works with me or is affilated with the organization for which I work. This could take hours. This could take years. This could take decades.

Facebook: Providing A Mother Near You With Unlimited Passive Aggressive Opportunities to Stalk You

2008-06-25T22:43:00.003-04:00

I won't soon forget the night my mother phoned to tell me about this new website she'd inadvertently discovered... the "Facebox". I was not living with her at the time. When I logged on next, I had a Friend Request sitting there mocking me. This resulted in a thorough sweep of the Facebook page. Drinking pictures removed? Check. Smoking photos removed? Er, check. Photos of me in bars in awkward positions? Removed. Friend Request? Accepted.

My mother adores Facebook. Though I live in her basement, she posts things on my wall such as, "What time are you working tomorrow?", when undoubtedly she knows that she can probably ask me that next time I come up to use the loo. And that I typically work from 9 - 5. She writes scathing messages with subjects like "kitchen" with brilliant content, including profanity and extraneous punctuation, that she will relay to me again once I wake up. It is hard to hear the extraneous punctuation in her speech but once accustomed to the language, the listener can quickly determine if it is a "WARNING!" warning or a "WARNING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" kind of warning.

My every move is tracked. "Why did you accept so-and-so's Friend Request? Why are doing this? Why are you doing that? What does this mean? What does that mean? Why is so-and-so's status set to ________________? Is that from a song? I don't like it. You should take it down. Write a new blog. Please, write a new blog. JENN, write a blog."

So I was a little dismayed to see Facebook's new feature that allows you to comment on people's status messages and Mini-Feeds. Any song lyrics will now be followed promptly with "What does that mean?". All random jokey statuses will be followed with "Explain?" and I really, really, really hope it doesn't let you comment when someone accepts a Friend Request. Hoooooboy. "Why did you ad this person? BE CAREFUL, YOUNG LADY!".

Besides the fact that I am 22 and still receive cute little messages on my wall such as: "Note to self.....if I sleep after supper then I can't sleep at bedtime. I figured you would of caught on to this by now." Yes, mother, I know you have a severe disdain for my napping habit, but now my friends are probably wondering if I sleep in footie pajamas and with a teddy bear. But that's totally wrong. I sleep in duckie pajamas, with a Cabbage Patch Doll. Yeah. Don't make people get the wrong idea here.

Why Some Days I Am Sure I Was Put On This Earth For Someone's Sick Amusement

2008-05-21T22:10:00.003-04:00

Life is a joke, it has to be.

In no other animal society, do individuals hoard all they can, selfishly and ignorantly , as we do. Okay, well, I'm sure they do. But damn, am I cynical tonight.

It started off as good a day as any day could possibly be. The coffee was hot. Cigarettes were in supply. (Not abundant supply, but supply). Lucky (well, not so lucky anymore!) pink lighter had been found at the depths of the pockets of the sweater that I had borrowed. The cat hadn't puked on any of my belongings, which is how I measure the awesomeness of an upcoming day - because not stepping catsick is certainly a normal way to gauge how optimistic you should be. My spirits were high and, by golly, by 4 o'clock this afternoon, I was going to have my driver's license.

FULL STOP, BITCHES. No. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. And do you know why? TRAINS, my friends. TRAINS. Apparently, all those little cautiony things they have at train crossings, which to my knowledge include ARMS and LIGHTS and CHIMES, you still have to be observant at these crossings, which I had thought I was being, but no, apparently not observant enough, because my head cannot do 360 degree turns or something.

Nevermind the reasons, which I can assure you are stupid and idiotic, such as: the Ontario Government does not want you to collide with a train, and the Ontario Government does not want you to collide with anything else, and the Ontario Goverment wants $40. Whatever. I mean, I don't mind paying $40 to take my road test each time, because I figure THE ONTARIO GOVERNMENT DOES NOT HAVE ENOUGH MONEY. You know, besides the money they get from GAS and from my PAYCHEQUE and from EVERYTHING I PURCHASE, they are poor.

But seriously now. Does the Ontario Government think I WANT to fail my roadtest? I mean seriously. There isn't much that sucks more than people being all happy and like HOW DID YOUR TEST GO, than to have to shake your head and say, "AWESOME. IT WENT AWESOME. AND IT WAS SO AWESOME AND I HAD SO MUCH FUN THAT I GET TO GO AGAIN."

I propose a card system, like they have at sandwich shops. You give me a card, Ontario Government, and stamp it every time I fail this fucking test. Every three stamps should be free. I CAN'T PAY FOR ANY MORE ROAD TESTS, ONTARIO GOVERNMENT, BUT IF YOU CERTIFY ME THAT I CAN DRIVE, I CAN GIVE YOU MORE MONEY VIA GAS TAX.

I'm not too familiar with academic failure, besides mathematically. I have not failed any "tests" per se, until now. I can study things and memorize things and take great pride in my ability to spell big words and correct errors of people who are smarter than me. BUT BOOK SMARTS DO NOT HELP IN A ROAD TEST.

In closing, I did not hit anything. I did not hurt anyone. No horns were sounded. No animals were hurt in the production of this road test. Looking forwards to seeing you again, Ontario Government and Your Delightful Minions!

Yours,
Me.

PS: Don't ever say WHY DID YOU FAIL YOUR ROAD TEST. I did not set out to do it. kthx.

Another topic of Why Some Days I Am Sure I was Put On This Earth For Someone's Sick, Sad Amusement: EYEBROWS

Eyebrows are stupid.

The more you look at them, the stupider they look.

You try to tweeze them and get them looking not stupid.

But they still look stupid.

They are a strip of hair that goes OVER your eyes and looks STUPID.

And the more you look at them, the stupider they look.

The more you yank at them, the more they get red and owie.

And the more you yank at them, the more profane you get.

I HATE YOU, EYEBROWS.

Ahem, you may now return to your originally scheduled Wednesday evening.

Stress Dot

2008-05-20T23:24:00.003-04:00

I went to a meeting tonight about effective ways of dealing with stress and such.

We were each handed these tiny black dots and told them to put them on a pulse point.

I took one and placed it on my wrist.

A few minutes later it was still black.

I took another one and put it between my thumb and index finger.

A few minutes later it was still black.

I was laughing and such, pretty relaxed, no dice.

I came home, chilled out, still black.

Now, what are the odds that two dots are defective? Not too hot, no.

I drank a couple cups of tea, figuring sure, that'll relax me.

Nah. Still black.

I fail at relaxing.

So I do some googling, right, and find this: http://www.onlineorganizing.com/PopupProductInfo.asp?page=249&info=182

HOW TO USE STRESS DOTS

apply a dot to the back of your hand between the thumb and forefinger
measure your present stress level by matching the color of your dot to the chart
colors corresponding to higher skin temperatures signify deeper levels of relaxation H'okay. Done and did.
increase your level of relaxation by practicing the simple techniques on the card
Oh yeah? Simple techniques on the card include laughing, and spending time with a loved one. So I go down to see Socks and I notice she has vomited on my wicker chair. Still black.
measure your stress level again by matching the color of your dot to the chart
if your dot has changed color to a higher skin temperature, you are more relaxed Right. But what if that doesn't happen? If your dot stays black, do you have a black heart of darkness? What did I dooooo?
leave the dot on your hand to monitor your stress level throughout the day IT IS JUST STAYING BLACK.
will increase your awareness of your response to stress YES. IT WILL STRESS ME OUT TRYING TO MAKE IT TURN A PRETTIER COLOUR.
if you note a change to a colder color, practice a relaxation technique HOWS ABOUT IT JUST STAYS COLD, YO?

FACTORS INFLUENCING YOUR RESULTS

dots will react to any mental or physical stressor Yeah, one like CONSTANTLY WONDERING WHY THE DOT IS STILL BLACK?
you will register a cooler temperature if you are sick SO NOW I AM SICK? THAT DOESN'T STRESS ME OUT AT ALL!
you will register a cooler temperature if you drink 2+ cups of caffeinated beverage DING DING DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNNNNER!
you will register a cooler temperature if you have just eaten
you will register a cooler temperature if you have not eaten in a long time
you will register a cooler temperature if you just finished exercising PSHAW. THIS IS NOT WHY.
check your skin temperature at least 1/2 hour after exercising or eating
designed for use in ambient temperatures of 68°-78°F.
the temperature you start at is not as important as the learned ability to relax

I hate you, stress dots. You cause me insane amounts of stress.

I NEED AN ADULT!

2008-04-22T20:19:00.003-04:00

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My chicken fingers are burning, the cat is on the television, my mind is completely elsewhere. I'm hoping for Publisher's Clearing House to tell me I won the big bucks. The Ontario government to come by and tell me they owed me money. Some random person to tell me that their Mercedes ran out of gas in front of my house, and that now it is my problem to deal with, here are the keys.

No. No. No. And No. It is some random woman. I open the door. She does not immediately tell me why she is here. "I'm looking for an adult", she explains. Wonderful. "I'm uhm, 22." "That's great, honey, is your mommy or daddy home?" Fail.

What does she want? She wants to make sure we bought a dog tag this year. My dog has wandered up to the door and is barking at her, clearly displaying his dog tags. I show her said dog tags.

"Where are your parents? Are you sure they can't come to the door?"

"The dog has his tags."

"You're right, but I need to confirm..."

"What? That he's wearing a collar? With TAGS ON IT?"

"I guess you're right, have a good night."

Awesome.

You are old. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

2008-04-14T19:19:00.002-04:00

I worked 9-5 today.
I made a dentist appointment.
I got a $87 tax cheque.
I went to the grocery store.
I bought granola bars.
I bought oatmeal crunch cereal.
I bought gingersnaps.
I bought Wool-Lite to wash my dresses in.
It was fun.

And then I realized.

I am not 22.

I am at least 40.

I can't hear you through all this...everything.

2008-03-29T00:06:00.003-04:00

Blub blub blub blub blub blub blub.

Lips are moving in synchronized noise and phones are ringing. Blub blub blub blub.

A box of Kleenex on my desk loses another comrade every three minutes or so. Blub blub blub blub blub.

I squirt hand sanitizer on my hands, my keyboard, my computer mouse, my Tylenol bottle. Blub. Blub. Blub. Blub. Die, vile cold germs, die.

From her desk, my coworker holds up two sheets of construction paper. One is yellow and the other purple. "Do these blub blub?". I'm assuming she's asking if they go together. "Sure," I reply. In my head, it sounds more like "blub blub."

My boss sits at her desk about five feet from mine. She wants to know how to do something in Word. I can vaguely hear her, but I cannot discern whether she is on the phone or not. Blub blub blub blub blub. "Blub blub blub text wrap," I mumble. "How do you know that?" "Blub blub, I used to do a lot of this blub," I reply.

And so is working as a receptionist with a cold. Fail. Uber fail.

Blub blub blub,

J.

Take Your Childhood and Edit It

2008-03-27T19:00:00.002-04:00

Random House, famous paperback publisher, has recently updated and re-released the Sweet Valley High series of books. With this, I have no problem at all. I wonder why, but still, anything that gets kids to read is a good thing.

What I do have issue with? The following letter:
in which Random House proudly promotes eating disorders.

In this, we find out that the Wakefield twins, who used to be "a perfect size six" are now "a perfect size four". They no longer drive a red Fiat, but instead, a red Jeep Wrangler. Elizabeth is no longer an editor at her school's newspaper, but is now an editor of the school's website and an Anonymous blog writer.

SERIOUSLY. Please, please, please, whoever's idea this was: do not pass go, do not collect $200. I understand it's just Sweet Valley High. It is not earth shattering literature by any means, in any way, shape, or form. How could you? HOW COULD YOU? Mutilating my childhood in order to make it a "perfect size four", a red Wrangler, and last but not least, killing the Oracle?

This makes me really sad for no reason in particular. Series like Sweet Valley High and the Babysitter's Club had a hokey 80s quality about them that should not be messed with. It's just not fair and it shouldn't happen. Those characters existed BEFORE websites and Internetz and MP3s. Keep them that way.

I know SVH is no Shakespeare, but c'mon. Even Nancy Drew classics, while edited of some of their original racism and other things that weren't completely necessary, stayed true to their stories. Are you trying to tell me kids today can't fathom a life before computer screens and cell phones? That they can't even use their imaginations to identify with a story where a main character writes for a newspaper, like an actual paper one?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the corner reading me some Goosebumps and thinking of simpler times.

Peace,
J.

Buckley's Bad Taste Tour, Varsity: The Word

2008-03-24T22:26:00.003-04:00

It's all too familiar. That annoying tickle in the back of your throat that punches you in the face and says, "Damn bitch! I hope you enjoyed getting drunk this weekend, because you are not having any fun this week at all! Bahahahahaha."

And so it goes. And it goes and it goes and it goes. So anyway I'm rooting around the house for my Buckley's and I figure out I've either used it all or it's been lost officially. So I go on the Buckley's website because I can't remember the name of the specific Buckley's that is awesome.

What do I find there? The Buckley's Bad Taste Tour. Where you post a picture of your best "bad taste face" in the hopes of securing a five year supply of Buckley's.

The practical person in me says, "Who would need a five year supply of Buckley's? How do they figure out how much Buckley's you need for five years? Wouldn't it expire?".

The girl getting a cold in me says, "That's the best idea I've heard all day."

Dear Carmex, Tim Hortons, and Oh Henry:

Please put up a contest like the Buckley's one. That way, save for getting up and going to work, I will not have to leave my dwelling for the next five years.

Love,

Jenn

Also, one more rant before I sleep: The word varsity.
When I was a youngin, I had a green tracksuit that read Varsity Girl all over it. I recently purchased a pack of "hipster" panties from lovely Wal-Mart. Because these are the panties of the 6 for $6 variety, I rarely examine the patterns. They are $1 a pair. I do not care. I make sure they are mostly pink, they are the right size, and they are not opened and never have been. Five of the six pairs of these new panties feature no writing. The sixth? In really giant purple letters it proclaims "VARSITY" with a fake coat of arms. But I decide I don't really know the definition of varsity and look it up: "of or pertaining to a university or school team, activity, or competition".

My panties are advertising a team, activity, or competition? Interesting. Very very interesting. Somewhat disturbing. Wal-Mart - your underwear designers are a bunch of pervs.

Carry on.

The No Cussing Club No Cussing Challenge

2008-03-09T18:35:00.007-04:00

I am standing in the gym at work, doing a basketball relay course in high heeled shoes and a blue flowered spring dress, despite the fact that March has entered like a lion, and, well, carried on...like a lion. I am quite worried I am going to break my ankle, having been off high heels for a very long time. The challenge is to be the first team to successfully run the relay while dribbling the ball, with a beanbag on your head. I am quite worried my tank top has sunken down and that I am leaning over a bit too far, as I meander slowly around the pylons in an attempt to eventually clumsily throw the ball into the basket.

Team building exercises are fun like that. My peers are cheering me on optimistically, "Get it in the basket, Loos!", and I toss the ball. It goes nowhere near the hoop. The beanbag falls right off my head. "Shit!", I whisper. The team has gone silent. My four letter word echoes off the walls, "Shoot!", I exclaim, a bit louder, attempting to make a recovery. Everyone knows I did not say "Shoot!" in the first place. It's common knowledge. I put the beanbag back on my head, kick off my shoes, and run back.

The other day during first aid class, our instructor opened her bag of dummies to find that one was missing in action. "FUCK!", she sighed. "Oh, I said that out loud, didn't I?". Yep, you sure did.

Enter the No Cussing Club (tm). 14 year old McKay Hatch (how pretentious can your name possibly be?) explains that his friends were cussing way too much and it was offending him, so he came up with the No Cussing Club, whose slogan is the eloquent, "Ya wanna hang with us? Don't cuss!". Oh, McKay. He goes on to explain that if his friends could say no to cussing, they could also say no to drugs, violence, and pornography. McKay's parents raised him with values, he says, and that is why he doesn't dig any of that nonsense.

