monster sarcasm rally

I had a weird dream. I was at work and I was standing near my desk, talking to my boss. An annoying little man, who I think was Dr Romano from ER, interrupted the conversation. He informed me that my attire was entirely unacceptable. He told me to go downstairs right now and buy something suitable, and to come back when I looked appropriate. My boss turned and looked at me with a look that said, 'Well. What are you waiting for?'

I felt embarrassed and ashamed and annoyed. I ran downstairs to the mall and started looking for proper clothes, which is a ridiculous endeavour since 'normal' clothes don't fit me. You try and find non-ugly dress pants in a 27 by 36! Women's dress pants don't even come in a 36-inch length. I have to go to friggin' 'specialty' shops. Oops. Look at me, I'm digressing. Again. As usual.

Anyways... In the dream I was wearing a large, floral-patterned t-shirt, shorts, gym socks pulled up high, a poncho and high-heeled shoes.

I've never had the naked dream that apparently everybody has, but this is sorta close, no?

Dear Imaginary Blog Reader,

There's something I need to tell you, but I'm not really sure how to say it.

I'm starting to suspect that some of you are unaware of the nature of your existence. You see, you aren't real. Well, not really real... Not in the same way I am... A few of you are (at the very least) physical manifestations of my various delusions. You may even have existences of your own; I'm not really sure. The rest of you, though, are simply figments of my very active imagination.

I know this will come as a surprise to some of you. It may even hurt your feelings. Please understand it is not my intention to hurt you. I just want you to understand the reality of your situation. You exist to entertain me — to aggravate me, to occupy my time and (occasionally) to flatter me.

The longer I keep this blog active, the more of you I seem to create. I'm not sure why this is. Perhaps this blog is revealing my (already existent) multiple personalities to me, giving us a medium for conversation with one another. Perhaps I am being sucked deeper and deeper into the world of my own psychoses, creating more and more alternate personalities as I go along.

I think it's fair to say that I ought to terminate this world of my imagination. I really should go back to living in the real world. I ought to kill you all off in a fit of determination.

In the end, though, like Buffy, I think I shall choose to let you live another day. The real world will be all right without me. Besides... I rather like this little universe I've created in my head.

Yours faithfully,
The Sarcastrix

For the record, I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of writing this post.

Kirstie Alley just told me I was chubby. Then she said I ought to call Jenny Craig. There must be something seriously wrong with that woman.

Mummy, Mummy, the bad man hurt me.

I would just like tp go to sleep now...

[falls off chair]

[thud]

No, Mummy, please... Please don't make me go back there. Please! Please, I'll be good, I promise!

[dragged away from the computer, kicking and screaming]

Hey, you'll never guess what happened! All my blog whoring paid off. People have been finding me through searches. I'm so excited!

No porn, but lots of wacky stuff...

Tsunami humour hot white chick petra... I don't get it. But sure, why not!

Multiple sargasms are only to be found here, baby!

NBA player poops.... Um... Okay. Oh, and by the way, I'm not sure which one you're asking about, but they all do.

Velumiphobia... Here's a fun game. I'll make up a word, and then you google it. 'Kay?

Fear of umbrellas... I'm not the only one, I swear!

Hardword floor edmonton... Ian, please come back! Then move to Edmonton.

Stewie maxim interview... I read the interview when it first came out. It's funny. It's also not here. Try looking in Maxim. Or read my stuff; it's funny too. No, really...

Oops! I almost forgot about sarcastrix, but, of course, that was just Ford looking me up when I wasn't home. Again. Everybody say hello to Ford.

You're not getting older, you're getting bitter.

Ha ha. Berry punny. Aren't you the witty one! Your mother must be so proud.

The POO from Toronto Animal Control came by. Yes, that's right: POO. She's a Provincial Offences Officer employed by the City of Toronto. So, not only is she a POO (she said so herself), but she's a POO when she should be a COO or a TOO or even a TACO.
____________________________________

The good news is you've got the job. The bad news is that you'll either be known as a POO or a TACO. Of course, if you really object to those terms, we could call you a City Offences Warden.
____________________________________

Shane says: Gee, I'm sorry. I feel like some of this is my fault.

Before the Monster House, I lived in a place we called the Dog House. I loved the house. I loved the dogs. The neighbourhood was the coolest one in all of Toronto. We had a huge yard with raspberry bushes and lots of trees. I had great roommates.

Why would I ever leave such a place, you may well ask.

Very simple... I had one really good reason for leaving. His name was Nevermind Drunken Former Roommate.

DFR sometimes loved me, sometimes hated me. Sometimes he put me on a pedestal so high, my head was in the clouds. Other times he ground me into the dirt. He would phone me and drunkenly profess his undying love. He would write me lengthy letters, which he would later admit were designed to provoke my wrath. He would do kind, helpful and thoughtful things for me. He cut all the cords off my lamps. His attitude towards me swung to both ends of the spectrum on a daily basis without ever passing through indifferent.

He also liked to tell people that we had a relationship. In fact, I heard recently that he still tells people about me, his ex-girlfriend.

For the record, I am no such thing. I assure you, I never had any sort of thing with him. The closest physical contact we had went like this... I was sitting on the couch. He got up from his chair sat down next to me and tried to hug me. I screamed, 'Get off me! Don't touch me! Don't you ever touch me!', while jumping up and scrambling across the room.

One thing, though, was undeniable. He loved Beandog. Beandog loved him. They had a genuine bond. Only one thing interrupted this. Sometimes when DFR was drunk (read: drunker than normal), he would try to wrestle with Beandog. Don't get me wrong, Beandog loves to play and wrestle, but not with people who are drunk. When super-uber drunk DFR tried to wrestle with him, Beandog would bite him.

DFR would shout at Beandog. DFR would also complain loudly to me that my dog needed to be trained better. No, I thought, you do. If you tried that crap with me, I'd have punched you or kicked you.

When I moved out of that house, I declared that my new house would be alcoholic-free. I have nothing against alcohol, but I don't want to put up with the antics of a chronic alcoholic.

I seem to have misjudged Shane. The first time I met him, he seemed like a nice, intelligent, easy-to-get-along-with guy. And he is. But he's also an alcoholic. Last week I mentioned an incident that took place. He was drunk (of course) and he started taunting my dog. My dog bit him. Because he's a stupid git, he declared that he had to get a tetanus shot.

