Rufus Rustus Johnson Brown / For An Eggman

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

that didn't work

Template issues

edit: Sort of fixed now. Sort of.

Merry Christmas, here's your crap.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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!

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

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

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!