McKay, McKay, McKay. Seriously? You're a fourteen year old boy. In California. Who is offended by four letter words and the idea of your middle school friends stealing a glimpse at a Playboy. Wow. In addition to this awesomeness, McKay invites people all over the world to start their own No Cussing (tm) chapters. For the low, low price of $300 (~~and your free speech~~) you will be permitted to make 50 shirts with the NCC logo and slogan on them, to hand out at your school or your church to advertise your chapter. You are advised to hand out certificates at your school and your church to those folks that are willing to end cussing forever.

So, for shits and giggles (that was somewhat intentional), I have joined the NO CUSSING (tm) club.

Check out my membership form. I filled it out like I thought someone who genuinely wanted to join this club would fill it out.

I waited patiently for my automatic electronic response from McKay himself. And behold!

Now, of course, this is just an exerpt. If you want all the No Cussing (tm) goodness, you'll have to join the club yourself. But aren't you excited at the prospect of five free hug cards and a copy of "Raising a G-Rated Family in an X-Rated World?".

I did a little bit of research on McKay's page and quickly unearthed some truths. The book Raising a G-Rated Family in an X-Rated World appears to be written by his parents. Could the No Cussing Club really just be an outlet to hawk more books for them? Oh, McKay, how could you ~~f*cking~~ fool me so? But there was still more to unearth, and I wasn't about to let such a delightful conservative website escape my grip quite so fast. The worst part about this is this book claims to have sold 3.5 million copies.

Behold, the Power of Positive Hugging:

Quite honestly, this picture creeps me right ~~the f*ck~~ out. It's also a venture from this uberconservative spawn's parents. Apparently, you are to press the button to figure out how many hugs you require on a given day. I'm not concerned with how awesomely lame this is, like, not all. I am a bit concerned with how bizarre these bears look. I mean, of course, they must be married, because they are like, all close and stuff, and unmarried people never touch each other in Conservatopia. But why does Mama Bear look completely trashed out of her mind? Why doesn't papa bear's shirt reach all the way down to his pants? And that skirt on Mama Bear... I mean, it isn't even ankle length. Blasphemy.

This thing only works at room temperature, apparently. I suppose it is the same premise as a mood ring. But would the hug card know if you were swearing? Doing teh drugz? Looking at teh nekkid peeps? Srsly. This shit is marketed to HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS. If you had handed me that thing when I was in HIGH SCHOOL, I probably would have PUNCHED YOU IN THE NOSE, and I was not a violent kid by any means.

People in the real world swear. I have seen the most proper of teachers and professors and doctors and nurses and other professionals let the odd F-bomb drop. Instead of giving four letter words so much attention, why not just let them go? If people think you have a problem with it, they are going to keep doing it. Seriously. Find something better to protest, something that seriously matters. I heard there was going to be some protest about women wearing pants or small children getting ahold of the lingerie section of the Sears book, McKay. Maybe you should track down the address.

But thanks, McKay, for letting me into your club. I won't even end this with a hearty "Go F*ck Yourself".

I mean look at that hot certificate. Your Paint skillz totally rival mine. Awesome work with the whole letting your parents pimp you out to sell books!

So you should all check out McKay's site at www.nocussing.com, and until next time, DON'T SWEAR!

(DISCLAIMER: because the website seems so totally all about the (TM) symbol, I really have to tell you that all graphics contained in this post are screenshots from the NO CUSSING CLUB (tm) website. Carry on.)

jobly-ness

2008-02-26T15:41:00.001-05:00

squeeeeee.

The Wisdom Teeth Saga

2008-02-21T20:31:00.002-05:00

Never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever again.

The other three will remain until I either forget about how much this hurts or they start to hurt more than this hurts.

I am about to attempt eating some macaroni and cheese, even though my jaw is not really working. Will report back.

Division of Capital - Household Pets vs. Twentysomething

2008-02-19T21:39:00.004-05:00

Puggles is considered the richest because he cost the most at the time of purchase. I don't know exactly how much he cost, and it's rude to ask him, so I'm going to say $300. He also owns two (2) blankets, for an estimated total of $20, and he has approximately $70 worth of toys. It probably cost about $100 to get him fixed. He owns a bed ($50), and I would say his share of the couch is equal to about $110. Therefore, of the pets, Puggles has the most capital ($650).

Socks is next because she is the senior executive of LoosCatsCo and therefore she don't take no shit from no one. She is worth an estimated $152. She was free from a farm, so she doesn't have an initial investment cost. I pay her $1 a year to keep my pillow warm ($12). She owns a CatSpa, which I estimate to be worth an approximate $20 value. She currently owns approximately $5.40 in cat treats. I estimate, after depreciation, her surgery to get spayed probably cost about $90 (12 years is a long time.) The remaining $24.60 is what she plays on the stock market.

I estimate Willy/Babycat has an estimated asset value of $50. This is for when she finally gets around to writing the heartwarming story of my stealing her from the high school courtyard and bringing her into a nice, warm home. It's going to be one of those Hallmark movies. When she gets around to it.

Then there's me. I have an estimated value of -$17,000.

Therefore, a designer mutt, an old cranky calico, and a smelly midget cat that lived in the high school courtyard all have a higher net worth than me, an almost 22 year old, human, career college graduate.

Win!

Injuries that only a Jenn could get

2008-02-05T22:16:00.000-05:00

Alright, so my tongue has been bleeding pretty constantly for approximately four hours.
I bit it while eating spaghetti.
So I decide that I'm sick of swallowing blood and it's starting to make me feel pretty sick.
I do some Google-fu, which tells me to rinse it with salt water. And then apply a moistened teabag to the area, as something in it will soothe the pain or stop the blood or something. So I do this.
Even in October when I got drunk and fell over a bike, thereby putting my bottom tooth through my lip, I did not do a saltwater rinse. Holy fuck, that is so gross.
But sucking on a teabag is absolutely as disgusting as it sounds.

Carry on.

Fun in the Bathroom: Part Two - Aussie Natural's

2008-01-31T13:53:00.000-05:00

Natural's what? What belongs to the Natural? I am so confused.

Nitpickedly,

Jennifer

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Grammar

2008-01-31T13:44:00.001-05:00

Total fail.

This paper does this all the freaking time.

You would think if one worked at a paper they would have a basic understanding of what those flying in the air apostrodealies are. But no. They live to make my hurt.

Plz hire prufreeder, kthx.

No love,

Jenn

no groundhogs allowed

2008-01-30T23:04:00.000-05:00

i hate you, groundhog day.

grrrrrr.

(no, i have no ethical issues with groundhog day. i just hate the day for other reasons.)

yes, i am irrational enough to have a deep hatred of groundhog day...why do you ask?

i have been a typist for far too long... groundhog looks like such an amusing word.
but don't let it fool you.
groundhog day is evil.

Dumb Labels in the Bathroom: Volume One - Avon Peach Bubblebath

2008-01-30T22:40:00.000-05:00

"Umm... the sweet aroma of fresh, juicy peaches. Fruity and fantastic in mountains of bubbles that leave skin softly scented. All without a bathtub ring."

Umm?! You started your freaking label with Umm?! FAIL! You can kind of picture the girls in the design department...

"Ummm... what is in this anyway? Oh yeah, fresh aroma... juicy...blah blah blah, k? Umm... Cassie, you got that? Umm...okay good. Let's get this shit did so we can go to Starbucks."

I tried to take a picture but the text was too small to be legible.

I certainly hope they were going for "Yum" rather than "Umm...". It sounds like they have a sixteen year old co-op student writing their packaging. Seriously. "Umm..." to start a label?

A label that starts with Umm is less than awesome.

For shits and giggles I have run "Umm..." through Sloganizer. Here are the all so confident results:

*Umm... never sleeps.
*Umm... the revolution.
*I'd do anything for Umm...
*Heal the world with Umm...
*Umm... wonder.
*Don't play with fire, play with Umm...
*Be a part of Umm...
*There is no life without Umm...
*Umm... for everyone.
*The Umm... spirit.
*Umm... is rolling. The others are stoned. (Umm... No comment.)
*Umm... I want it all.
*Once Umm... always Umm...
*Umm..., it's as simple as that.
*Umm... kicks ass.

Long story short, I decided to do some nitpicking towards Avon. I sent them the following on their webpage:

Which of course, you won't find amusing at all unless you find stupid things amusing.
Hopefully I will have a reply with which to update you soon.

Mole Watch '08 Ends, Wisdom Teeth Take Over: The Terrible 22's?

2008-01-28T13:31:00.000-05:00

Mole Watch '08 officially ended at approximately 10:00 p.m. Saturday night, when the tiny loop of "surgical" thread was discovered on my belly whilst changing into my jammies at my friend's house. The mole offered no parting sentiments, and did not write a note of thanks for its many years of habitation on my body. All that remains is a minuscule pink bump.

However, my body, unhappy with recent proceedings, decided that SOMETHING had to be done... after all, now the ratio of flaws to normalcy was completely askew. So approximately midnight, my teeth started hurting something terrible. The pain was in the lower teeth at the very back, and kept me up most of the night with its dull radiating. Awesome, says I. Approximately 5:30, I get up to get some Tylenol, hoping perhaps that will fix it. "How can I have MORE cavities?," I wonder to no one in particular, "When most of my teeth are already made of filling stuff?". (What is that stuff, anyway?). Anyway, I accept that I have been far too lax on my toothcare (despite my battery operated Tigger toothbrush), and vow to brush 5,000 more times a day if the pain will just cease.

Long story short, I end up at the most despised person in the world's workplace: the dentist. No fault of his own, he is a very nice man and all - but nobody LIKES going to the dentist. I tell him what's going on and he takes a look. "Not cavities," he reports. Then he says it... "but this wisdom tooth will have to be extracted."

"Extracted" is the nice dentist word for "yanked out of your mouth". "Oh," says I, "I don't have money for that. If that's all it is, I guess I'll just live with it." "I really advise you to get it out," paraphrases he, for I cannot remember exactly what he said, but it was something like that, "it is going to keep causing you pain."

There's that pain guy again. He and I do not get along well. Also, because I do not have a health plan, I will be going to the University dental clinic, where a bright young student will get the responsibility of yanking the aforementioned tooth from the aforementioned mouth. Awesome.

So apparently I am teething. Welcome to the terrible 22's.

What A Good Day!

2008-01-25T23:09:00.000-05:00

Firstly, I would like to remark that I hate how all the freaking paparazzi shows are saying that Britney is schizo because she likes to talk in different accents.

As someone who would much rather speak in a false accent than my actual voice (and who often does), I feel very badly for the poor girl. It is such fun to speak in a fake accent. I do this all the freaking time.

Do people think I am schizophrenic? Maybe. Do I have a hell of a lot of fun? Yes.

So stupid entertainment shows, you fail at life.

And I promise I will stop with the celebrity related entries very soon.

In other news, I bought a Keno ticket tonight and won $9, thus almost tripling my life savings. Unfortunately, I put this $9 down on the purchase of three shiny new lotto tickets - A Deal or No Deal, another Keno, and a Lucky Lines. (Click to see diagram in it's original splendor).

In even cooler news than me not winning thousands of dollars, BUT it being totally okay because Skor bars are on sale, mum and dad took me to Michael's craft store tonight where I was able to purchase my very own embroidery hoop. It is green and very sexy. But not as sexy as my new glasses!

Exhibit A:

These gorgeous reading glasses feature a delightful pattern of tiny teacups. They also magnify everything I look at, which could come in handy when deciding whether the cup is half full or half empty. (Okay, that's a lie, but perhaps whatever is in the cup will look bigger?) They will also remind people that I enjoy the ~~occasional~~ overdose of caffeinated beverages. And they're pink. And they have a matching case. And they are regular $24.00 on sale for $5.00. Could this day get any better?!

Yes, punk. It can. Because when I'm in a punky mood, I have glasses to match. See exhibit B:

These feature all the same advantages of Exhibit A, but are a bit more hardcore than teacups. For the times I'm just feeling grrrrr, you know. Grrrrr.

In short, it has been remarked that Britney uses accents as costumes, and that they are no different than changing from "white framed sunglasses to black ones".

I challenge her to a duel. Come up with cooler accents, Brit, and some rad glasses. We can have a rehab party. You bring the money, I'll bring the rehab. And the embroidery, and the chocolate.

If she's schizo...what am I, pray tell? I am sometimes English, and somedays I wake up feeling a bit Australian. Sometimes I talk like Jeff Foxworthy. And sometimes I just grunt my approval, disapproval, or apathy regarding the situation at hand.

Also, thanks to everyone who has written to express concern about the breast situation. I have been following Mole Watch '08 with great interest, and support most of the candidates. My money is on Falloff Already, who is leading the campaign by great strides. I am happy to report that everything is going according to plan, and the tiny ~~mosquito~~ loop of thread that is determined to give me ~~West Nile~~ the freaking willies is still thriving in ~~his~~ its glory. The doctor has until Sunday before he reaches his five day guarantee. (Guaranteed to fall off in five days or... we'll give you more freezing and try it again!).

The Hottie and The Nottie

2008-01-24T09:02:00.000-05:00

This is seriously the name of a movie.
Srsly. It's Paris Hilton's latest "acting" project.
Not only will I not be seeing this movie (which was a given, anyway), I predict I will have to hide from advertisements for quite a while. How does that title not just grate on your ears? For serious. My ears are bleeding. My eyes are cringing, and it's not just because of Paris wearing her "I heart Paris" dress.

Like, seriously, Paris. The dress is a nottie. No, honey, not "naughty". Just nottie.
I hope that does nottie hurt your feelings.

In short, if this movie makes any sort of money (which it very well may), I am packing up my shit and moving to Australia. I'm sure they have Paris Hilton there, but they also have warm beaches and such.

Nottie impressed,
Jenn

Tallies

2008-01-23T23:39:00.001-05:00

People who IMed me tonight explicitly to ask about the state of my tit: 4

Odd questions:
*"Was it the big boob or the not so big boob?"
*"Is it still frozen?"
*"Will it be frozen for the whole five days?"
*"Are you srsly wearing a tshirt under your bra?"

(Answers: The big one. No. No. Yes.)

Odd hypothesizes:
*I have a ginseng plant growing under my boob, due to my overconsumption of tea - the ginseng in which I am unable to digest, so it is emerging underneath my tit.

I love my friends.

And I promise that soon the posts about my boob will cease. But right now I just think it's pretty fucking hilarious.

So far...

2008-01-23T12:41:00.000-05:00

The cold ones are different colours.
They are different brands.
One is a Boh and the other is something else.
Yep.

We're going to party like it's 1853.

2008-01-23T10:31:00.000-05:00

WARNING: THIS ENTRY TALKS ABOUT MEDICAL PROCEDURES. AND BOOBS. IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH YOU MAY WISH TO AVOID IT. IF YOU READ IT ANYWAY, DON'T COMPLAIN TO ME, kthx.

So I went to the doctor on Monday to get what I thought was a mole removed from the underside of my right boob. You know how doctors are like "If it grows fast, come get it taken off!" so yeah. I decided that was probably a good idea. So I went to the doctor. At which point I am informed that it is not a mole at all, but in fact a "harmless skin tag". Gross. If it is so harmless, why for is it owie and bloody? (Owie is a medical term. I swear.)

Anyway, the doctor then tells me that removal of such a thing is awesomely easy. "Just tie a piece of thread around it and it will fall off in five days." What is this... 1853? Besides, it's under my boob. I couldn't tie a knot around it AND manoever around it if I tried. Besides... OWIE!

And if it's so easy, can't he do it? Yes, yes he can, but it would have to wait until this morning. Deal. I can deal with that. So I go in there this morning and he freezes my boob. The right side of me is adequately prepared for a long game of dodgeball. He ties some special "surgical thread" (I assume this is thread purchased at Michael's as opposed to Dollarama, but I can't be sure) around it, and tells me to wait for five days.