The doctor was required to report the incident to Toronto Public Health. I was required to produce proof that Beandog had all his rabies shots. Now a woman from TPH is coming to my house to inspect Beandog and verify that he isn't dangerous.

TPH reported the incident to Toronto Animal Control. Now TAC is issuing a Cautionary Warning against Beandog and sending a representative to my house this afternoon to inspect him.

Moral of the story: If you are a drunk and if you taunt my dog, he will bite you. Conversely, if you are not a drunk and if you do not taunt my dog, he will not bite you.

Note to self: Start asking potential roommates for proof of non-alcoholic status.

I got up just after seven this morning, which is my usual time. I got dressed and ready. I fed the dogs. I put on all my many winter layers. I left the house. Instead of going straight to the streetcar stop, I went to Tim Hortons. I waited. I got coffee. I went to the streetcar stop. I waited. I got on the streetcar. I got off at the subway station. I missed the train by about five seconds. I waited for the next one. I got on. I got off at my stop and pushed my way through the crowds.

I arrived at my desk at 7.58, a solid 15 minutes earlier than normal.

At this rate, today will last 42 hours.

So, Blogger's eating comments, eh?

Even though I've had my usual number of visitors for the past four or five days, I've had very few comments. I figured maybe I just wasn't inspiring people.

This morning I got a comment. I responded by posting another comment, and a long one at that. I got the standard message telling me that 'Your Comment Has Been Saved'.

But it wasn't. It was gone.

Then I looked wandered over to Rachel's site. I had left a comment there this morning. I received the inexplicably capitalised confirmation. Guess what. It's not there!

Stupid Blogger!

Anybody out there have a better alternative?

In the mean time, send your comments directly to beandog[at]rogers[dot]com, with all the normal formatting adjustments, of course.

I would like to express many heartfelt and entirely un-sarc thanks to all who voted in last week's Choose My Adventure poll. And to all those who declined to vote: I blow my nose at you. Well, no. Not really.

Anyways, the polls are now closed. Ten of you advised me to go, while only one said 'stay'.

Well... So... Hmm... I guess... um... I'm going to try to go to India this spring. I agreed to help do some writing and editing for a couple of guys I know who are co-ordinating/leading a team of volunteers to work with the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta. You can read about the trip here: http://freedomizeindia.com

But I was also given the opportunity to join them. The plan is to spend 3 weeks volunteering, following which, I'd have a week or two to do some travel on my own. You guys and a few others helped me see that I haven't got time to let this opportunity slip past.

I don't know whether I'll be able to make this work, but it looks like I'm going to give it a whirl.

So, thanks for the advice everybody. Here's hoping it works out!

Hi, you've reached the Sarcastrix, Supreme Overlord Supreme Overlady Empress Pharaoh* of Monster Sarcasm Rally. Unfortunately, I'm away from my blog right now. If you'd like to leave a message, please press the Comments button. Sadly, Blogger's been behaving badly, so you may not be able to get through.

Thank you. Please come again.

*That's right; I said Pharaoh. I always wanted to be Pharaoh.

Oh boy! The fifth instalment in the much-loved series, Letters from the Editor (previous letters: 1, 2, 3, 4)...


Dear Shane,

You're a drama queen and an alcoholic. You're pissing me off. My dog does not have rabies. My dog does not have tetanus. If you don't taunt him, he won't bite your leg. Stop being a stupid git.

Sincerely,
The Sarcastrix


PS: I have the vaccination confirmation you so paranoidly demanded.

Stargate... That chick, Nirrti... She definitely has a penis.
__________________________________

Shane says: I don't drink to be social. I drink to get drunk.

No kidding, eh?

George Dubya Bush can bit my skinny, white bum!

Well, not literally... That would be wrong. And entirely unappealing.

But figuratively speaking, chomp away Dubya!

Okay. If I do something wrong, then I deserve to be yelled at. Fine. I can accept that. I can take criticism — where it's warranted. But I don't like being yelled at when I haven't done anything to justify it.

My boss just came over to my desk. With complete exasperation, he told me that I hadn't done what he told me to do. Only I did. Why do I even tell you to do things if you're not going to do them, he demanded, as if we'd ever had a similar conversation before. As if I regularly didn't do my job... But I did do it, I protest. He's insistent that I didn't.

He leaves without another word. I check my records. I did precisely what he told me to do, well before he came and told me I hadn't. I had the Ferengi check it over, just to make sure I'm not losing my mind. Yup, she confirms, I've done everything right.

Now I'm paranoid that everything I do is wrong and that I'm screwing up left, right and centre. Obviously, I'm just too blind to notice that I'm not doing my job.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Apparently people have been a wee bit disturbed by the parable I wrote yesterday afternoon, A tale of two kiddies. You may have scratched your head in wonder at how I (naive idealist that I am) could come up with such a dark narrative. As such, I've decided to share the true story that inspired the fictional one. Here it is for your reading pleasure.

When I was a child, Bubble faithfully took my brother and me to see the dentist. If my memory serves me, we went every other week for 12 years.

My brother must have had rocks for teeth. And not igneous rocks, either. We're talking granite. He had granite teeth. Or maybe they were diamonds. It didn't matter what he did or didn't do. He never had a cavity. His teeth never needed adjustments or corrections. Nothin'. Orin Scrivello, DDS, would peer in his mouth, poke at him with his shiny metal sticks a few times and then release him.

I had no such luck. Every single time we went there, Dr Scrivello found another cavity in my mouth, or at least space to put one. He would give me the dreaded needle, and then pull out his favourite jackhammer. The nurse would hold me down while he put the giant drill in my mouth. When the blinding pain seared through every cell in my tiny, innocent child-body, my mouth would involuntarily clamp shut.
__________________________________

I mis5t interrupptp mysdefl momementarily. May hads asre shaking sto abdly that I ancanoot tyoe. Morre latyer.

Okay. My hands are still shaking, but I'll just have to correct that when I get to the end.
__________________________________

My mouth would clamp shut, thus incurring Dr Scrivello's wrath. With the nurse still holding me down, he would inform me that...

This would be much easier if you lay still and held your mouth open.

But it hurts, I would cry.

No, it doesn't, was his retort. You're imagining it. You can't feel anything.

Whatever. He knew how much it hurt and he liked it that way. He did the same thing every time. No matter how much I pleaded with him for more drugs, he just laughed and breathed his coffee breath in my face. Then he proceeded to drill new cavities so that he could fill them in with metal.

By the time we left, I'd be crying like the little girl that I was. My stupid little brother would be laughing and sucking his lollipop and saying that he didn't see what the big deal was. He said he rather liked the dentist.

I would tell Bubble how the bad man had hurt me while the nurse held me down. She would just shake her head and make tsk-ing sounds and tell me that that's what dentists do, dear. And of course, she'd haul me back to the same dude again the next time I 'needed' it.

Once upon a time there were two children, Charley & Janey. Charley and Janey lived next door to one another from the time they were very small. Their parents were friends, and so they became friends. They played together every day. They went everywhere together and did all sorts of cool and fun kid-things together. They had snowball fights and built snowmen. They built forts and made mud pies. They collected tadpoles and bugs.

They played with the bugs they collected, ripping their wings off or plucking their legs off. They liked doing that. It was fun.

Soon, it wasn't so much fun anymore. They'd done it too many times, and with too many different kinds of bugs. They moved on to tadpoles, and then frogs. They threw rocks at birds and bunnies. They did unspeakable things to squirrels. Later on, the neighbours complained that their kittens and puppies went missing. They thought there was a fox in the area. Neither Charley nor Janey ever corrected them.

Nobody ever suspected them, because they were such perfect little children. They ate all their vegetables and did all their homework. On time, even. They even cleaned their bedrooms when their mothers told them to.

Eventually, they grew apart. It wasn't anything specific at first, they just stopped spending so much time together. When they got to high school, they fell in with different crowds. That was pretty much the end of their friendship.

When Charley finished high school he went to work at a local restaurant. He was quiet and shy. He had a hard time looking people in the eye, but the manager kept him on because he always showed up on time. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and everybody liked him.

Everybody who knew him was caught completely off-guard when he was arrested for a series of sexual assaults and murders. He had raped and tortured more than a dozen women before his arrest, killing at least eight. Since this story doesn't take place in Canada, he was sentenced to die by lethal injection. After several attempts at appeal and three new lawyers, he was put to death a week before his 25th birthday.

Janey was much more sensible than Charley was. She dropped the Y off the end of her name and was her high school valedictorian. She never lost her love of torturing innocent victims, but she didn't want to go to prison. And she certainly didn't want to die. She made the logical career choice: she became a dentist. She lived a long and happy life and made a lot of money.

the end

On an unrelated note... Guess who's having a root canal next week!

I went to private school. Now, those of you who aren't Canadian are probably thinking 'huh?' Those of you who are Canadian will immediately assume I'm some sort of snob. You'll also start picturing trampy teenage girls in their cute little crotch-length skirts.

This wasn't that sort of private school. This was the sort where we wore hideously ugly uniforms, which even the skankiest of my classmates were ashamed of. Well, particularly them. They involved long skirts and frumpy sweaters. Make-up was permitted, but not too much.

This was also the sort of school where girls took Home Ec and boys took Industrial Arts.

Now, you may be surprised to learn that (even as a 12-year-old) I didn't take very kindly to this idea. I wanted to take IA. I wanted to work with tools. I wanted to build crappy little bird houses. Home Ec was all about cooking and sewing and cleaning and managing a happy home. In fact, the class should have been called How To Be a Good Little Christian Housewife. Bite me, I say.

Anywho...

I was perhaps not as nice to the Home Ec teachers as I could have been. The fact that we once went through 10 (that's right, I said TEN) in one year may have had something to do with this. We had a class of five girls, and we managed to burn out 10 Home Ec teachers in one 10-month school year. And by 'we' I mean 'me'. Well, 'I' actually, since 'me' would be gramatically incorrect. But it does rhyme. Look at me, I'm digressing...

Anyways...

I wasn't the best Home Ec student. I frequently refused to co-operate, botched anything I touched, and offered up more than a few snarky comebacks. I remember one girl saying she was allergic to dish soap. Instead of just handing her a friggin' pair of rubber gloves and telling her to get on with it, they let her sit out while the rest of us did them. I stated that I was allergic to hot water, and should therefore be allowed to join her on the bench. No such luck.

God has a sense of humour, eh.

Many years later, I developed an allergy to coconut. As years progress, the allergy continues to get worse. Soap is made from coconut. I managed to find a single non-coconut soap that I use for myself and my laundry, however, there are no coconut-free dish soaps. My life has come full circle. I am now actually allergic to washing dishes. Rubber gloves just ain't gonna cut it. I have a full-blown asthma attack every time I wash a load of dishes.

Cute but Kinda Evil and I had been sharing most of the dishwashing between us. Now, of course, that isn't possible. The boys (Ford, Shane and As Yet Unrechristened) aren't going to do their dishes. And frankly, when they do, we pick them up and put them back in the sink for re-washing anyways. Our kitchen is rapidly descending into the realm of Disgusting Beyond Words.

Yesterday I gave up and put a bid on a dishwasher at eBay. The girls have said they'll contribute some money towards it. The boys, on the other hand, have declared it an unnecessary expense. Besides, they all make less money than we do.

Dishwasher! Dishwasher! Dishwasher! Happy, happy dishwasher!

the end

I'm sorry. You weren't waiting for this to go somewhere, were you?

After careful consideration (read: she's pissing me off again), I've decided that she who was Bridget Jones is in need of a new moniker. While she's every bit as annoying and cloying and insecure as her namesake, she's also... um... She's not very nice. And she's one of those people who manages to play the part of the evil shrew while speaking in sickeningly sweet tones, so that she can walk away feeling like she's the bigger person. Well, she is the bigger person, literally speaking.

Blah blah blah. Skinny people aren't allowed to say that. It's socially unacceptable. Bite me. This is my blog and I'll insult her any way I choose. Anyaways, she's not fat, she just has ginormous tits that she manages to make full use of. They're always on display. We both have a tendency to stretch the boundaries of acceptable office attire: I would totally wear my jammies if I could, whereas she forgets to wear a shirt with her bra.

She once told Moiraine,

I'm a bull. As long as we do things my way,
we'll get along great.

Okay, bottom line: If you want to be such a cranky cow, be honest about it. Be the crankiest cow you can be; don't sugarcoat it.