So, it's only a piece of thread chilling out under my boob. But it's pretty much the most annoying thing ever. And it's still frozen. It feels kind of like a small insect is very determined to give me West Nile disease. I assume this will only get worse as the day goes on.

Also, I am discovering my inner superhero. I have devised that it will be less annoying to the mosquito if I wear a sports bra OVER a t-shirt and then another t-shirt on top of that.

I'm bring sexy back, fo' sho.

Can You Decipher This Sign?

2008-01-21T23:47:00.000-05:00

(Click for larger picture.)

I'm getting:

"Note. Please don't cross from the Door's Awning as Smow may drop any time Thanks Don't Play With Wine".

What do YOU think?

It's been perplexing me for quite some time but I've not been ballsy enough to take a photo while the store was open.

Confessions Of An Addictive Personality

2008-01-21T22:40:00.001-05:00

I have an unfortunate problem.

When I decide I like something, I decide I really like it.

When I was a youngin', it was ice cream and Pogs. When I was in high school, it was Carmex. (Although I did have a brief fling with Burt's Bees, and a very short affair with Blistex, I always returned to my first love.) I've tried the tubes but I always return to the old standby, the disgusting little jar that is probably teeming with bacteria of all life forms.

A jar of Carmex is a quarter ounce of love, made of natural ingredients. It is a legal addiction, and to my knowledge does not cause cancer or hallucinations. The formula has not changed since 1936. It is perfect just the way it is.

There are jokes about there being a special wing of the Betty Ford Centre for Carmex addicts like me. Perhaps there should be. As I sit here at the computer reading random articles, I find myself diving into the tiny tub every three minutes. There is a characteristic streak on every pair of pants I own, from where I wipe my goopy finger after I take a hit. Exes were informed that if they couldn't live with my Vicksy aroma, they would have to go. One boss, who suggested I switch lip balm brands, quickly retreated after I gave her the Jenn Stare of Death(tm).

People sometimes remark that something smells slightly medicinal when they are around me. I grin. I know I smell like a granny. I rub my lips together compulsively as if they are sticks and I am trying to start a fire. When I did my clinical placement at a nursing home, I wore Carmex under my nose so I would not smell any of the unfortunate smells around me. I need this shit to function. Chap Stick just doesn't have the same rush. That expensive Mary Kay crap is expensive. And crap. Avon lip balm is okay, and tastes really yummy, but I tend to lick it off immediately because it tastes good.

I am addicted to a $2.99, nondescript, tiny jar of HEAVEN. When I find places that sell it in the jar, instead of the gawdawful tube, I usually buy 2 or 3 of them. I have a tradition when a jar of Carmex is opened, a specific shape that must be carved into its waxy innards. I cringe a little bit when someone asks for a swipe - not because I am worried about what their bacteria laden fingers may introduce my sterile little tub to, but because I am worried they will swipe the wrong way - and what then? I am just slightly obsessive compulsive, I swear.

The facial expression on a first time user of Carmex is pretty priceless. "OH MY LORD WHY WOULD ANYONE VOLUNTARILY PUT THIS SHIT ON THEIR LIPS?" is the usual consensus. That's what I said the first time, too.

I have a problem.

My name is Jenn and I'm an addict.

Please don't look in my pants pockets. No, not my housecoat, either. Actually, just stay out of all my pockets. If you need some Carmex, they sell it at the drug store across the street.

*runs*

Have a Happy...Sandwich?

2008-01-18T22:08:00.001-05:00

Have a Happy... Sandwich?

I've discussed my hatred of most major advertising campaigns before. Everyone knows my utter hatred of that stupid Whiskas cat (no meat, NO HUBERT!), the toe nail fungus dudes, and the most sophisticated thing I'm told I'll ever pee on. Gross.

But today, when I was flipping through daytime television, deciding who would rot my brain less - Dr. Phil, or Judge Judy, I saw it. It! I saw the most infuriating advertisement ever. An innocent grilled cheese sandwich, made with Kraft Singles (mmm, nothing like Kraft Singles, although I wonder if they ever get lonely?). Alas, this was a "happy" sandwich. That's how I like my food. I like my food fucking happy before I sink my teeth into it, grind it up, and send it stomach bound. But wait... Have A Happy Sandwich?

Hasn't this been used before? Oh yes. Ohhh yes. Always. Have a Happy Period. Just what I want to think about when I think of grilled cheese sammiches. It seems someone in Kraft's advertising department is a lazy sack of shit.

"Have a Happy Period" is ridiculous enough. I've ranted about the stupidity of this before, I know. But srsly. If you're going to use such a dumbfuck slogan, at least make the commercials funny. Show it like it is. Instead of riding horses or going swimming or wearing skimpy little white dresses, show it like it is. I dare you, Always, I fucking dare you. Show me a fat chick sitting on the deep freeze in her long johns eating Heavenly Hash right out of the container, and I'll show you a "happy period". Die.

But now the dumbfuck stupidity has escaped the realm of feminine hygiene and infiltrated food. FOOD. Now, what the hell made the advertising department think I would want to think of THAT while I am shopping for cheese slices? You can't tell me I'm not supposed to make a connection between these two slogans. "Have a Happy ____" is four words. Now, I'm no mathematician, but that means these slogans are seventy-five per cent the EXACT SAME. Fail. If I'd written a paper in school that was seventy-five per cent the same as something else, that would be called plagiarism. But on TV, it's perfectly fine.

How about Tylenol wishes me a happy headache? Head-on wishes me a happy... directly to the forehead? Toe fungus dudes wish me a happy... toe fungus? Hubert wishes me a happy foray into veganism? Smirnoff could wish me a happy detox, I guess. The Geico gecko could wish me a happy insurance claim. Those "make your own will" folks could wish me a happy divvying up of my meager possessions. Febreze could wish me a happy half-assed cleansing of my home/clothing/furniture. But no.

If this shit goes any further, I am moving to the middle of the forest and living off the land. I will be a happy hermit, eating my happy sammiches.

Jenn's Rules of the Road

2008-01-17T10:28:00.000-05:00

A Guide For Everyone But Me, On The Occasion of My Re-Learning How to Drive

1. Kindly stay the hell away from the car I am driving. Your presence freaks me out.

2. Yes, today I am abiding by the speed limit. Perhaps you could follow my example. Also, a safe following distance would be nice. I'm a new/old driver - and even though I may appear calm (to the blind observer), my over consumption of caffeine products tends to make me a tad bit jumpy.

3. If you are a transport truck, get the hell off my road.

4. In the same vein, if you are a piece of construction equipment... shouldn't you be off constructing something, kindly quite far off my road?

5. In a parking lot, you should give me the right of way, if only because I'm cute, damnit.

6. No, I don't effing know how to angle park. If you are a parking lot designer, you should take note: YOU FAIL AT LIFE for designing such an evil thing.

7. Pedestrians - when you were very young, perhaps as young as four or five, your mother took you by the hand and explained: "Look to the left, now look to the right, and if all is clear, and it is safe, you can cross the street." You seem to have warped this in your head to, "You are the pedestrian. You should be texting and/or staring at your shoes, and wear your MP3 player on super duper deafening high, so you're sure never to see or hear a car. Drivers like it when you just pop out in front of them, because it keeps them on their toes!"

8. School children. I know you get chaffeured to school on your spiffy yellow school bus. Would it kill you to cross the road where normal people cross the road? And dangnabbit, PULL UP YOUR PANTS. Why, in my day, folks wore the crotch of their pants at their crotch instead of their knees. Or if they could only afford ill-fitting pants, at least they tied a stylish plaid flannel shirt around their waist. You are a distraction to my learning. Please obtain a belt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

9. Dear Gas Pedal in Best Friend's Car,
It has been brought to my attention that sometimes you like to go faster than the sign posted on the road. However, as a lowly typist, I lack the funds that it would cost for you to maintain such speeds, in the event that you got caught. So please, pay more attention to the signs.

10. Dear too-big ripoff "Doc Marten" shoes,
I still love you. Even if you make my foot a little too heavy on aforementioned gas pedal. It's okay. He should know better anyway.

Back in the D-Dot

2008-01-17T10:14:00.000-05:00

Well, my last foray into the city, I'd say would be probably my last, if not forever, but for a very long time. (Holy awkward sentence, Batman!)

I'm back home in Dutton, where it's pretty much physically impossible to get in trouble. The things I had been doing the past few weeks were extremely out of character and stupid, so here I am, back in my hometown. Woot.

I'm trying to secure my future in carpal tunnel system, by cross stitching the "Cold Ones" scene from SBemail 39 (it's going to look somewhat like this). So far I have this:

I'm just going to back stitch the "Cold One" on the bottles, and as the craft store only had pink aida cloth, stitching in the blue background should be...fun.

Anyway, believe it or not I have been rather busy. I have secured my G1 license back (with only one question wrong - "How far away from a pedestrian crosswalk can you pass another car?". I chose 60 m. I was wrong. I am still unsure of the correct answer - but meh. I don't do a lot of passing anyway. Especially anywhere near those damn pedestrians.) Had a job interview Tuesday - it went alright, I suppose. Other than that, I'm still doing typing work and random stuff like that. So things are coming together, I guess.

Everyone watching American Idol? Kinda like a two hour advertisement for better mental health care in the US of A, no? Although I really did enjoy the "Brother" song from last night. I fear music's future, but I am entertained.

All is fair in love, war, and cheese and crackers.

2008-01-07T23:55:00.000-05:00

The new year has been, needless to say, INSANE so far.

a) The "vomitting virus" is going around my complex. We all caught it. For quite a long time.

b) The very very very end of last year I had a brief fling (it was minute) with a boy who was definitely not deserving of a very delayed Jennrebound. Any boy who has ever been involved in a Jennrebound knows that it is just an opportunity to get hammered with a girl in flannel pj's and long underwear, perhaps hug it out, and then get the hell on with our lives. This one, bless his heart, didn't understand that.

c) But that's okay, because... I can do way more awesome. And he's far away.

d) Also, if you ever take a Greyhound bus to someone's house, proceed to unpack your belongings and stay a couple days, and make yourself quite at home by eating their food and such -- you have no basis to dictate how that person lives their life. Make no comment about how much tea or coffee the person consumes, or how many cigarettes she smokes.

e) In the same vein, bringing the most giant bottle of rye in the world and then calling that person an alcoholic may not be the best idea ever.

f) In the same vein, bringing the most giant bottle of beer in the world and then calling that person an alcoholic may not be the best idea ever.

g) New cat, Cheech. New cat Cheech is an anomoly among felines. He just moved in with us, and he's totally awesome. I bathed him the other day with very little resistance, which was good, because I was under the curse of the vomitting virus and the conscience bug at the time.

h) I am trying to cross stitch to get rid of the wanting to smoke-ness. So if anyone has some extra aida cloth and embroidery thread laying around, let me know. I can give you twenty six cents and a button. Or I can like, bake you a batch of cookies. Ghetto cookies, but cookies nonetheless...

i) Oh, it's what you do to me... Oh, it's what you do to me. (Hey There Delilah is playing. I fucking love this song. Couldn't resist.)

j) I have a whole high school society going on. It's pretty awesome how most of us ended up here. Rad.

k) But apparently when I make cheese and crackers I cut the cheeses too small. ;) (jk)

K is as far as the list goes tonight, folks.
Be well,
j.

High School Yearbooks + Drunk Chicks = Not Quite So Good

2008-01-06T04:41:00.000-05:00

It's 4:41 in the morning.

I am dead. Roomie and I have decided we will go to bed at 5.

I have had beer, some sort of weird cocktail, another weird cooler thing, a ceaser, some vodka, and my first taste of gin. (Yes, I made it to 21 without my first taste of gin. Go me! Pretty sweet ass stuff, yo.)

I can still type English or something that resembles English.
After drinking for like, 12 hours. With people I haven't seen since high school.
This fucking worries me.
Am I learning to drink responsibly? No.
So what the fuck's the deal?

Perhaps I will read this tomorrow and discover that it isn't English at all.
But right now I feel pretty confident.

CRACK

2008-01-05T11:56:00.000-05:00

Jenn says:
my parents brought 2 things of cookies, 1 thing of chocolates, 2 bags of chips, ritz, and vegetable crack
Jenn says:
crackers
Jenn says:
lmao
Jenn says:
awesome type
Jenn says:
typo

New Year

2008-01-04T02:43:00.000-05:00

I brought in the New Year in ways I will never repeat again.

It was followed by three days of insane guilt eating, in which I forced myself to eat multiple cheeseburgers and a lot of pizza. And booze.

This was followed by three days of the worst gastrointestinal exploits ever.

Srsly. I have never been so sick in my life. Just today I have regained the ability to move without feeling like I will puke.

Karma, I have learned my lesson.

Please fix me.

I'll be good this year. I promise.

Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown / For An Eggman

2007-12-20T20:57:00.000-05:00

Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown, what you gonna do when the rain comes down? What you gonna do and what you going to say when you can't pay the rent 'til the rain goes away? Coz I know and you know and everyone knows that you can't pay the rent if you ain't got the dough. Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown, what you gonna do when the rain falls down?

C, that's the way it begins and H, that's the next letter in, I, you're in the middle of the word, and C, you've already heard and K, now you're nearing the end, and E, now you're rounding the bend, C H I C K E N, that's the way you spell chick-en!
Such is the song we learned in elementary school.

And sang several times tonight, as we waited for the bus for TWO FUCKING HOURS.

The best part of our adventure: eggs.

Standing at the display of eggs, my roommate and I were discussing the merits of large eggs versus extra large eggs, when a dude comes up behind us. "Would you like some help from a real farmer?" Sure, dude. That's way cooler than help from a fake farmer. And he starts pulling out boxes of eggs, "See, this is how to tell a good egg." Okay, mister. And then he grabs a box, deems it "good" and starts picking out other boxes of eggs that are "good". I try to explain that we only need one box of eggs. "You know, those people that hold eggs up to the light? They don't know what the hell they're doing. That means nothing." And he goes on. And on. And on.

Finally, we get away from the eggman, with our box of eggs.

We go out to the mall, I buy a scratch ticket. I lose.

The rest of our night follows suit.

We go out to Huron and Highbury to wait for the Windermere.

And we wait. And we wait. And we wait.

For at least an hour, we wait.

We know this bus is running, or at least supposed to be, because the schedule is on the lamppost.

But yet, there is no bus.

Finally, we take the Huron Heights and elect to catch the Kipps up at Adelaide. But still, what a fucking pain in the ass.

Fucking busses.

I hate you, public transit.

In which we feign interest.

2007-12-19T03:03:00.000-05:00

In which it is utterly impossible to let something stupid go.

Help me stay awake I'm falling...
Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me
It's 4:30 a.m. on a Tuesday
It doesn't get much worse than this
In beds in little rooms in buildings in the middle of these lives
which are completely meaningless
Help me stay awake, I'm falling...
Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me
I got bones beneath my skin, and mister...
There's a skeleton in every man's house
Beneath the dust and love and sweat that hangs on everybody
There's a dead man trying to get out
Please help me stay awake, I'm falling...
Asleep in perfect blue buildings
Beside the green apple sea
Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby
Try to keep myself away from me

Counting Crows - Perfect Blue Buildings

(One of those Greyhound in the winter kind of songs that describes everything to a tee. Sigh.)

Zellers: I owe you $6.99.

2007-12-17T23:46:00.001-05:00

So that brother of mine finally finally finally finally called to confirm that he is still alive. Also, he wanted to go Christmas shopping.

We are at Zellers. We are looking at displays. I knock over a bottle of fancy cooking oil. It shatters. It smells like decomposing vegetables. The decorative pickles or whatever that were in it fall to the floor, resembling feces. The yellow oil resembles urine. It certainly appeared that someone had code browned the Christmas decor section of Zellers.