On second thought, she stays Bridget. I hated that stupid movie.

This reminds me of the Worst Boss in the History of Bosses. She once told me that she had managed many people in her career and that I was the only one who had ever had a problem with her management style. Clearly, she declared, this meant that the problem was with me, not with her.

No, ya big ninny, it means I'm the only one who's ever said so to your face. Everybody else waits until you leave the room to complain about you.

If you're very good little boys and girls, someday I'll tell you about her.

Why, I ask you... Why, in the name of all that is good and holy and pure... Why must flax seeds taste like cod liver oil?

So, Beandog had his vet appointment last night. Turns out I was wrong about the source of the problem. It wasn't inflamed bowel. It was — ahem — glandular in nature. It was easily cured with a latex glove and a big wad of Kleenex.

Nobody had thought of checking this before since big dogs don't normally have this problem. The reason he's had trouble knowing when he had to poop was that he's been in a constant state of feeling like he needs to let one go for several months. So, he hasn't exactly been in pain, but he's been, erm, uncomfortable.

And I am feeling like a very bad mother for not having been able to get to the bottom of this for so long. He's spent the last few months acting like a lethargic, cranky, old-man dog. He would walk up to me, stare at me and cry. And I didn't know why — mainly because I don't speak dog.

As soon as the deed had been done, I got my vibrant, energetic, happy dog back. He ran around the vet's office frightening cats and molesting other dogs, sticking his nose up any available skirt.

Later on last night, he got caught rifling through the garbage in the kitchen. He looked up and tried to proclaim his innocence — not an easy task, seeing as he was wearing the swing-top of the bin around his neck.

While it's all very happy and good, I'm still having an olfactory hallucination. In my mind, I can still smell that horrible gook that shot out my dog's butt. It's haunting me. It won't leave me alone. If you've never experienced it, get down on your knees right now and thank the Good Lord Above for his mercy.

Hmm... Guess I should have put a warning at the top of this post so those that are ill or eating could avert their eyes. Oh well.

If you are a reasonably intelligent person and you have a coherent, logical question to ask of another reasonably intelligent individual, I recommend against passing your question through somebody with the deductive capacity of your typical household squid. Just ask the question directly to the individual with the answer.

I have just confirmed, through a lengthy scientific investigation, that the speed of smell is in fact slower than the speed of light.

I will await my nobel prize in my cubicle.

PS to Anne: This is English, and that is the accepted English spelling of that word. If you want to blog in Greek, you may feel free to use the correct Greek conjugation. If you want to comment in Greek, you may also do that. Of course, without a Mac, you may find it difficult to do so.

Well, sort of...

Okay, not so much...

I'm trying to decide something. It's a fairly major thing, with potential to be life-changing. I haven't got time to go into details right now. Besides, they're just not funny. So, instead I'm just going to take your votes. Like a blind taste test. But without the tasting...

I'm feeling pretty torn about the issue, so I'm going to let you, my faithful readers (and my unfaithful ones, too), decide my fate. Oh, and if this is your first time here, vote anyways.

My question is this: Should I stay or should I go?

Please post your vote in the comments section. Results will be reported when I get around to it.

PS to Anne and Rachel: Yes, your votes count — even though you actually know what I'm talking about.

For reasons that I am at a loss to explain, my friends and I just decided that it would be heap loads of fun to try googling Muppet Porn. I wondered whether any results would turn up. Maybe a few, I figured. Somebody's probably thought of it, right?

44,000 results! For muppet porn! What the hell?

Okay, it's far too early for this sort of insanity. But I have had nearly an eighth of a bottle of beer, so perhaps that explains it.

You will undoubtedly be pleased to know that I am now home. I have eaten. I have showered. I have beer.

And all is, once again, well with the world.

From the same report...

Given that A, we believe that B, given that C.

The who what-ing with the where now?

From a report I'm editing...

By coupling A with B, C and D, you get blah blah blah.

Okay, see, that's a couple comprised of four individual parts. How is that a couple? Isn't that kinda kinky? Ordinarily, kinky is not an adjective we aim to have applied to our reports.

'Kay?

Oh boy! The fourth instalment in the much-loved series, Letters from the Editor (previous letters: 1, 2, 3)...

Dear female VP,

I know you're new here, or at least I assume you are. You're probably anxious to prove your worth in this boys' club.

But really... You've sent out five six company-wide e-mails so far today on the share capital reorganisation. I don't even know what a share capital reorganisation is. Please stop blithering about it. I'm here to do my job, not to learn about stocks or bonds or mergers or consolidations, or whatever the hell else it is that this company does. I don't care. I really don't care.

So piss off already and leave me be. I have very important blogging to do. Stop making my New Mail icon appear, as it keeps making me think one of my friends has sent me something.

Regards,
The sarcastrix

PS: What the hell's a greenshoe? Ah, screw it. Never mind.

Today I hate everyone. (25 points for any non-Canadian who can tell me the band and the song)

Welcome to the all new soap-box-preaching sarcastrix!

First up, two little facts to knock your socks off...

1. Toronto ships 120 trucks of garbage a day to Michigan because we have nowhere else to put it.
2. 80% of all household waste is organic (and as such is compostable).

Next, we have some song lyrics to nag at your brain...
(Name that tune to score valuable points)

1. We can't do nothing thinking someone else will make it right. (12 points)
2. Ignorance, it sets your standards. (23 points)
3. Freedom of speech is words that they will bend. (4 points)
4. And if you look away,
   You'll be doing what they say.
   And if you look alive,
   You'll be singled out and tried. (9 points)

The building in which I work sent around a notice a while back that they would be delivering compost bins to all offices. We didn't get one. It turns out that my boss's assistant, Bridget Jones, told them not to bring us one because she didn't want the extra work. She said it was hard enough for her to keep the kitchen clean without anything more to look after.

First off, it's not extra work; it's an extra bin. The building staff empty it every night. All you have to do is um... Wait... Sorry, what is it you do again?

Secondly, hold on a sec. Who cleans the kitchen? I was under the impression that it was New Chick and I. Oh and the boss... Periodically he gets fed up with the state of it and goes on a cleaning rampage. When is it that you do it?

I ordered a compost bin and typed up the following memo to put on the front of it.