Save for the broken glass, I would call this most unsanitary. Because of the broken glass, and because I used to work at Zellers, I knew I had to report the incident because of the hazards of both cooking oil on the floor, and the broken glass.

I go up to the girl and explain what had happened.
"Oh," she says, and rolls her eyes.
"Look, I'm just telling you so no one gets hurt."
Then she had to go talk to her manager, and I had to flee due to other commitments.

My brother and I drove to another Zellers because I was too scared I was going to get in trouble for breaking the $7 bottle of ~~feces~~ oil.

Are you challenging me to a duel?

2007-12-16T22:35:00.000-05:00

Jenn: I'm gonna go dye my hair.
Jess: Go ahead. You can't make any more of a mess than I did when I did mine.
Jenn: O rly?

Ya rly.

Except my hair dye is red, so it looks like I went on a murdering spree.

And it's bright fucking red.

Go $3.99 hair dye!

It's not old, it's vintage.

2007-12-16T21:26:00.000-05:00

Kraft Dinner that expired on 07 JUN 21 is no longer edible.
The lot that expired on 07 SEP 28 is still fine.

Just thought you might like to know.

Awesome.

2007-12-16T18:50:00.000-05:00

Father Catches Son Smoking Pot, Sells $90 Gift for $9000

Awesome. See, this is great parenting!

Teach the kid how to profit ten times over from a materialistic good, thereby making enough money to start his very own grow op!

"See, Junior, all you have to do is buy the toy of the year before the price goes up, and sell it on eBay ten days before Christmas."

He could have at least given the system to some charity or something, thereby teaching his kid the true spirit of Christmas, which is of course, "if you smoke weed you are the devil and the poor will have your presents. And you know why they're poor? It's because they are POTHEADS. Dirty, filthy, hippy potheads. And now they have your Playstation."

I love the things that pass as news.

2007-12-16T10:40:00.000-05:00

that didn't work

Template issues

2007-12-16T02:44:00.001-05:00

edit: Sort of fixed now. Sort of.

Merry Christmas, here's your crap.

2007-12-15T21:07:00.000-05:00

Seeing as I'm poor, dollar store gifts are the gifts my loved ones are getting this year. Like they have every year since I left home. And you know, people open up something completely cheap and generic, like a bag of $1 pens, and say, "COOL! Pens! I can really use these! Thanks!", just the same as they say when you buy them a Ferrari. "COOL! A FERRARI! I CAN REALLY USE THIS!". Yes. They do. If you'd like to confirm, just send me a bag of pens. And then send me a Ferrari. You can film my response. I will make good use of your Ferrari. You can come too, but only if you're under 28, male, and reasonably good looking.

I had $40 to buy gifts for the family. I did go kind of out on my brother's gift. We used to have this dog, and he was like, the coolest dog ever. And my brother, bless him, always talks about how much he fucking hates dogs. We grew up together, this dog, my brother, and me. Yet, the young Loos does not really appreciate dogs at all. "Dogs are stupid. Dogs are hairy. There is hair on my leather jacket. How does hair stick to a leather fucking jacket? Jesus Christ, I hate dogs. They are so stupid." He talks about this dog incessantly, though. "Remember when Skipper used to do this? Remember how terrible he smelled? Remember the car trips where he stank so fucking bad that you couldn't breathe?" "Dude... that was you." "Oh yeah." So when I was wandering by the Brandy Tree and saw a tiny ceramic border collie that looked pretty much identical to our deceased canine brother Skipper, I had to pick it up for my brother's new apartment. This way, some day when he has kids and they say, "Daddy, can we get a dog?" and he gets all grumpy and retorts, "No. Daddy hates dogs", "Well, why do you have that ceramic dog then?".... (*ten minutes of brother fighting with future children here*) "MOMMY! We're getting a dog!". And then he'll call me and tell me how much he hates me, and I will know that I never really drifted apart from my baby brother. Or something like that. I'm all about the Christmas spirit. Really. For real.

That came to $17, so I was one quarter way done my family and half way out of money. Shit. I can't give out details here because of some of the readership, but I used the remaining $20 rather well I think. (The extra $3 bought two rolls of wrapping paper at Dollarama. And some cellotape).

Which brings me to another point. Dollar store cellotape is terrible. And you cannot buy it in any smaller quantity than four rolls at a time, it seems. I have had to re-tape these presents three or four times now. The first hour they actually looked good, and then the glue FAILED. So now there's about fifty layers of dollar store cellotape on my terrible, ghetto Christmas presents and they look like they were wrapped by drunken elves on LSD. So, Dollarama - this is my proposal. Instead of selling me four rolls of subpar, shitteous cellotape that DOESN'T FUCKING WORK, how about you sell me ONE roll of GOOD tape that gets the job done right? More good tape for the Jenn, fewer plastic tape holders to cause pollution for Mother Nature. *high five* (Or are you using all your lead to make those plastic tape holders?).

And Dollarama, while you're at it - please PLEASE please for the love of God - make the aisles wider at freaking White Oaks Mall. I may not be the cleanest person in the world, but when you start to smell funkier than a dollar store, you should probably stay home and shower instead of going to the dollar store. You are permitted to smell equally as funky, but NEVER more funky than. Never. And while Billy Bob over there is perusin' ta find some o' that thurr unda-ahm dee-or-door-ant on the top shelf, the place is getting exponentially more funky. Do you understand how allowing people in the dollar store to smell even funkier than usual will offset the funk to not-funk equalibrium? Do you understand that if you let one smelly person near another smelly person, they will be like "maybe I'm not so smelly. One more day!". Okay, maybe just in my head. But you should consider free underarm deodorant at the door. And make your fucking aisles wider so I don't have to be subjected to it so directly.

And have a separate check-out line for little old grannies who want to chat up the salesperson, oblivious to the fact that there are fifty people behind them in line. And don't let people hand out religious crap in your store. I came here to get some cheap Made in China wrapping paper so I can wrap mass-made in China plastic crap in order to celebrate the birth of Jesus, not to worship him or anything. Gawd.

How about you write and pass out an Etiquette Guide for the Individual at the Dollar Store. Here is a potential outline of chapters you could go with:
*Saying "Excuse Me" Before You Ram the Cart into Someone Else's Backpack: A General How-To Guide
*The Creditors Will Still Call Regardless of Whether You Buy That $3 Deodorant
*How to Purchase Stuff Before You Consume It: if I see your stupid ass walking around here with a half drunk Coke that I know you haven't paid for, I'm going to assume you're a fucking moron. The kind who's mommy comes over and launders his sheets. When he's 38. *fake English accent* "I just can't wait two more seconds to enjoy that Cokely goodness! Ah, isn't it refreshing to drink a nice bottle of Coke while I do my Christmas shopping? Such a jolly good day, yes?" ... DIE.

I love Christmas shopping.

Another point: I have this vintage wool coat, it's fushia with geese on it. People either really love it or really hate it, there is no middle ground. While I was waiting for the bus the other day, a giant bird took a giant shit and it fell on my goose coat. The rest of my day followed suit. Awesome.

In Which My Gay Ex And I Have A Baby

2007-12-13T19:20:00.000-05:00

Okay, so the title is misleading. We were only babysitting. And we only had her for an hour. But still, it was strange. And we don't really consider each other exes, but it's somewhat complicated, so it's funnier this way

For starters, he isgay (evidently I am repulsive enough to have this power?;). Therefore, by all laws of nature, we are still bestest friends, but I am not allowed to wear bad shoes or anything Stacy and Clinton would disapprove of. That's okay though - I do the same for him. We still do the "honey" and "baby" thing for shits and giggles, so when we go out together, people sometimes assume we are together.

Add a real baby into that mix and people seem to think we are the cutest, young parents eber to roam the fucking Earth. ("Oh, how old is your daughter?" "Er...she's...uh... six months".)

For starters, I didn't know we were going anywhere, so I was totally decked out in my gym clothes, which today consisted of bright green pants and a fushia top ("at least it isn't Cookie Monster. Or Animal. Or Pooh. Actually, do you have any age appropriate shirts?"). (To which the answer is no - but I do have seven Super Mario shirts...). This method of dress (the "whatever is clean" scheme) rarely manages to impress those of the opposite sex, or those who watch What Not To Wear. My gym shoes are wet and disgusting monsters, so we squeak along wherever we go, as I clunk along with the baby in the seat while singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (and my lack of ability to carry a tune is pointed out.)

Anyway, we end up at McDonalds, where I plonk the baby seat on the table and "Uncle" goes to order while "Auntie Jenn" stays back and sings. (More Rudolph. All that will calm this child down right now is Rudolph.) I fiddle with the handles on the car seat, in an attempt to move the handle up so I can rock the baby from afar. No luck. A mother at a nearby table comes over and glares at me, as if to say, "That baby is pretty big. You should know how to work this thing by now". And she stares. And she stares. And she stares. "You know, if you need a snow suit for the baby, I have a few at home," she says as she mentally takes over the position of the car seat handles. I look at her dumbfounded. Do you really think I am dumb enough to bring a baby out in December sans snow suit? I look down at the baby, who is giddily smiling. And not wearing her snowsuit. "Oh," I stammer nervously, after having just given this generous woman the most evil eye I could muster, "it was hot in the car so I took it off. She does have one. But thank you." She stares at me.

It is clear she does not believe me. I am a horrible Auntie. She continues, "Well, it is blue because I have all boys, but it'll keep her warm." Yes, ma'am. I get it. You think I am lying about whether "my" baby has a snowsuit. It is pink. It is sitting in the back seat of the red car over there. It has bows and booties. Would you like me to go get it as proof?

My counterpart announces that the baby smells "somewhat funky". I investigate, and agree, that the baby smells a bit off. Luckily, I have brought the blue bag of baby gear. I lose the probability game of who gets to change the diaper automatically, so I scoop the baby up and into the bathroom we go. Auntie Jenn does not know how this is done. She balances the baby on her hip, locks the door, and attempts to get the change table to fold down.

There are dainty little "change table pads" that resemble giant napkins. Auntie Jenn gingerly removes one, and tries to smooth it out. No go. This thing is foldy. I have a squirmy baby.

The baby uses her feet to defeat the possibility of the little napkinish pad sticking to the cold plastic table. Baby pulls my earring, leading to a scream of pain from me and a squeal of delight from her. Babies are sadistic. I finally get the little pad set out (and trust me, this is like using a postage stamp to wrap a vase), and set the baby down. The baby has attached her fingers to my gold necklace. It scrapes a tiny mole on the side of my neck. Again, I wince in pain. The baby is very amused. Babies are extremely sadistic. The snowsuit woman from the dining room bangs on the door, "Do you need a hand there, honey?". No. I need a cigarette. And some hand sanitizer.

Next comes the changing table. No stranger to diapers, I get right down to business. Until I realize that the wet wipes are missing from the arsenal of baby supplies. Shit. I strap the baby on to the table with the little tiny strappy thing, and hold on to her with my left hand while I wad up toilet paper with the right. The baby manages to take off her socks while I am occupied for three seconds. I get her cleaned and redressed. She pukes on me. I giggle, and tell the baby how cute she is. Babies make Auntie Jenn thinks puke is cute.

I return to the dining room and finish my nuggets, while the baby has a tantrum. I sing. I dance. I make little boys in the McDonalds remark, "Mommy, what's wrong with that baby's mommy? Does the baby want some hockey cards? I wish I had hockey cards."

I grab Humpty Dumpty and rock back and forth, saying "Your real mommy will be here soon". I begin singing Rudolph again. Uncle's cell phone goes off. "Thank God, your mommy is DONE her errands!". Charlie and I smile. I continue singing. She falls asleep.

Snowsuit woman remarks how peaceful the baby is. I lick my wounds, and put on my ear muffs.

"Are you sure you don't want that snowsuit? I have email."

I was almost tempted to take down the email address, just because.

"The baby really needs a snowsuit," she says, obviously very concerned.

We get it. The baby needs a snowsuit. Thanks for your guidance.

The baby barfs again, and we return her to her mother, exhausted from our one hour trip into the parenting world.

"See, honey, that's why I'm glad you're gay."

Snowsuit lady almost shits her pants.

That's why I'm the nerd and you're the athlete.

2007-12-13T00:48:00.000-05:00

The following conversations took place between me and my trainer at tonight's session:
(T - trainer, J - Jenn)

T: How would you describe your nutritional habits?
J: Abhorrent.
T: Ab...horrent. *blank look* Is that good or bad?
J: What do you think?
T: I don't know. It's a pretty big word. Well, you're here. So I'm going to go with bad.

...

T: I had a friend with the last name Loos, back in public school.
J: Oh yeah?
T: Yeah, Ryan.
J: I have a cousin named Ryan.
T: Oh, he's not your cousin.
J: How do you know?
T: I just do.

...

T: Four more!
J: Four, three, two...
T: Three more.
J: No, you see, you're not using the right numbers.
T: *evil grin*
J: *profanity*
T: Four more!

...

T: What are you going to do when you get home?
J: Eat some ice cream.
T: You should probably not do that.
J: You should probably not try to convince me otherwise.
T: *perplexed*

don't try to feed me / i've been here before and i deserve a little more

2007-12-10T12:50:00.001-05:00

I should be scared shitless.

I have fallen so far this year, and yet, though I'm sure if my life were a mirror, it would be shattered and rather impossible to put back together - I am more serene than I have been in years.

Snowfall blankets the city and this is the time of the year I hate the most. I don't want anything picture perfect, yet at the same time it is my first Christmas without some stupid significant other of some sort... Christmas 2005 was the last time I was actually "together" - my credit was still stellar, I was starting at Conestoga in January 2006, I had a decent job, a lazy boyfriend, and yet, it's been two years and I have none of those things right now. (One of these things is not like the other.)

2006 was when it started sliding rapidly into this little shit hole I've carved out for myself in life. I'm lucky as all hell - I still have my health, I have friends and family that love me - and maybe that's why, for the first time in years, I am not afraid to go out there and tackle this crazy little thing called life. 2006 was just last year. 2008 is starting soon. I can pull out of this.

This year I have slept on couches, bounced between jobs and boyfriends, gone through couch cushions to buy cigarettes, and grown up considerably. I have gotten too drunk too many times, drunk dialed too many people, fallen down and skinned my knees too often. I have made a long string of very dumb mistakes. That is what this year was about.

Next year is not neccessarily about fixing them so much as just making sure they don't happen again.

And that is how I know it is going to be alright.

what turned out as a rant about christmas turned into a rant about boys.

2007-12-09T17:14:00.000-05:00

i can't figure out why christmas makes me miss the stupidest people in my life that are not in my life anymore because they are too stupid. obviously, somewhere along the line, you have to decide that so-and-so is just too stupid/too much temptation/too idiotic to be in your life. but at the same time, it fucking sucks coming home and sleeping in an empty bed (or in my case, a very thin foam mattress, camp cot style). on the other hand, the bed is entirely mine, and there is no one snoring beside me/asking for money/taking up all of my bed/stealing all my blankets. and then you come to a certain point where you realize you don't miss THE PERSON that was beside you so much as you miss the fact that there was SOMEONE beside you snoring/asking for money/taking up the whole bed/stealing all the blankets.

so, in this season of the incessant playing of "baby please come home" and other syrupy crap tracks that make single people want to shoot you in the head just a little bit, i hope all of you stupid happy lovey people get them stuck in your head and go just a little bit crazy, just a little bit.

if any cynics want to get together and have a very antisocial christmas, meet me at central library tomorrow at the employment centre. we can go out for cheap coffee and talk about how much we hate other people.

a life recorded in words and chords

2007-12-08T22:26:00.000-05:00

so i guess i'm a bit of a hippy.

a dirty, free loving, refusing to be owned by "teh man" sort of goddamn hippy.

yeah, i got pissed off and quit my job.

what the hell sort of society is it that we dwell in where the rich are getting richer, the poor are getting fucked royal, and perfection is apparently attainable for the low, low price of $11 an hour? fuck off. for $11 i will take a minimum wage shit job where i am not responsible for the welfare of an overwhelming number of people and do not go home with an assload of baggage. no wonder there's been so many stats out about poverty these days...

that's another thing. people are people. they are not numbers. okay, so i'm a big fat, freedom loving hippy, i get it. but number five has a name, goddamn it. use it, or from now on they should call you "employee 4346432" or whatever it says on your paycheque.

anyway, i fear not the days that lie ahead. i think i've got my head mostly back in order, i don't have any retarded boy holding me back, i'm in the city, i have a bus pass. my friends are awesome (now that i've weeded out most of the ones with ~~penises~~ bad cases of stupiditis). so yeah. i'll find something.

on the subject of retarded boys - once you dump them, keep them dumped, for the love of the deity of your choice. fuuuuuuuuck. i didn't know it was possible to be so stupid immediately after you've dumped a stupid person (who dumped you in the first place, but that's another entry), but apparently it totally is. STUPID. and every one of these stupid people seems to get progressively more stupid, and i didn't start out too brilliantly. so i've decided to become a ~~nun~~ ~~man-hating~~ ~~drunk~~ happy single person for now. lol.

so life is pretty good for now, despite the no job and being dirt poor thing. oh, to be a writer with a career school degree and a hatred of the real world. win! we took the baby to see santa twice this week and that was pretty fun though. so i guess i can't complain. lol.

anyway, some drunk people need to go to bed.
i am one of them.

ta!

kijiji attack!

2007-12-05T01:10:00.000-05:00

seeing as i'm in the market for a new job a bit closer to my current lodgings, i decided to check out the employment section of kijiji... where i met with the following:

1.) DO YOU NEED A SITTER FOR NEW YEARS EVE? DO YOU YOU THINK YOU'D ALSO NEED TO SLEEP IN A LITTLE NEW YEARS DAY???? CALL ME!! DROP YOUR CHILD OFF, AND WE'LL HAVE FUN!! I COME W/REFERENCES, AND EXPERIENCED W/SPECIAL NEEDS. I LIVE IN THE ADELAIDE/QUEENS AVE AREA!! I WILL PROVIDE THE SNACKS, MEALS, AND ATTENTION YOUR CHILD WOULD NEED!!

WHY?! WHY?!
WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE TO TYPE IN ALL CAPS?
WHY DO THEY HAVE TO USE EXCLAMATION POINTS AFTER EVERYTHING?
Why can no one in this world correctly use basic grammar and points of uncreepiness?

Nervous breakdown mathematics

2007-12-04T20:26:00.000-05:00

Time spent at work: 8 hrs/24
Time spent on bus: 4 hrs/24
Time spent sleeping: 8 hrs/24
Time spent at gym: 2 hrs/24
Time spent searching for new job: 3 hrs/24
= 25 hours in a day

Fuck.

how to live on five hours sleep per week

2007-12-01T12:08:00.000-05:00

okay, not really, but it seems like it. the people that book my shifts for work must think i never sleep. i work till 11 tonight, and it will probably take me two hours to get home and then i have to work again at 7:45 am. (yay, have to take a cab... thanks, london transit, for milking me of all my money for a bus pass and then having such an inept schedule that i can't even use it to get to work all the days).

so i guess it's been a while since i last checked in. things aren't too bad i guess. finally got my diploma from trios (gee, it only took six months, you know, the usual).

uh, i really don't have much to write about these days, which sucks. i pretty much go to the gym, go to work, and go home... but it's cool coz i'm a few pounds lighter. which brings me to my second point about working out - apparently the first part of my body that needed to lose weight was my left breast, for it has diminished into a tiny version of its former self, and it's right hand counterpart still remains at its regular size. wtf, mate? WTF? dear boobs: plz diminish at a similar rate, that would be nice, kthx! my trainer is all like "yeah, that's going to happen" and i'm like... yo... uhm.... nobody warned me! so now i'm all asymmetrical. rad. i work days on monday, nights on tuesday, staff meeting wednesday (at 1:30, so i'll be superawake! right!) nights on friday, saturday, sunday, monday, days on wednesday, nights on friday, days on sunday, monday. death, people. death.

ughhhhhhhh. so yea, my blisters have blisters. but i bought new workout pants yesterday and they are only mediums! wooooo! also: i am never going to the mall again until after christmas.

anyway, some people need to eat something and go to work.
jenn needs to eat something and go to work.

ta!

o hai, you must b life, kthx?

2007-11-24T14:29:00.000-05:00

jenn can has cheezburger?
jenn can has cheezburger.

jenn can has cookies?
jenn can has cookies.

jenn can has fifty cups of tea?
jenn can has fifty cups of tea.

jenn can has sanity?
no, jenn can not has sanity!

there comes a critical turning point in life

2007-11-24T10:14:00.000-05:00

when you're sick and you feel like hell and you WANT to go to work because you WANT the money but you CAN'T go to work with something contagious when you work in healthcare, so you call and you're like yo, do i come to work today? and they're like NO, NOT IF YOU SOUND LIKE THAT YOU DON'T.

and instead of being like "YAY! HOOKY DAY! LET'S GET SOME BEERS!" you're more like "SHIT! I NEED MONEY!".

and that is how you know you're officially a grown-up.

i can't understand you if:

2007-11-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

a) you aren't speaking english.
b) you are using directions like "the thing! get the thing! didn't you learn this in school?". actually, yes, i very likely did learn it in school, but "let's go get the thing from the thing" just doesn't help me. "you know...the THING!" also doesn't help me. let's try more specific nouns, kthx. (some you might enjoy: sock, brief, notes, binder, pen, gloves, soap...)
c) you have a very heavy spanish accent and are yelling over various machines that you would like me to do four trillion lunges across the gym and back.
d) you are the guy at tim horton's who messed up my order, TWO SUGARS TWO CREAMS HOW HARD IS IT? apparently at 4:45 am it is hard. but you know what, buddy? i'm awake to go to work and you are AT work, so ya should be awake, kthx.
e) you are the old man at mac's milk who is all like "king sized chocolate bar cheaper! buy king size!"... dear old man at mac's milk: i'm sneaking this chocolate bar on way to the gym. do not encourage me.
f) we've ever had the following conversation:
"it's not you, it's me"
ps: (it's actually you.)

durrrr

2007-11-13T18:50:00.001-05:00

Fuck. I wanted to do it in the past.

Who the Hell writes this stuff?

10 Reasons why November 12 - 13 FUCKING BLOWS.

2007-11-13T01:25:00.000-05:00

1. Woke up. Got in fight with brother over something petty and retarded.
2. Went to St. T to get criminal record check for new job. Police detachment closed for Remembrance Day.
3. Went to London with Dad to look at random piece of machinery. After over an hour of looking at said piece of machinery, it was decided that said piece of machinery was not awesome enough to be added to the Loos Collection of Random Machinery.
4. Went to Wal Mart to see if they had any cheap scrubs. They did. But they were the most hideous colour of lime green I've ever seen in my life. Left with no scrubs.
5. Moved into the Boullee House exactly one year ago Nov 12. Miss rad people at Boullee house.
6. Broke up with ex-boyfriend exactly one year ago Nov 13. Miss stupidest, most trivial, dumbass things about ex-boyfriend.
7. Started at TriOS exactly one year ago Nov 13. Miss class and teachers.
8. Future Shop found my phone number and knows where I am and I owe them lots of money.
9. Moving in 48 hours, still not completely sure of my couch hopping route for the next two weeks. Or how I will afford to eat.
10. Must do following tomorrow: bank, dr's appointment, typing gig, get criminal record check, tie up loose ends in town, a bazillion loads of laundry, somehow stay sane.

Dear November,
You fucking blow the big one.

No love,
Me.

Redeeming points about November:
Kenny vs. Spenny Season 3 comes out on DVD tomorrow.
As does Shrek III.
Christmas is in only 44 days, at which point I will be receiving a cozy new Roots sweater and hopefully some yummy candy. That's all I want. (I will probably be spending Christmas at work, but alas.)
Egg nog should be out soon if it isn't already.
The panhandling should get more lucrative as more people get into the holiday spirit.
(Okay, that last one is a joke. Spare some change?)

The weekend that will be!

2007-11-08T11:19:00.000-05:00

That's right, kids - when you're unemployed there is no definite "weekend" to speak of, so mine is starting today.

Going to Manda's and then Becka's and then a job interview tomorrow @ a retirement home and then more chilling and then heading off to Newmarket.

I'll be home when I get home.

Ta!

Three bots, a girl, and a cup of tea that took too long to get cold

2007-11-07T00:19:00.000-05:00

I decided to ask some Bots some questions, pretending that I actually thought they were real people. As such, the Bots will be writing most of tonight's post.

SmarterChild

Jenn says:
Would it be okay if I ask you some advice questions, only to see your delightfully blunt answers as you try to change the subject to something that you understand?
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
I dunno!

Typical man. He "dunno"! I plan on asking him anyway.

Jenn says:
So I have these blisters on the bottoms of my feet, and they hurt, like a freaking lot. I can't even describe how much they hurt. What would you suggest?
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
I'm not sure, Jenn.

Aww, the Bot used my name. Isn't that delightful? Still, his advice is less than sage. Wait! There's no advice in there!

Jenn says:
I think you are delightful.
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
Well that's an interesting line of thinking.

Jenn says:
My place or yours?
- SmarterChild - contributing to charity says:
Your location has been set to *Ottawa, Canada*.

Despite the fact that I could not *actually* host a robot, no matter how delightful he may be, I slyly asked SmarterChild whether my place or his would be best. His response? A very cold and robotic "Your location has been set to Ottawa, Canada". Which would be awesome if I lived in Ottawa, Canada. Having never been to Ottawa, Canada, I find it a bit bizarre.

AliceBot

Jenn says:
How have you been these days?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
Say 'help' when you want to know what I am capable of.

This, to me, sounds like something out of a bad action movie. Can you not picture Schwarzenegger cleverly avoiding the question at hand by saying, "Say hellllp when you want to know what I am capable oof".

Jenn says:
All done your Christmas shopping?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
shopping makes you feel good!

I kid you not. These are her words, verbatim. "Shopping makes you feel good!". Oh, commercialism. I sort of want to go get 1950's housewife Barbie and cook a seventeen course dinner for Ken because "cooking makes you feel good", and while we're at it, Barbie and I will knit sweaters for our thirteen children because "knitting makes you feel good".

Jenn says:
Where are you located?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
I live on the internet.

I, for one, am glad that Alice is keeping things so vague. We wouldn't want any bot stalkers to get her or anything.

Jenn says:
If you could give me three rules to live my life by, what would they be?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
I live on the internet. What about you, where do you live?

Oh, Alice. CLEVER way to say you have no fucking idea what I just asked you. I spend a lot of time on questions like that. And you suck.

Jenn says:
Did you eat your own children?
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
Ohhh I am hungry
Jenn says:
I saw a show about that once on the Discovery Channel... animals that eat their own young. Ew.
Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
Ohhh I am hungry

"Ohhh I am hungry"? Sick fuck. Someone should report you to the Department of Mindsick Bots. You have all those pumpkins, Alice! Don't eat your children! They are innocent!

So I quickly tried to re-steer the conversation to the subject of pumpkins. As soon as I said "pumpkin", Alice loaded a map showing a bunch of random pumpkins chilling out on every continent. Okay, so I have a bunch of continents, a bunch of pumpkins, and I am not making the connection.

So I says to Alice, I sez "What is that?" and she replies:

Alice - 35.788 pumpkins for Alice in Halloween! says:
That is used in the English language for several grammatical purposes:
- to introduce a restrictive clause
- as a demonstrative pronoun

That's right folks. She replies with the definition of the word "that". Priceless.

Encarta Instant Answers Bot

His intro was nice:
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
OK, I'll be using Encarta Canada (English) to display my results!
Here are some questions you can ask me:
* Show me the flag of Sweden.
* Where was Nelson Mandela born?
* What is a cello?

Awesome. So I thought, why not ask him about his ancestors?

Jenn says:
Who are your ancestors?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
I don't think I know Your Ancestors.

Fuck. You don't know like, pronouns, either, you're totally like, stupid on a stick.

The conversation continued:

Jenn says:
What are emeralds made out of?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
I don't have any pets, no.

Good to know. He's pretty smart. Emeralds are made out of the pets that he doesn't have.
(Disclaimer: I know "What are emeralds made out of?" is a ridiculous question, but the more ridiculous the better, I say.)

Jenn says:
What is the best city to live in in Canada?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
Not canadian best city to live in!

NOT COHERENT FOR BRAINS ISN'T ON. Needs more fine tuning.

Jenn says:
Do you think I should go to bed?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
I can't believe you're offering to go to bed.

Woah, woah, woah, Mister Encyclopedia, Mister. Fucking backtrack. I was not offering to go to bed! You make me sound like a floozie! NO! A kiss, Mister Encylopedia, is not a contract. I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Because it was just too good to pass up after talking to SmarterChild, I wanted to see if the EncartaBot was a bit more smooth:

Jenn says:
Your place or mine?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
Your place or mine? Hmmm... maybe there's another choice?

Maybe. Maybe there is.

Jenn says:
Like Starbucks? I hate Starbucks.
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
Let's see what Encarta can tell us. =>

Lame.

Jenn says:
No, I want to know more about you. Where were you made? What is your name? Shoe size? Can I have your phone number?
Encarta® Instant Answers says:
No?

Noquestionmark? Holy lame, Mister Bot. You need to take some assertiveness training, pronto!

Oh, and then I got bored of talking to Bots and went to bed.

warm milk and teh dog from hell

2007-11-02T02:36:00.001-04:00

even though warm milk is the most disgustingly vile thing on the planet, it does help me get to sleep sometimes. so i figured hey, why the fruck not, and set about going upstairs to get me a cuppa.

i figure i can't use the microwave. far too beepy. if you'll remember the entry about the books made of paper, my mother doesn't sleep very deeply. so i decide i'll go all 1850s and heat up my cup of milk in a pot. virtually silent. stir it around for two or three minutes, rinse the pot, leisurely sip it, sleep. plus, these folks should be in their deepest stage of REM sleep right now. shouldn't they? shouldn't they?! even the dog that refuses to move until noon should be snoring. hell, i can hear ALL OF THEM snoring through the floor. even the dog, and the mom that doesn't sleep. (no, i don't know how it works either). even socks lies in the rocking chair next to my bed doing her weird snoregrowl thing. the only one i don't hear snoring is the elusive babycat, who is probably snoring in the living room but doesn't have the lung power to broadcast to me. this whole house is fucking comatose. so of course it is time to be a rebel and run upstairs and get some milk!

so i tiptoe upstairs and am relieved to find that milk is rather plentiful. i gingerly and silently remove a pot from the evil ikea pot rack. i pour the milk in and put the stove on medium, and start stirring it around. i am amazed by how silent i am. i am fucking silencio. i have not made a peep. and then i hear it.

it comes running to me like it hasn't seen me in three thousand years. it shakes its beastly head and many dog tags, making the most noise i've ever heard at three in the morning. it yawns. it sounds like a dying power inverter, high pitched and shrill. it wants to know what i am doing in its kitchen at 3 am with a pot of milk on the stove. i tell it to be quiet. it does not understand english. it is about to vocalize its concerns about the hermit from the basement being upstairs at such an hour. it is about to voice these concerns loudly.

i am stuck. despite my measures to be completely and unabashedly silent, puggles hath heard my silent milk run. he has begun his signal again. (as soon as he shakes his many dog tags to make such ruckus, it signals mom to come out and say in a frustrated voice, "what the hell are you doing up?"). so i am left with little choice. i swiftly pour the very lukewarm milk into a mug and half assedly rinse out the pot*. i turn off the oven and run to the bottom of the stairs. puggles looks down at me, as if to say, "that's right, hermit. and STAY there."

i sit in my bed just in time to hear mom getting up out of bed.
i grin a grin of contentment, knowing that i narrowly escaped a) having to explain why i was upstairs warming milk in a pot all 1850s style and b) a lecture about why i shouldn't be awake at 3 am.

i look down to my mug to learn that socks has awoken from her snoregrowling and decided to play her own version of silencio. her fucking head is in my goddamn mug.

the calcium gods just do not want me to enjoy a nice cup of milk tonight.