Say hello to the Sarcastrix's new pet, Oscar.

He needs to be fed a daily diet of coffee grinds, tea bags, leftover food, McDonald’s packaging (minus the plastic bits), used kleenexes and paper towels. Please make sure he doesn’t go hungry, as he can be quite grouchy when he’s not fed properly.

Sincerely,
your friendly neighbourhood tree-hugging hippy freak

PS: If you're not sure what can go in and what can't, come and talk to me. I'm not as horrible as you've heard.

Update
Turns out Bridget Jones went off on a rant of her own when New Chick asked for the bin. She says that having the coffee grinds etc. in an open bin will stink. I'm not sure how she figures they'll stink more in an open compost bin than they will in an open garbage bin, but that's because I like things to make sense.

Further update
Bridget Jones just sent an e-mail to everybody announcing that I had no right to go over her head and order the bin. She marked the message urgent, and announced that the bin will be removed forthwith.

Okay, so she didn't actually use the word 'forthwith'. The fact that she didn't make any glaring spelling or grammatical errors in her message tells me that my boss proofread it for her.

Update to the further update
Bridget has advised me that the composer (sic) is to be taken away. And, naughty, naughty girl that I am, I must remember never, ever to do anything like that again.

keeping my head down and my mouth shut...

as if...

I'm going to do something I don't normally do. But I feel strongly about the issue, so I'm going to do it anyways. I'm going to lay down a fashion rule law.

If you're going to wear sweat pants, particularly sweat pants of the 1980s variety, do not wear ones that are too small for you. This particularly applies if you are skinny.

It's just weird. And not in a good way.

Thank you,
The mgmt

Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to tell stories that made no sense. People thought she was drunk.

But she wasn't.

the end

After yesterday's mad quest to get a hit by way of a google search, you'll never guess what happened.

I got a hit through google! Somebody in Regina, Saskatchewan googled fear of umbrellas. Guess who appeared at number nine on the list!

Congratulations to me!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Thursday-afternoon doldrums.

Once upon a time in the world of the sane, people were rational and everybody wore sensible shoes. People communicated using words that were clearly defined and understood by all. People behaved in logical and predictable fashions.

One day, out of sheer boredom, the planet simply ceased to exist and all the inhabitants were sucked into the void of space.

the end

Determined to get a hit through google, I've taken to making up my own pointless news reports.

Following their recent break up, Jennifer Aniston has announced her intention to seek a position with the Internal Revenue Service, while Brad Pitt has joined the WWE. Rumours are wildly spreading across the internet that the real reason for the break-up was Pitt’s obsession with Randy Moss.

The late Martin Luther King Jr. was spotted last night on a Delta Airlines flight to Cleveland. Fellow passengers say he looks remarkably good for a dead guy.

In other news, Britney Spears is seeking to become the first non-human player in the NFL. She says that she shouldn’t be turned down because she promises she’s a really, really good player. ‘I’ve been playing baseball on my Playstation 2, like, pretty much 24 hours a day all week, so I’m sure I could do it for real’.

Oh, and you’ll never guess who had a Nip Slip in the middle of the North American International Auto Show. It wasn’t me, I can tell you that much.

Join us next week, when we fill you in on why the NBA Players Association is filing a lawsuit against the People’s Choice Awards, and let you know why we think Jerry Orbach deserves to be America’s Next Top Model. What exactly were Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton doing outside Sean Connery’s hotel room last Tuesday night? We may never know the answer to that, but we’ll certainly be featuring photos of the catfight.

Beandog is sick. He's having tummy troubles. I'm pretty sure it's irritable bowel syndrome or something related.

I know. So far, this complete un-sarc. Stay with me.

The troubles he's having mean that he, um... is ahem... unaware of his needs until they overtake him. He'll be standing there looking at you, and WHAMMO! He's pooping. He gets the most horrified and embarrassed look on his face and runs out of the room. See, Beandog's very, very dignified. Well, except for his farting hobby, but that's a whole 'nother story...

Imagine him as a very dignified, proper gentleman. Probably English. He'd probably want to be played by Alec Guinness when his life story gets made into a movie. Too bad for him that old Obi Wan's dead. Anyways, visualise Alec Guinness standing in front of you discussing some dignified, proper topic, like Grey Poupon mustard. All of a sudden he poops on your dining room floor. He'd be horrified, right?

Poor guy.

Beandog, I mean. Alec Guinness is dead. He probably doesn't even care that he's dead, because he's too busy with the whole being dead thing.

Anyways, he'll go to the vet on Monday and get some nice, happy pills to take care of the troubles and he'll be fine. The real problem is with the Stinky Monkey. See, he has a bad attitude. Plus he's just evil. He's like Stewie from the Family Guy. I'm convinced he's probably plotting my death even as I type. Or chasing dust. Maybe eating my socks. Possibly molesting a towel. Whatever.

See, the thing is, I had some, erm... issues with him when I first got him. He hadn't been fully housebroken. I had a bit of a struggle getting him to believe me when I told him that we just didn't do that sort of thing in the house. He wanted to pee on everything. I wanted him to not pee on anything inside the house. We had words. We had unintelligible muttering, grunting and shouting. We had expensive specialists, two of them. Eventually, he got the message. Mostly.

Now, though, things are different. He sees that Beandog poops in the house, and he sees that he doesn't get into any trouble.

Oh, so it's okay to do that in here, is it? You told me it wasn't. I'll show you what I think of your double standard.

Can you hear me screaming? Do you think maybe I shouldn't have had that second beer last night?

Buster does a weekly thing called Tuesday search terms. Having read it several times now, I can honestly say that Buster gets more visitors in a single week than I can ever hope to get in my lifetime. Of course, they all end up on his site by searching google for various forms of porn. Nobody looking for porn ever found their way to my site, I'm sure of that.

Of course, now that I'm using the word 'porn' maybe all that's gonna change...

I searched through the search terms for all my sites and discovered a little fact: nobody finds my site by searching for it. Except me... I search for sarcastrix and it links me here. I like that I can do it, so I keep doing it. I'm so vain. I'm so vain. I probably think this song is about me. I'm so vain.

Okay, so that's not entirely true. Well the vanity bit is, but the search terms part isn't. In the history of the universe (since I switched to statcounter from the patheticness that is blogpatrol), I have been found in the following ways:

Sarcastrix — as previously mentioned, though, these are all me. Well, me and some unnamed individual (Ford) using my computer in my dining room at a time when I wasn't home.