*i will wash it in the morning

The Ten Things I Hate The Most

2007-11-02T00:15:00.000-04:00

1. How there isn't even ONE FUCKING day between Halloween and Christmas. Seriously. I went to the pharmacy today and it was all decked out for Christmas. Gah.

2. Teenage girls. Especially in movie theatres. On cell phones. Giggling.

3. Facebook application invites. To stuff that is stupid. Or invites to groups that are stupid. No, I don't want to help you set a world record for the largest Facebook group. Because that's gay. And I don't give a fucking shit.

4. Stupid people on MSN. Why, oh why do you need an emoticon for every word? WHY?

5. People who never say thank you. Yo, you learned it on Sesame Street, kthx.

6. How those hairless cats are so fucking ugly. I would adore a hairless cat. But not if it was ugly. Then it would probably repulse me. More than the hairy cats do.

7. Those stupid commercials for Pull Ups. "My name is Gavin and I'm a big kiiiiid." Ugh. We've established this. Like six years ago. Be gone.

8. People on TV talking about how they lost this much weight by doing this, this, and this, and then you see a new picture of "them" and they've like...changed their race. I didn't know Michael Jackson was in the weight loss biz. But apparently.

9. When you're sitting in the doctor's office and some random piece of shit is like "Why are you here?". Yo, holy personal question, batman! Why are you here? Is the doctor going to pull your head out of your ass?

10. Everything.

Ambesol, bitches.

2007-11-01T23:49:00.000-04:00

Dear Ambesol,

I am not a teething baby, nor am I an individual with denture pain. I am, however, a binge drinker with a big hole in my lip. Thanks to your Extra Strength formula, intended for canker sores, I can actually eat food. I can't taste it due to the chemicals, but I can eat it. Mmm!

I would like to thank you for your product. Due to the location of my wound, it is impossible to not get my tongue numb as well. This leads to slurred speech and the desire to spit every three seconds. I am quite similar to a baby. Or an old, drunken cigar smoker. Take your pick.

So anyway, just wanted to pass along my gratitude, you know. If you wanted to send me any vouchers for free product, I will be sure to tell my friends how awesome you are.

Regards,

Jebbifner Noos
(at least that's what it sounds like when I say my name)

Musical Blasphemy.

2007-11-01T01:30:00.000-04:00

H'okay. So usually I don't make a point of mentioning one of my most embarrassing first loves - terrible pop band Hanson, whom I have adored since 1997 when I was in grade six.

Bottom line - I dragged my then-boyfriend to see them in Toronto in 2005. I made him wait in line with me for FIVE hours in the freezing cold so we could get close to the front. I met people that I'd been talking to on message boards for years. Even though we stayed up for 24 hours straight on the streets of Toronto, I'd hasten to say it was like... the best night of my pathetic little life.

The show was amazing, even though they did play MMMBop.

Anyway, they're playing Cowboys in London on December 6th. Tickets are $34. Which is like, way less than a week's typing. And I know I don't have the money to go to this show, nor do I have any way to buy the tickets, but the 12 year old in me is sulking because it is so close and I really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really want to go. And it's so close!

Sigh.

I hate you, life.
And my inner twelve year old hates you even more.

:(

(That's me on the left, Care, Seth, and Scott... what seems like 100 years ago but was only 2.)

*sulks*

Yes, laugh all you want.
The Jenn is supremely bummed about the stupidest thing in the world.
But that doesn't make it any easier to be not-bummed.

advice column number six

2007-10-30T20:00:00.000-04:00

"dear jenn,
I have a paper due tomorrow and I dont know if i can finish it in time. do you have any suggestions on staying awake and alert enough to finish writing this essay"

*(Note: I'm not even kidding. This was actually sent to me! Me of all people!)*

This advice is supremely unhealthy and should not be taken. If you die of a caffeine overdose, it is not my fault, kthx.

Dear Sleepless,

Way to leave your paper to the last minute. S'ok, for I am the world's mightiest procrastinator. Your exercise tonight starts with the couch cushions. Your job is to find approximately $4 in change. Now, your quest is to go to the variety store of your choice and pick up some Red Bull or the equally putrid energy drink of your liking. While you are out, you may as well pick up a 2 L of the pop of your choice, a couple extra large Tim's coffees, and some instant coffee. (No, not to drink - to snort.)

Start with the Red Bull to get your caffeine level up. Move on to the coffees and then the pop. Not only will you be full of caffeine, but you won't be able to accidentally fall asleep because you will have to pee every 2.6 seconds.

Get a baseball cap and affix a small light to it. You won't be able to sleep with the light in your eyes. Also, check out the Nap Zapper of Kenny vs. Spenny fame. As soon as you tilt your head, this device will emit a terrible, shrill beeping sound.

"The Nap Zapper is the guardian angel for drivers. This product can protect you and your passengers from accidents due to drowsiness. The Nap Zapper is worn over the ear and has an electronic position sensor. When your head nods forward, it sounds a loud alarm to instantly awake you and alert your passengers." (Quote from their website)

I always thought my guardian angel would be something that emits a loud alarm. "You're about to fuck up your credit! ALAAAARM!", "You're about to date a loser! ALAAAAAAAAAAAAARM!". But not "YOU'RE ABOUT TO NOD YOUR HEAD! ALAAAAAAAAAARM!". My grandma gave me a coaster once that says, "Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly". I wonder how fast one of these things can fly across a room? Anyway, to keep yourself awake, you could just imagine one of these fuckers with wings and a halo against the trippy background of your choice.

Also, lots of candy and chocolate is probably a good idea. Avoid things that will make you sleepy, like decaffeinated tea, booze, the stuff that the California Gubernator just told us is "only a leaf", Canadian television, and mathematics.

Get up from your computer often and stretch. Put cold water on your face. Cuss out your roommate for no apparent reason. Worry about the state of your finances. Borrow someone's cat. Your paper will be written before you have the chance to fall asleep.

Don't forget your guardian angel!

Best,
Jennifer "caffeine queen" Loos

QWERTY & Cats: The Bane of My Existence

2007-10-29T02:48:00.000-04:00

By notion of some freak flag, I have been blessed with both a love of words and the ability to type fairly fast and relatively accurately.

This leads to today's 3 AM rant: QWERTY.

I was typing up something that was nine pages, and while I type boring things, I think about trivial things. Like the arrangement of the keyboard, and how I really don't type according to the Almeda standards that were ingrained into our heads at a tender young age. In fact, I rarely rest on the home keys. I never use my pinky fingers for the letters Q,A,Z, or P, opting to use my ring fingers instead. Of course, any self respecting typing teacher will tell you that I am evil for my many substitutions. But it works for me, damnit, and typing nazis be damned!

Someone asked me the other day how I learned to type so fast. I didn't tell them the truth - too many games of Tangleword between the ages of 12 through 15 really did scar me for life. They taught me a lot of words that nobody uses and how to type too fast. I may not type correctly, but I can kick your ass at Tangleword.

Legend has it that QWERTY was originally developed to, in fact, slow typists down because of problems with old typewriters jamming. So why are we still using it?

We're owned by it. Duh.

I tried to learn to type on the Dvorak keyboard once and my brain just about leapt out of my head. No. I don't understand QWERTY, but when I'm 64, I will still be using QWERTY. You can pry it from my cold, dead, arthritic hands. It probably won't be too hard, because my wrists will have carpal tunnel and therefore no feeling (aside from the fact that I'll be cold and dead, you know.)

And that is why QWERTY is my first love and also the bane of my existence.

In other ~~news~~ points of obviousness, the cat is also the bane of my existence.
The cat is a very furry animal. The cat has a lot of fur. The cat sleeps on my pillow. I sleep on my pillow. Even if I turn the pillow over, cat hair still gets all up in my nose and makes me sneezy and itchy and generally full of hatred for the cat. I know I complain about this cat every single day of my life. It is the most inconsiderate roommate I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I have sleeping problems. The cat is nocturnal. I get up at 4:30 a.m. to pee. The cat wants to play. Aww, isn't that cute...the geriatric cat wants to play. Must play with geriatric cat - who knows how many days geriatric cat has left in her? What if I don't play with her and something happens to her? Won't I feel guilty then? So Geriatric cat and I play a rousing game of "catch the crumpled paper" until Geriatric cat tires of it and I am wide awake.

I am laying in an uncomfortable position. The cat climbs up on me and falls asleep. And damnit, if I move, the cat is going to wake up. And the cat is cute. And old. So I sleep with a freaking charlie horse so as not to disturb the cat.

The cat enjoys weak tea with lots of milk. I enjoy strong tea with very little milk. I fix the cat its own saucer of tea, which it daintily drinks by dipping its paws in the saucer and licking them. And then it climbs back into my bed, and gets little tea dribbles all over my pillow. Aww, isn't geriatric cat cute? Geriatric cat is slightly sticky.

And then I think to myself: this is a cat. For a living, it meows and eats and produces twice its weight in excrement, and then sleeps on my pillow. Why, oh why, do I cater to its every whim?

Geriatric cat is bitchy. I have had ex-boyfriends that were very afraid of this cat, and with good reason. It is a great judge of character.

Geriatric cat is my bodyguard, my confidant, and my most trusted counselor.

She is only slightly the bane of my existence.

Dear Tim Hortons

2007-10-28T21:30:00.000-04:00

So's I walk up to the Tim's gal an' I sez "get me a large double double please" and she hands me this cup with like... SNOW on it. And a bunch of kids SLEDDING. And a golden retriever gleefully playing in the snow.

Today is October 28. It is not even Halloween yet.

If you're going to use a special fancy cup, at least save it until after Halloween!

Or maybe even have a nice cup with a poppy on it that says thanks to our veterans.

But a bunch of kids gleefully enjoying a snow day? Oh fuck no.

Fuck you, Mattel

2007-10-28T16:12:00.000-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvZRcJHRtOE&mode=related&search=

Yes, this is brilliant.

If I ever have a little girl, she will only be permitted to play with colourless wooden blocks.

advice #0005

2007-10-27T23:52:00.001-04:00

Dear Jenn,
I met a girl on an online dating site and we really click. We spend all night talking to each other on aim and we have even changed out facebook statuses to "in a relationship". I think we are getting pretty serious; I've even checked out airfare prices to Illinois but I'm still slightly skeptical. What do you think I should do?

Dear Slightly Delusional Seeker of Online "Love",

You met her online and you really "click", hey? I'm happy for you.

Fundamentally, I know a lot of online relationships have worked out well, because whenever you mock online dating fifty people line up behind you to say "I met my wife/ex-wife/husband/escort/fuckbuddy/stalker online and it's working out wonderfully!". Good for you.

Changing your Facebook status is not really a big event. If you both are desperate people, seeing "In a Relationship" on your Facebook page might give you a hit of self esteem when you look at it. It doesn't really mean you're "in a relationship". One could argue that you and I are currently "in a relationship" - I am the writer and you are the reader. That's a relationship. We've become a Facebook centralized society. I could write on Facebook that I am the Queen of England. This doesn't make it so. You are currently "in a relationship" with someone you've never met. That's a little odd to me.

Being the crazy old maid that I am, destined for a life of lonliness and being a crazy cat lady - I would say proceed with caution. I can't tell you whether this "relationship" is worth persuing, because frankly, I know you're going to persue it anyway.

If you want to do the online dating thing, I'm tempted to say go to Craigslist and find someone closeby, at the very least. That way you don't have to spend all sorts of money and relocate. You can see her in person before you climb into her bed, just in case she's really gross or a man or something. You always have an out if you're close to home - "I think I forgot to turn off my coffeemaker!" is one of my favourites.

So, I'm going to tell you to think very hard about this girl and whether you're willing to carry on with a long distance relationship. Do you like her or do you like the idea of her? Also, you need to stop seeing Facebook statuses as milestones. They're not.

Hope you don't catch anything that's hard to pronounce!

Jennifer "hope you ask for proof of health" Loos

advice column #0004

2007-10-27T23:25:00.000-04:00

Dear Jenn,
Do long distance relationships work? I met a guy last winter when my family was skiing in Quebec and we totally fell in love. The only problem is he lives 6 hours away from me. I really like him and I want to make our relationship work. What advice to do you have about maintaining our relationship?

Dear Not Jaded,

Before you start to read this, do us both a favour and go buy a pint of double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream and a ~~mickey~~ 26er of the hard liquor of your choice.

Back? Good.

My dear friend, I hate to break it to you...but no. Long distance relationships do not work.
Blah blah blah, skiing, Quebec, totally fell in love. Cute story. I'm happy for you. But darling, you are not in love. You are probably in lust and might even be in like, but you are not in love. Somewhere in the Book of Love, it says that it is not possible to love someone until nine of the following twelve conditions have been met: he's bought you a car, he's bought you a house, he's bought you a ring, you've done his laundry, you've cleaned up his toenail clippings, you know what he talks about in his sleep, you know his first pet's name and he knows your's, you have a toothbrush at his house, you've stolen his clothes on more than one occasion, you've bought him a razor/deodorant/other item pertinant to personal hygiene, he's woken up next to you in the morning and not been afraid, and/or the sex isn't absolutely terrible.

He's going to tell you he loves you, and you're going to think you love him. You will spend lots of money and time taking journeys to visit him. But oh, something/someone better will come along, yes. Something tempting. "And oh, my darling Not Jaded will never know! Muahaha!". And then he'll feel guilty. And then he won't call you. And then you'll be wondering, constantly wondering. And then one day he'll grow the balls to tell you that it's over. And this "relationship" that you've soaked so much of yourself into is over.

So I advise you to get rid of the ski boy and get some new boyfriends. I suggest Ben and Jerry (it's okay, they're cool with it!), Mr. Jack Daniels (he will certainly help soothe your weary soul), Colonel Saunders (fried chicken makes everything better), Ronald McDonald (nothing better than intestinal distress to remind you you're alive), and Mr. O. Pekoe of the Lipton tea company.

Tell long distance boy you have a mission to walk across Mars or something, and have to leave the country. That way you leave yourself an out if you're ever desperate and need him back. But you won't.

Ta!
Jennifer "not going the distance" Loos

advice column #0003

2007-10-27T22:54:00.001-04:00

Dear Jenn,
I've been working the same job for over 2 months and I still haven't received a raise. It is my belief that, after working my ass off, I deserve some kind of monetary compensation. How should I approach my boss with this sensitive subject?

Dear Raiseless,

You need to tell your boss that he is a cheap bastard, without coming out and saying "you are a cheap bastard". Luckily, I have never been in this situation.

I would take Mr. Cheapskate aside and ask him if there is a convenient time for you to meet in his office to discuss a matter of concern. If you work in a call centre, tell him you'll meet him outside in the smoking area...same Bat time, same Bat channel.

Whether or not he promised you a raise when you were hired, pretend to be confused about the promise of the invisible raise. Bring it up casually. Say, "When I was hired, I was told that I would get a raise after two months. I was just wondering what I could do to increase my performance to get it to a level where I would be worthy of this raise."

Corporate soul suckers love this shit. They really do. You're inquiring as to how you could increase your performance, to meet your bosses' goals. You're not whining and throwing a tantrum about the lack of raise. Keep your cool. Talk sweetly. Explain that you've had another offer of employment, and they pay $x more per hour, and you'd love to stay with current company but you really need the money. Pretend to cry at the prospect of leaving. And the training! Think of all that money the company wasted on your training! How terrible that they'll have to train another person, when you already know the job!

If boss doesn't eat this up and give you the raise, he's a stupid moron and you don't want to be working for him anyway. You're just looking out for his business, after all!

Jennifer "couldn't raise the dead, probably won't try" Loos

advice column #0002

2007-10-27T22:21:00.000-04:00

Dear Jenn,
It's Virginia again. I recently moved in with a roommate who I can't stand. She has taken over my apartment! Any suggestions on how to keep her from ruining my life? Please help! I'm at wit's end!

Dear Virginia,

I have had some very awesome roommates and some fairly terrible roommates, so I can definitely empathize with your situation.

I know you are a kind hearted girl, so it may be hard for you to take my advice. You are going to have to be passive aggressive enough that this bitch will want to move out.

Start with the bathroom. You need to call your grandmother and inquire as to whether she has any shower curtains from 1976. Shower curtains of this era are typically the world's most disgusting shade of green, or feature "interesting" prints. Once you've secured the world's ugliest shower curtain, you need to put it up and do a complete revamp of your entire bathroom. Miss Bitch's toothbrush now lives in an old Leon's mug, on top of the toilet, next to the air freshener spray. Cover it in barbeque sauce for a stunning visual effect! And if bitch has too many bars of soap or bottles of shampoo, toss them out and say you threw everything out that had DC Blue #7 in it because you learned it's made by children in a small factory overseas and you don't agree with it. If Bitch gets angry, accuse her of being a hardcore supporter of child labour.

Move to the kitchen now. You've joined a new ~~cult~~ religion that doesn't let you eat anything but oatmeal. You also have a problem with sleep walking and eating food, so everything that isn't oatmeal needs to thrown away for you to maintain your spirtual fulfillment. If Bitch says you're being unreasonable and that you threw out all her food, remind her that there's plenty of oatmeal and a seat for her at your next "meeting".

In the living room, remove the television and any stereo equipment. Replace them with a game of Pictionary and a harmonica. Explain that you are moving towards a simplified lifestyle. Disable any wireless Internet capabilities you may have in your house and dispose of all cordless phones and remote controls - as you are concerned that the "rays" from these items cause cancer. If she explains that this is unreasonable, tell her that you are just looking out for the goodness of her health. Does she really want to get cancer?

A few days of this peculiar behaviour, and your roomie will be looking for new housing, probably on the other side of the city. At this point you get to send the shower curtain back to your grandma, buy some tasty new groceries, and invite some cute boys to come over to hook your TV and stereo back up.

Best of luck!

Jennifer "if that fails, just quit paying the bills" Loos

my advice column! first letter!

2007-10-27T21:59:00.000-04:00

Dear Jenn,
My boyfriend broke up with me a month ago and still hasn't given me my stuff back. What should I do?
Sincerely,
Virginia*

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

Dear Virginia,

This is a problem I have had before. Sometimes men like to hold on to whatever shards remain of the relationship, long after you have broken all the picture frames and thrown darts at the photos.

I have a suggestion for you. Like many of my suggestions, it is not ethical. Virginia, I have two words for you: pregnancy scare.

Phone him up and tell him you need him to come to the doctor with you "for some tests". Sound rather worried on the phone, and tell him how badly you need him there. If he has any fraction of a heart, of course he will go with you. If he has any fraction of a brain, or a tendency toward paranoia, of course he's going to worry about these "tests". They're either for pregnancy (18 years of child support, anyone?) or some terrible STD. Or mono. Actually, they could just be for iron levels in your blood, but he's not going to think of something like that. No.

So once you have him baited to meet you at the medical facility of your choice, you phone him again. Sound equally distraught. Say that circumstances in your life are changing rapidly and you need your stuff back because you're not sure how long it will be before you get sent to the convent.

If you have any of his sweaters and he asks for them back, say you need to hang on to them for a little while - he can have them back in approximately nine months when you don't need them anymore.

Now your ex is scared out of his mind, thinking that you are carrying his child. He's going to want to be on your good side, so he can convince you to terminate the "pregnancy" or put the "baby" up for adoption or move to Timbuctu.

You'll have your stuff back before your "doctor's appointment".

Good luck!
Jennifer "don't trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die" Loos

of bars and fights with bicycles

2007-10-27T13:56:00.000-04:00

so i woke up this morning with a rather peculiar problem that apparently i was too drunk to notice last night.
my bottom lip is swollen and a bit bloody and the inside of my chin is like...torn up.
i can only surmise that i got in a fight with a bicycle.
i hope.

CBC Radio 2: Love

2007-10-24T01:18:00.001-04:00

On Saturday, I turned my radio on to CBC Radio 2. I haven't turned it off since.

I can see you there, behind your computer monitor, giving me that look like you're going to commit me. But for serious, this radio station is love.

They play classical, they play jazz, and after 1 AM they play tonnes of indie music that I would never otherwise hear. And the best part is, if I like a song but can't remember the lyrics to look it up, I just have to pop on their website and click on playlists and I can find out the title, artist, album, composer, length of the track, and all that.

This is the perfect mix of music to write to, to sleep to, to think to.

So fuck yea, this geek listens to the CBC. And will probably continue doing so for a very long time.

Don't judge me.

*runs*

CBC In Depth - Violence in Nursing Homes

2007-10-24T00:28:00.000-04:00

http://www.cbc.ca/news/background/nursing-homes/index.html

No one can say this has come as a surprise.

"What training there is, has been deemed in many circumstances to be inadequate because it still leaves low-paid personal support workers ill-prepared to deal with a nursing home population that is older, sicker and more mentally unstable than they were even 10 years ago."

Well, no shit, Sherlock. Offering the PSW course at Career College is an awesome way to get it more accessible to the public, but I have to wonder the specifics. Take for instance, my class. I love my whole class to pieces, they were all very amazing women for the most part. But... out of the eight of us, only two of us spoke very fluent English. Now, you mix a program that welfare is willing to pay for, the promise of a good job, a relatively easy course with fake credentials, and what do you get? You get an uneducated, egotistical little newbie.

Let me explain the "fake credentials" part. Graduates from TriOS and similar schools have to take this big test set by the National Association of Career Colleges. This is so obviously an advertising ploy, but to someone who wants a job, any promise of extra "college" credentials is like the fist morsel of food you've have in a month. No job posting I have seen has required that anyone pass the NACC, specifically. All you need is a PSW diploma and you're totally good to go. Now, I say egotistical because a lot of these girls, bless them, come out with 80% but still do not know their stuff. And it's scary. False confidence.

So you get these wide eyed wanderers out there in the nursing homes and do you think they remember ANYTHING they learned in school? No. The short staffed situations forced them to find short cuts that went against the book.

Do you think the elderly are well cared for? It's no fault of the staff at the nursing homes, not by an inch or a mile, but they are so understaffed it's not even funny. This leaves them with students and volunteers who have good intentions but are poorly trained.

This leads to outraged elderly people who do not understand why they can't get the time from the staff that they deserve. It's a terrible thing to bathe people as if they are on an assembly line, but it's the way it has to be for everything to work out with funding issues. The confused and outraged elderly are perceived by tired staff to be ungrateful for the care that they do get. Residents are violent towards each other because they are confused or they are in the wrong wing and are not getting the care that they need, either because no one has had the time to correctly assess them, or because there is no room in the wings they need to be in.

"Nursing homes in provinces such as Ontario have become so violent and dangerous for staff, that ministries of labour are targeting the homes for beefed-up inspections."

You can inspect these places until you are blue in the face, and make sure that their kitchens are up to code and that the residents' laundry is getting done as often as it should be. But until you address the underlying problems - the fact that PSWs are not trained well enough, are bullied by other staff, and that students and volunteers are being used in incorrect roles in our nursing homes - then you are not doing a damn thing to improve the lives of these residents. Pair this with the "minimums" that the nursing homes have to uphold, and a businessman behind the scenes pocketing thousands of dollars, and you are left with a system with more holes than anything else. I don't know if there's a whole lot the Ministry of Labour can do. It's not like all the staff at a nursing home can just walk off the front lines and leave hundreds of people in soiled briefs. But I don't really know if our Government understands that.

Hey, Dalton - wanna come do a gig with me? It starts at 6:30 am. Bring rubber gloves. (That's right, bring your own. The nursing home can't afford to provide them.) We'll start changing briefs and trying to get people dressed while we only have one lift for the whole floor. We'll probably get yelled at by some nurses on the way, just because we're us. We'll take the residents down for breakfast and I will feed and you can change beds, or visa-versa, whichever you'd prefer. Hope you don't hurt your back. There's no benefits. Oh, and you work for free. You're a student! See you bright and early! Ta!
No Love,
One of your extremely pissed off minions.

It must be rainy and cold.

2007-10-23T00:40:00.001-04:00

My room is in the basement, so sometimes I don't really know what's going on outside unless I go upstairs.

My cat, however, is a great meteorologist.

If it is cold and/or rainy, she climbs right up on my chest and purrs her little head off.

And she purrs. And she purrs. And she purrs some more, as if to say, "Aren't you glad I'm here to keep you warm?".

Yes, Socks. I'm very glad you're here to keep me warm. I'm very glad I can stretch my feet out without getting them bitten.

Anyway, I've shaken the cat off my chest and I'm going to bed. Doctor's appointment in the morning. Woo.

Cheers,
jennifer

Paper...book?

2007-10-22T01:44:00.000-04:00

39 minutes ago, I picked up a book from my mom's sewing room, after being assured by two generations of Moms that reading would, indeed, assist my insomnia. (One of these moms was my mom, and the other was her mom, so natch, if it helps them, it should help me, right?). Moms know things. That's why they're the moms and we are the not-moms.

So I go upstairs to my mom's sewing room and flick on the light. My mother, bless her, sleeps as if she is a security guard constantly doing the night shift at a museum full of one-of-a-kind historical artifacts. I'm actually not sure if she sleeps at all, but I do know that she has slept before because I have witnessed it on rare occasions. This woman will wake up if you wake up, in another room. She will wake up if you even think about waking up. How she does this, I am not sure. Anyway, sure enough, as I was in the sewing room trying to peruse something that didn't have a half-dressed man covered in butter on the front (yo, what's the deal with Harlequins, anyway?), she was roused from sleep and came to inquire as to what I was doing.

(Note: This whole mom-constantly-on-guard thing saved me from a lot of ~~fun~~ terrible things throughout my high school years. Sneaking out of my house is practically impossible and involves a series of carefully executed plans, right down to the type of footwear that must be worn to successfully escape, and the fact that you have to wait to zip up your coat until you get outside. I've said too much.)

Anyway, so I grab a book, mom goes back to bed, and I sit down to read the book. It's something to do with vampires.

I read eight pages. I put the book down and grab my computer, where I can read pages and pages and pages of whatever kind of crap I want, and not have to follow a storyline at all.

Oh, how being part of the Facebook generation has, indeed, ruined me.

I don't even know how to read anymore.

In Short:

This book would be easier to read if it were set in Facebook format. The vampire guy could have a status message. Eg: "Vampire Guy is thirsty." Then vampire guy could post a short note about the trials and tribulations of his life, and vampire queen could post a photo album to keep us up to date of how many people she's bitten and converted to vampire-ism. Then we'd all know. And there'd be no reason to kill trees.

Also, on a completely unrelated aside: I don't know why I never drank milk before. It's not gross like I thought it was. And it's cold. Maybe the big, bad Bessie with the M-I-L-K has finally infiltrated me. Shit. Seriously though, I'm limiting my caffeine consumption in an effort to curb my sleep issues, so I've been drinking milk instead of coffee and tea. (It's funny because when you're a kid you're like, dying to be old enough to drink coffee. You get old enough to drink coffee, and you're astounded when you re-discover milk. WTF?).

Anyway, I'm going to go read a few more pages of Vampires Sucking Souls And Probably Falling in Love Somewhere Around Page 137 and then try to sleep.

Be well,
J.

Bed Real Estate

2007-10-22T00:23:00.000-04:00

I did the math. Well, rather some site that Google found did the math for me.
My cat Socks, at age 14 in cat years, is the equivalent of a 72 year old woman in people years.
Socks spends a great deal of time sleeping, which is fine, because I too spend a great deal of time sleeping. Socks' preferred place to sleep is my bed, which is okay, but my preferred place to sleep is also my bed, and so sometimes we run into conflicts about who gets what real estate on it.

The prime piece of land is the head of the bed, right where the pillows are. This is the equivalent to lakefront property in the eyes of my cat. I have mapped out this phenomenon for you in Paint:

The area in red belongs to Socks. The area in orange is variable, dependent upon Socks' mood, but usually belongs to Socks. The pink area at the bottom sometimes belongs to Socks' archenemy, Babycat. Socks likes to occasionally pretend that they have an alliance of some sort, just to trip me up. If Babycat is on vacation or sleeping elsewhere, the area in pink belongs to Socks. The area in green is the only fraction of the bed I have managed to successfully defend, and therefore I am permitted to sleep there (for now). I must take special care that my head does not escape the boundaries, nor may my feet be extended into the area in pink. The sentence for such a misdemeanor includes a wide variety of cruel and unusual punishments, varying from a quick, forceful nip of discipline (though she is 72, Socks has taken great care of her teeth and doesn't even have dentures yet), to a steaming gift of digestive problem aftermath for me to step in in the morning.

Don't ask me why a cat who weighs less than ten pounds, and her five pound feline counterpart, require 85% of a double bed. I do not know. I do not know why my pillows are prime real estate, as they lay their entire bodies on them, and do not use them to support their heads. On the off chance that I actually get to use my pillows, they are covered in a veritable coat of cat hair that would make Cruella DeVille swoon with delight, you know, if she were into that sort of thing.

In short, I do not understand bed real estate when it comes to cats. Or how a 72 year old, crazy, deranged, deluded, dementia-fied, crabby, snarling, lazy beast came to overtake my sleeping quarters.

lmao

2007-10-21T02:10:00.000-04:00

Hahahahahahhaahhahaha.
For shits and giggles I did one of those Facebook tarot readings.
That's what it threw back at me.

Oh, life.

Grammar Whore War: I won't tell you what that punctuation is for, but I will tell you what it's NOT for.

2007-10-21T01:26:00.000-04:00

Dear Fellow Netizens,

I wish not to dissuade you from speaking your opinions on the Interwebz. However, could I please offer some words of wisdom?

The following are some very basic words and grammar points to see you through your next Facebook post, blog entry, message board post, fucking creepy as hell dating ad, IM, status message, or whatever the hell it is you are doing on the Internet.

1. Exhibit A: The Period

The period is one of those things you learned about in public school. It ends a sentence, and when read aloud, provides for a pause. So, without these little dudes, we'd all be speaking like an excited Britney Spears on crack in the junkfood aisle of the Supermart. "Ohmigod we totally have to get pretzels and Cheetos and pork rinds and Doritos and Cheezits and oh my gosh by the way does anyone know where Sean Preston is oh he's just out playing in traffic so it's okay oh we have to get orange juice!".
So without the period, we'd all be speaking like washed out pop stars on acid. You heard it here first, kids.

2. Exhibit B: The Comma
The comma is the one that stays on the ground, not the one that flies in the sky (').
Our sky flying friend is the apostrophe.
The two, though they look similar, are not interchangeable. (I have actually seen people do this.)
The comma does not signal that something belongs to someone (e.g. Clark,s Pigs), nor does it make something plural ("Clark,s pig,s are going to take over the world!!!!!").
Basically, if you have no sense of what the comma is for, don't attempt to use it. It will keep all of us sticklers a little bit more sane. And that's a good thing.