Beandog — somebody found me by searching for Beandog. They were probably looking for the Beandog Abduction, which sadly seems to have fallen off the face of the internet.

Stinky Monkey — I have been linked to three times by people searching for Stinky Monkey. I don't get it. Are all monkeys stinky? If so, why do they keep needing to specify that the monkey in question stinks. If only certain monkeys stink, how will the searcher know if the one they are viewing really does stink or not? Maybe the poster just says that the monkey stinks. Without proof of stink, a person could be seriously mislead.

"hips are too" .jpg — Is it just my imagination, or does this one seem a little bit weird? I think somebody was trying to find a photo on her personal computer, but accidentally searched the internet instead of her hard drive. And yet, she actually chose to click on my link. Did she think I had her picture? The truth is, I just don't know. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

Stay tuned for the next 57 years or so, because somebody, somewhere may someday perform a search that leads them here. If that should ever come to pass, I'll be ready. Or I'll be out somewhere buying food. Whatever.

PS: Porn, porn, porn.

Update:
In an effort to pointlessly increase traffic to my site I would like to announce that Natalie Portman and Jerry Orbach's new blockbuster, 'New Year Tsunami', will be shown on all earthbound Delta Airlines flights. Petra Nemcova plays a small role as a red cross worker, who gets lost on her way to the Rose Bowl. Aishwarya Rai. Bless you.

First they didn't invite us to our department's Christmas lunch, now this...

I went downstairs to buy lunch. I ran into Jonathan, Gareth and Good Looking. They acknowledged my existence and then squeezed together, so it was clear that I wasn't part of their group.

I went to get my lunch, and started walking back. Who should I run into? Yup — Jonathan, Gareth and Good Looking. I said hello and we started talking. They started talking about me, which was fine since I was part of the conversation. Then they repositioned themselves so that they were walking three abreast and I was behind them. It was pretty clear that I wasn't part of the group, but this time we were headed to the same place. If I had wanted to pass them, I would have had to cut them off. Not a good idea for my working relationships. And they were still talking about me!

The thing is, I expect this from Gareth. And Good Looking? Sure. He's a bit of a toady. But Jonathan? If I had feelings, they'd be hurt right now.

Okay, so I got Gareth back a bit later. He said he had a chiselled physique and that I should appreciate it. 'Chiselled out of what', I quipped. 'Cheese?'

You wait, Jonathan, I'll have my revenge!

Maybe you could finish your ESL classes before writing reports to be published. Just a thought...

No, no... Not you, don't worry. I didn't see what you were doing the other night. If I had, I would be sure to tell how disgusting it was.

Anyways... Ford, 'fess up. If you're reading this (after I asked you not to), then you should at least say hello to the nice folks.

Or are you not speaking to me anymore?

Attention: Beer Guy
Re: Your son

This message is to advise you that I do not care how cute your baby is. I am not interested what cute baby things he did over Christmas. Oh, your wife's family think that he's just the greatest thing ever and queued up for the chance to hold him! Right, see, I am not interested. I don't care how often he pukes. I don't care that he thought the waves on the beach were scary. I will not be walking down to your office to see all the pictures of him you have on your computer. Please consider learning a new topic of conversation, or I will request that your visits to our end of the office desist.


Attention: Gareth
Re: Your conversations

This message is to advise you that I'm tired of listening to your telephone conversations. Now, I sympathise with the fact that you are a boor. You have no class, no tact and a one-track mind. I don't particularly object to these traits. You cannot help who you are, and it would be unreasonable of me to expect you to change. But — for frig's sake! Stop shouting. You're a good 10 metres away. There are cubicle walls, plants, people, machines and a hallway between us. The televisions are still blaring the shouted news reports in every direction. I shouldn't hear every single word that comes out of your ill-bred mouth.

PS: Oggy oggy oggy!

PPS: Fat chicks generally don't like to be told that they're fat.

Another day, another... erm... bit of nonsarc.

I've decided to work on a graphic novel, but I need help (more than just psychological). I've developed the idea a bit further than I had in the original post, but it still needs work — and probably a whole lot more Buckley's, maybe even some beer... Besides, I can't draw.

Snippet of a conversation with my dad, as an addendum to the story below

Me: [to the tune of nanananabooboo] I was right and you were wrong. I was right and you were wrong.

Him: No, what I said earlier applied to ___.

Me: So... Because you're the dad, you reserve the right to change what you've said after you've said it in order to maintain the rule that Dad Is Always Right.

Him: Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.

Once upon a time in the land of the snow Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn was forced into retirement. Unable to stay afloat, he took the only job he could find. It just happened to be the World’s Worst Job Ever. He struggled through it for three years, refusing to look for a better job because ‘nobody’s going to hire a 60-year-old man’.

One day an Evil Villain attacked Sarcastor's friendly dragon. Sarcastor valiantly defended his friend. The Evil Villian retailiated by pulling out his dagger and slashing Sarcastor's throat. Sarcastor decided not to do anything about it, even though he nearly died in the attack. And of course, the World’s Worst Job Ever did not permit sick days. Sarcastor continued to work with the Evil Villain.

Eventually news of the attack reached the ears of the Great Sarcastrix. She thought and plotted and schemed. Eventually her plans were complete and she leapt into action with all the gusto suited to a superhero, um, er… superheroine. The Great Sarcastrix wrote up a resumé for Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn. Then she wrote up a basic covering letter. She signed her father up for a new electronic mail address. She scanned the classifieds for suitable jobs. She customised the letter to each ad. She sent out a plethora (that’s right, not half a plethora, but a whole one) of applications.

Pretty soon the telemathingamajiggy in Sarcastor’s kingdom began ringing off the hook. The first interview he went for yielded nothing. Undeterred, he continued to answer the calls. Soon another interview was arranged for. This time the interview went well.

Sarcastor drove his chariot home to his castle and e-mailed the Great Sarcastrix. Five minutes later he e-mailed her again to say that he had been offered the job.

Much drama ensued when Sarcastor’s lovely bride, She Who Lives in a Bubble, returned from work. For reasons that are not to be understood*, Sarcastor and Bubble were unable to communicate in the same language despite having been married for more than 35 years.