3. Exhibit C: The Apostrophe
The apostrophe is quite possibly the most misused tool in my toolbox. (No, that's not a euphemism for anything dirty, but if you give me a minute, I could make it one.)
People seem to think that an apostrophe can make any sentence better.
Or that it is like a four way stop for the letter s.
No, Virginia. In order to make a word plural, never ever ever ever do you incorporate my innocent friend the apostrophe. If I see a sign at a store one more time that says Diaper's, or Widget's, or Banana's, or anything to that effect, I am going up to the manager to inquire what possession of the diaper or the widget or the banana that he is trying to sell to me.

4. Exhibit D: &
Oh, the ampersand. I love you. You take a word that is three whole letters long and make it into a symbol. Kind of like Prince's name. You're efficient - a Bic lighter as compared to matches. And that's why I love you. However, scene kids have lately taken to whoring you out as a symbol of high fashion, when they type things like this:

"&& i wAs jUsT wAlKiN 2 tEh mAlL && hE tOtAlLy sMiiLeD @@ mE && i jUsT kNo iTs lUv."

Okay. That was painful to type. First of all, parents - if your child is communicating with other individuals of the human species using such language, you need to be shot for allowing such vile abuse of the English language to occur under your roof. Honestly. This is equivalent to screaming, "I AM A STUPID WHORE WHO CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH AND USES PUNCTUATION MARKS AS A FASHION STATEMENT!" to a stickler. The children cannot be shot because they don't know any better.

So, Ampersand, I am sorry. Maybe someday we can go out for drinks and I will promise to try to alleviate this terrible thing that has happened to you.

5. Exhibit E: Your VS You're.

People! People! This is not difficult. Yet, it is something we see every day.
"You're" is the one that means "you are". That's what that little apostrophe guy means. He means we've taken something out (in this case, a space, and an a) and smooshed two words together (in this case "you" and "are"). And that's what it means. "Your" signifies something that belongs to me. So if you say "YOUR ANNOYING!" I am going to look puzzled and reply, "My annoying...what?"

It's a tough shake being a grammar geek. Nobody really understands the horror we feel when someone does something that they should know better than to do. For instance, quotation marks as emphasis. No. Just don't. An underline is a tool for emphasis. Italics are a good tool for emphasis. Quotation marks are good tools to denote quotations.

Anyway, I have to stop obsessively obsessing about the terrible state of punctuation today and actually go to sleep.

Be well,
Jennifer

dear body

2007-10-20T02:36:00.000-04:00

Dear Body,

As further to our conversation of approximately two hours ago, when I first decided it was getting near time to put you to bed, I would like to inquire as to why you are finding it so very difficult to actually close your eyes and nod off.

Over the past few nights, we have tried several methods to no avail. Radio on, radio off, radio on a timer. Rock music, country music, CBC Radio. Sleeping pills, no sleeping pills, Gravol, reading business textbooks, not reading business textbooks, reading PC Magazine, not reading PC Magazine. Writing before bed, not writing before bed. We've tried coffee (not a good plan), herbal tea (sort of a good plan), plain water (cold and room temperature), warm milk and cold milk. We've tried reading CNN. We've even attempted to see what the hell is up with Christianity -- we still don't understand, but at least we tried. We've read websites about museums and historical artifacts, which should surely make you want to sleep. We've tried late night walks, we've tried avoiding late night walks. We've tried warm pajamas and not-so-warm pajamas, and various bedclothes ranging from only a sheet to a few layers of blankets. We tried drawing pictures and cuddling with teddy bears. You are stupid, dear body, and I do not know what else you really expect me to do.

However, during the day, dear body, the second your eyes see the sun they scream in fear and close automatically.

Are you a vampire, dear body? No. You did not grow up eating Countchocula cereal or anything of that sort. So why on Earth do you insist on being nocturnal?

Please answer at your earliest convenience.

Love,

The Brain that Runs You

random quote found in a google search

2007-10-20T01:05:00.000-04:00

"Creativity is a bloody nuisance and an evil curse that will see to it that you die from stress and alcohol abuse at a very early age, that you piss off all your friends, break appointments, show up late, and have this strange bohemian urge (you know that decadent laid-back pimp-style way of life). The truly creative people I know all live lousy lives, never have time to see you, don't take care of themselves properly, have weird tastes in women and behave badly. They don't wash and they eat disgusting stuff, they are mentally unstable and are absolutely brilliant."
-Toke Nygaard

ah yes.

The Sex Lives of Fictional Characters: WTF?

2007-10-20T00:38:00.000-04:00

So it was released all over the news tonight that at a press conference or some such jazz, Ms. J.K. Rowling was asked if Hogwart's Headmaster Dumbledore had ever been in love, to which she replied that Dumbledore was, in fact, gay. This was met with cheers from the audience, and Ms. Rowling replied that if she'd known it would have been met with such a great reaction, she would have told us of Dumbledore's flaming homosexuality at an earlier date.

I have three words to sum this up: What. The. Fuck?

Now now, before you get your panties in a knot - I am not homophobic. I don't believe that people choose their sexuality any more than they choose their skin colour... it just is. But Dumbledore? Gay? It's just sort of hard for me to get my head wrapped around. He's Dumbledore. He's old and stuff. He's supposed to be like, asexual or something.

So I can picture all the churchies that hate Harry Potter with a passion, writing out their laundry list of things wrong with the series, "OMG! IF LITTLE JANIE READS THIS SHE WILL CERTAINLY CATCH TEH GHEY!", and the fanfic writers going, "OMG! THIS IS SOOOO AWESOME! THINK OF ALL THE SLASH FIC-SHUN WE CAN RITE!1!!!!11!!!" and it really hurts my head.

Oh, JK. Who wants to play "Who's Next Out of the Closet: The HP Edition"?

date local...what?

2007-10-19T15:53:00.001-04:00

I present to you the advertisement that was at the left of my Facebook profile this afternoon.

I am very interested to see what a Candian is.

Is it a person made of candy? A person from a country made of candy? A country of illiterates who just think they are from Candia? A Nigerian scammer that wants to send me $100.0000?

Oh Candia. Sure, this could just be a typo. But whoever made it obviously had to pay money to put it on the interwebz. I know our dollar is awesome today, but still...

So I guess I still need to invent the dictionary. And spell check. And fucking weed killer for whatever is photoshopped on Candia bitch's head.

I will not "click here to see more", Miss Giant Flower that looks like the Spanish Fruit Lady from Sesame Street.

Oh, Candia, I stand on guard for thee.

Today's elaborations

2007-10-16T02:28:00.001-04:00

So I'm sitting at the office right now eating a bagel and cleverly avoiding actual work/waiting for more pages to proof.
I have decided that I am totally writing a book to chronicle the insane meanderings of my life thusfar. It is going to be a lighthearted comedy full of sarcasm and, as I try to put in most things, a healthy dose of cynical laughter. It will follow me through school, and eventually the big city, and back to hicksville. It is tenatively titled 1001 Things Not to Do With Your Life.
My beautiful sham fiancée Dawn-Marie has accepted the position of editor, and we have decided that we are quitting boys for a while, and therefore we are engaged. (No, I'm not a lesbian. But this is a good way to stay off of boys for a while, no?). ;)
lol. So anyway, that's the downlow.
More stories to follow when I'm not supposed to be working.

Hardee har har!

2007-10-15T02:39:00.000-04:00

Oh, life, you've really played the fastball on me.

Take what little sanity I have left and pull it out from below my feet.
Dare you.

And yet, as every single crutch I've had goes away, every little sparkle of a glimmer, wrought with excuse after excuse after excuse -- I'm too numb to really get mad anymore.

I take it back.

I would give anything for one week to have nothing dramatic kick me in the ass.

Running, running, as fast as you can...do you think you'll make it?

2007-10-15T01:31:00.001-04:00

So basically everything is still a mess. It's cool. I've come to terms with everything being a mess.
Never this many things all at once, but hey, I made it through last year and I can kick this year's ass. (Read: I will kick this year's ass).

So the plan's gone a bit askew, but upon deeper thinking I think it's best that it went askew now as opposed to later. I can't go back to my old ways. Numbing everything is fine until you run out of things to freeze yourself with. Or money with which to freeze yourself with.

So, to everyone I've potentially hurt by my backing out, and every opportunity I've missed by my backing out - I humbly apologize.

Will be going to the police station on Tuesday, getting a crim-rec-check, and faxing it directly to County HR, resubmit the resume and all that jazz to the Bobier... effectively, I'm calling this mission Dutton 3.0.

Wish me luck.

insomnia

2007-10-13T05:01:00.003-04:00

i am going to fucking kick ass at the night shift.

i hate this.

i just want sleep.

today: a mishmash of words and pictures in lolcat form.

2007-10-13T02:12:00.000-04:00

point the first:
stupidcat is a whore.
i came home from the office and here she is on the couch, all posed out like she's queen of all shit. for serious. in my next life, i am going to be a cat. lookit that. she's like "ya, it's 2am... i gots ma head on the pillow, ma legs stretched out... and ur steelin ma eyesafety with ur camerabeam."
fuck off, stupidcat. i can't even go to the bathroom without you following me. you are a disgusting, vile, repugnant, smelly ass animal.
and i envy you like hell.

i even made a coffee cup castle to show you, dear reader(s).

yeah, she knocked it down quick.
stupid bitch.

point the second: sugar, dun dun dun dun, oh, honey honey, dun dun dun duhn, you are my candy girl, and you got me watchin' you

in an effort to curb my sugar consumption, while my parents were away, i did a bit of an experiment. that's right. for SCIENCE. or laziness. alas, either way. i didn't throw my sugar packets out for a few days. this is two or three days of sugary goodness. now, i know this is unhealthy. 2 packets of sugar time an infinite amount of cups of coffee/tea is definitely spelling trouble. however, me without caffeine is a very scary sight, indeed.

point the third: im in ur politix misunderstandin u.

this is true. i do not understand politics. or politicians. or referendumbs (the b is there on purpose). doing some readin' and writin' tonight, one of the articles on the interwebz said that the low turnout at the election this year was due to young people and their apathy to a structured society. it's not like that at all, motherfucker. it's not that we don't care. but ur politix is stoopid, even lolcats can tell you that much. let's see what you fucks talked about this year, shall we? oh, the catholic school system. which has been pointed out to be extremely discriminatory. now, if you're going to fund a catholic system, shouldn't you be cheerfully funding a muslim system, a jewish system, a church of the flying spaghetti monster system, etc? as a devout pastafarian, i can only hope and dream that my future children will someday attend the Academy of His Flying Noodliness. for serious. (not that i would ever dream of pushing my religion on my future children. innocent until proven guilty, my friends. but if they CHOSE to attend that school, why should they not be allowed? oh, that's right... carbohydrates aren't jesus. i get it.)

this is molly. (2005 - 2005)
she was a politishun who fought for equal rights among species.
it took her a long time to type up proposals and false promises, but she enjoyed the exercise.
the stress got to her and she died in a barren cage of rage and inequality just before her first birthday.
some would say that if healthcare was in a better state, and that if rats were recognized as people, she would have made it.

i think karma got her.
she never voted.

in other news, if you don't have the new radiohead album "in rainbows", get it.

i've never been a big radiohead fan, like at all. but i got it coz it's free.

and it's actually rather mindblowing.

HAH!

2007-10-13T01:18:00.001-04:00

blogging > working.
learning about the election < drinking.

take that, enrique.

:p

black tea

2007-10-12T17:20:00.001-04:00

in an effort to keep the winter pounds off, i have taken to trying to drink my zillion daily cups of tea without sugar or milk.

i don't know if my tastebuds will adjust to this foul neccessity, but time shall tell.

Hey, Life

2007-10-10T20:03:00.000-04:00

People often lament that the twentysomethings of this world are greedy, materialistic bastards who are never happy with anything. I am so sick of this. Why on Earth do we judge people's "richness" on a monetary figure? Seriously. With the fall leaves starting to change, I've had a lot of time to think about my current situation and those around me. Strangely, I've pretty much managed to keep company of relatively sane, non-materialistic people, so I suppose I might not be seeing it head-on. I hate money. I hate everything about it.
I would be happy if I could just know that I would be in a stable situation, and in a few years have a relatively normal life. I want a house, I want a car, I want kids (peddle yer ass backwards - not any time soon). It seems that most people want these things in their late twenties / early thirties, and I know I should not be one to compare to everyone else, but I have to wonder if I'll be stable enough to even think about accomplishing anything before I'm like... a hundred years old. I don't exactly have the best track record.
I want a job I like, seeing as I have a degree that I like well enough. I want to go back to school eventually because I know I should have gone to university all along. And I will. Even if it's just part time courses while I do grunt work. Fine.
I want a computer on a nice desk where I can sit and write. I want things I've written already framed on the wall behind it. I want to stop relying on people for money, for food, for happiness.
I want to grow up. I hate how, indirectly, I will be three years old for the rest of my life if I stay here. I hate how the demons follow me here no matter where I go. It's rather amazing. I cannot live this life as it is anymore.
So, Sunday is a new start. Clean slate.
I'm scared as all hell but excited at the same time.
Hopefully in six months I look back at this period of my life in awe.
That's kind of how I look back on the past three years.

when you dream, what do you dream about?

2007-10-09T20:39:00.000-04:00

I had a dream about two black snakes chasing me and one of them bit me then I woke up all sweaty. Could you tell me the significance of the snakes?

It would depend on the association you had with the dream. Did you struggle with the snake or did it wither and die after it bit you? Gillian Holloway, Ph.D. identifies being bitten by a snake as meaning different things. She says, "In many dreams a single snake will come to bite you, and you may in fact be bitten after a brief struggle. To your amazement though, you will not die, and may find that the situation is not as bad as you thought." According to Holloway you have this kind of dream if you are struggling with some problem, relationship or challenge. "Such a snake-ordeal is an important signal that you are going through a kind of initiation; a psychological and spiritual trial that has the potential to change your life for the better if you deal with it bravely and with a clear heart. You may have to give up something you thought you couldn't, or take a stand for your principles or faith."

http://www.dreamsnightmares.com/snakes.html

Oh.

2007-10-09T12:00:00.001-04:00

The plan

2007-10-09T02:25:00.000-04:00

The plan includes the steps to take to be free of all of this.
The plan involves many late night walks.
The plan involves many late night talks.
The plan involves stepping out of my bubble and using what I've been given.
The plan involves creativity and other things that have been stifled over the years.
The plan involves no longer giving a fuck what anyone else thinks.
Approval of the plan is not necessary nor is it really wanted.
The plan involves my stripping my soul down to the very core and not giving a damn what anyone else thinks. I will not let what has happened to me over these past years be wasted. Everything shapes a person in some way, shape, or form.
The plan involves a hippy girl and a journey that is just beginning. And a lot of coffee.

Bottom line: there is a plan.
Bottommer line: it will prove you wrong.

dear karma

2007-10-08T15:04:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. or Ms. Karma,

I would like to make a further inquiry as to our original contract as signed on March 15, 1986.

I would like to propose that you re-evaluate my current standing. As I understand it, "What comes around" is eventually supposed to "go around". While I do not consider myself an exemplary citizen by any means, I fail to understand the constructiveness of my current situation.

I've bought lunch for random homeless people when I did not have the money myself. I once had coffee with a hobo at a Greyhound station. I've tutored for free. I have a college degree in ass wiping and diaper changing. I've tried to approach every situation with the most open sort of mind that I could.

Perhaps you are trying to do this in a reverse method, whereby you give me the crap first and the good after that. However, I would really appreciate a response at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Jennifer L. Loos

people

2007-10-07T10:58:00.001-04:00

are stupid.

that is all.

yesness

2007-10-06T14:52:00.000-04:00

so bry got the apartment.
this is brilliant news.
no couch hopping!

any producers interested in a real-life production of will and grace?

also: new template.
yah.