Eventually, (with much aid from their daughter) both Sarcastor and Bubble were able to make their points understood. Sarcastor decided to accept the new job.

All parties may or may not live happily ever after. Well, probably not, but at least there will be happiness today.

*Scientists now speculate that She Who Lives in a Bubble may have been taking communications lessons from Darmok or the Ferengi.

Okay. I'm feeling somewhat better now. But I'm still tired. Get me some coffee, would you?

I'm tired and I'm pissed off and I'm worried.

That is all.

1. What did you do in 2004 that you'd never done before? Became a blogaholic.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year? Silly things. If you're going to do it, do it. If you're going to stop, stop. Quit yapping about it.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? Why would anybody be close to me?

4. Did anyone close to you die? Not this time around...

5. What countries did you visit? Quebec.

6. What would you like to have in 2005 that you lacked in 2004? More chocolate.

7. What date from 2004 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? Apparently none...

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Crap! Was I supposed to achieve something? Nobody told me!

9. What was your biggest failure? I do not fail!

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? Got sick several times. How is that interesting?

11. What was the best thing you bought? eMac

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration? Mine. Um... Hello! Whose blog is this anyways? Duh.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? See number 12.

14. Where did most of your money go? Why? Have you seen it? I would like it back, please.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? Chocolate, googlism and apparently pretty much everything that happened on this day (for no reason that I can think of).

16. What song will always remind you of 2004? That's a stupid question and I decline to answer it.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. happier or sadder? [shrug]
ii. thinner or fatter? I gained six pounds! Weee haw! Yay me!
iii. richer or poorer? More debt, less worries.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of? Everything. And writing.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of? Pretending to work.

20. How did you spend Christmas? Like this and then we went to the pub.

22. Did you fall in love in 2004? On the 22nd of December.

23. How many one-night stands? Spent many nights standing. Why do you ask?

24. What was your favourite TV program? Dude! So. Always. Buffy. You even need to ask?

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year? Everybody. No, never mind. I hated youse guys then, too. Yes, even you that I'd never even heard of before.

26. What was the best book you read? Book? Like with words?

27. What was your greatest musical discovery? Πr2

28. What did you want and get? Chocolate. More chocolate.

What exactly happened to number 29?

30. What was your favorite film of this year? Dude! So obviously Shaun of the Dead.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? No idea. If anybody does remember, please let me know.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? How would I know that without having experienced it? Stupid question...

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004? Oh crap! Was I supposed to be fashionable?

34. What kept you sane? Who said anything about sane?

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? Joaquin Phoenix. Tobey Maguire. Zach Braff.

36. What political issue stirred you the most? That everybody at my church thinks that Christians are obligated to be ultra-right-wing just because Jesus was. Oh wait, HE WASN'T.

37. Who did you miss? Heathcliff.

38. Who was the best new person you met? Youse guys. And Hot Guy.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2004: You don't win friends with salad.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year: 'In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.' Fine you caught me: it's from a book not a song. Whatever.

What'd you do for New Year's Eve?

On New Year's Eve I took Ford to Rachel's party. Sadly, though, I'm not very good at parties. I'm more of a small group kind of person. Give me two, four, even six people sitting around in a pub and I'm all good. (Well, as long as there are no candles and paper coasters involved, but that's another story...)

A party, though, is different. At a party, one is expected to mix and mingle. Which means small talk. It also means casual, friendly conversation with people one doesn't know. I don't know if you've noticed this, but I can (on occasion) be a wee bit on the sarcastic side. People who like me, like me. People who don't like me steer clear of me for the most part. People who haven't had the pleasure of my company before have a tendency to stare blankly at me. Sometimes this is followed by spontaneous outbursts of crying. Sometimes it involves me having to explain my sentences 40 times, until they have lost any humour they may once have contained. Sometimes it involves people explaining my jokes back to me or taking offence at something that was meant in jest.

I don't like parties. Parties don't like me. If I find myself at one, I generally choose one person and sit in a corner having one conversation all night. On New Year's Eve the person I chose to sit with was Amos. I like Amos. He's cool. Amos likes me. Well, he does as long as nobody around has cheese, because then he likes them much better. The problem, though, is that Amos is exceptionally hairy. I can't begin to express how hairy he is. And the hair's not all actually attached to him. There are great clumps that have come loose, but haven't had the decency to fall off. This is probably because shedding is a punishable offence in Rachel's parents' house. It is, I'm sure of it. Nobody's house is naturally that clean. There must be some sort of dark arts involved.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes... Amos. Hair. More hair. See, as well as being sarcastic, I can also be a wee bit neurotic. I see these clumps of hair on Amos. I see that they have been rejected by his body, but that they are too afraid to fall off. And I pluck them. I pluck them all.

I restrained myself from saving any of them, but they would have made a very nice toque, a Stinky Monkey sweater, and probably 48 afghans.

Jung says that neurosis has something to do with misplaced libido and sexual repression. I say, 'Piss off, Jung, you big know-it-all!'

So, New Year's Eve... I plucked a dog. What'd you do?

It's my first day back at work after nearly two weeks off. I've been here for three hours. So far I've corrected a typo, blogged a bit, read a few e-mails, sent a few e-mails, applied for several jobs on behalf of my dad, drunk one cup of coffee, worked on my novel, snarked with Jonathan, and eaten a bowl of blueberry granola. All in all, it's been a fairly productive morning at work.

Wait...

More work-related work just came up. New Chick asked the Ferengi a question. The Ferengi* stared vacantly at her, so I answered the question, which was a legitimate one. The Ferengi then sniped at me for having answered for her.

So far, the hardest part of the day was getting up when the awful BLEEPING started. For frig's sake... It was still dark out!

*She's kind of like Darmok. English is her first and only language, but sometimes communication with her is hindered by the fact that she has her own special way of arranging perfectly sensible words in perfectly nonsensensical fashions.

Me: [angrily punching phone number for Bell Canada]
Way Too Polite Automated Voice: Welcome to Bell Canada. To continue in English, please say English.
Me: [fuming] English
WTPAV: Thank you. Please listen to...
Me: [steam coming out ears] I want to talk to a real person right frigging now!
WTPAV: Okay. I'll transfer you to an attendant, but first I'll need to ask you a few simple questions. What is the area code and phone number you're calling about?
Me: [clearly states number]
WTPAV: Okay. Please listen to the following options. When I say the one that corresponds with the reason for your call, please repeat it back to me. [pause] Technical Support and Repair. [pause] Billing. [pause] Moving. [pause] None of these.
Me: [over-annunciating] None of these.
WTPAV: Thank you. Please have the address of the location to which you will be moving handy. While we're looking after your move request, we can also transfer your internet service and your satellite service.
Me: [muttering under breath]

Time passes. Christmas ads for all the lovely products you can buy from Bell play in the background.

Real Live Perky Person: Hi! How can I provide you with excellent service today?
Me: You can't. I do not have an account with Bell. My home phone service is through Sprint because you people are idiots. What I would like you to do today is stop giving out my phone number to people who are trying to call the TD Bank.
RLPP: I'm sorry?
Me: If you call the TD Bank at 416______, you get an automated announcement telling you that the number has been changed. Then it tells you to call my home phone number instead. I would like you to stop doing this immediately.
RLPP: Please hold.

Time passes. More Christmas propaganda.

RLPP: Hi, thank you for waiting patiently. I'm on the other line with our business services office. They're looking into the matter. Please hold.

More time. More Christmas.

RLPP: Hi! I'm still on hold with the business services office. I'm going to let you go, but I assure you we'll look after it. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: [maniacal laughter]

the end

Once upon a time there was a chick. We'll call her Stupid Head. She wasn't all-the-time stupid or even all-around stupid, but she suffered from occasional bouts of colossal stupidity.

We interrupt this little fairy tale to let you in on a very important fact: Stupid Head was allergic to coconut and palm oil. Moreover, Stupid Head knew full well that she was allergic to them. We now return you to the regularly scheduled tale of idiocy.

Stupid Head went out for New Year's Day brunch with her housemates. She looked at the menu and saw one of the most beautiful words ever written: Mochaccino.

'Oh boy', thought Stupid Head, 'I sure would like to have a mochaccino. I think I will order one'.

'But you shouldn't do that', thought Stupid Head's Less Stupid Self. 'It might have coconut or palm oil in it'.

'Piss off, Less Stupid Self', thought Stupid Head. 'If I end up itchy for a few hours, you can just take some antihistamines'.

Stupid Head ordered the mochaccino, and it was good. However four days later, she was still covered in little red spots. By then they didn't so much itch anymore as burn.

Stupid Head's Less Stupid Self kept muttering 'I told you so', in a very self-righteous way and acting all smug.

Stupid Head was pissed off at her Less Stupid Self for having allowed her to drink the mochaccino, and at the mochaccino for having been so tempting, and at her skin for being so ill mannered. When asked, she declined to accept responsibility for the results of her actions.

Stupid Head and her Less Stupid Self have not ruled out the possibility of divorce.

the end



Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go take another antihistamine.

Well, it's the end of an era. Officially. Now, granted it was an era that lasted approximately two months, but it's still an occasion worthy of being marked. And not by Beandog, thank you.

I dropped Hot Guy off at the train station this morning. His train to New York is set to depart in three minutes. Once there he will get on a boat bound for Germany by way of Bermuda. He is sailing into the — um — sunrise, never to be gawked at again again. Well, not by me anyways...

[sigh]

The most incredibly awesome thing happened today.

I went to the liquor store. The woman behind the counter asked me if I had ID. I said I'd left it out in the car. She made me go out and get it!

After not having been ID'd in more than five years, this is the second time since Christmas that I've been asked.

Twenty points apiece to Saint, CBK and Ian for all coming up with the correct answer to the Darmok reference. The basic idea being as follows: I understand all the words coming out of her mouth, and yet I still have no idea what she's talking about.

Twenty-five points to Martin for being a smart alec, which is always a welcome thing around here.

Six points to Rachel for not disagreeing with me this time.

One point to Anne for waxing sarcastic and just to get her name on the scoreboard.

Sixteen pity points to the Saint for no reason at all. Oh, because I can.

1,000,000 points to Beandog because he's the greatest dog ever.

Negative 25 points to the Stinky Monkey for puking so darned much lately.

Thus, the current tally is as follows:
Beandog: 1,000,000
Saint: 42 points
Martin: 25 points
CBK: 20 points
Ian: 18 points
Rachel: 4 points
Anne: 1 point
The rest of youse guys: nothin'
Stinky Monkey: -25 points
_______________________________________________

Today's questions:
Why 42? (3 points)
Is Death not the coolest of all the Endless? For that matter, is she not the coolest of all people everywhere? (17 points)
Wanna help me flesh out (figuratively, not literally, you big pervert!) the male lead characters in my novel? (134 points)

How to write a novel in 6,487 days or more: Day 296

Step 1: Make coffee.

Step 2: Sit on couch drinking coffee. Continue for 45 minutes. Converse with Ford and As Yet Unrechristened Female Housemate.

Step 3: Go to bedroom. Begin clearing off desk.

Step 4: Go to kitchen. Wash several dishes.

Step 5: Let dogs out. Wait two minutes. Let dogs in.

Step 6: Go to bedroom. Look up recipes for cake for Hot Guy's birthday party this evening. Continue clearing off desk.

Step 7: Go downstairs. Do laundry.

Step 8: Go to kitchen. Wash several dishes.

Step 9: Remove frozen burger patty from freezer. Turn on stove. Place patty in frying pan on stove.

Step 10: Go to bedroom. Check e-mail. Read several blogs.

Step 11: Respond to smoke alarm. Turn off stove. Turn on fan. Open windows. Eat lunch.

Step 12: Go to bedroom. Continue clearing off desk.

Step 13: Go to dining room. Stare at — Oops, I mean converse with — Hot Guy.

Step 14: Make coffee. Pour two cups. Take one cup to Hot Guy in the living room. Add brown sugar and whipping cream to the other. Put cup on desk in dining room.

Step 15: Go to bedroom. Unplug good mouse and keyboard from good computer. Carry to dining room. Plug good mouse and keyboard into old computer. Sit down on awesome new chair. Write 200 words in chapter 5 of novel.

Step 16: Go downstairs. Put laundry in dryer.

Step 17: Go to dining room. Sit on couch. Converse with Ford.

Step 18: Move to awesome new chair in dining room. Write 100 words in chapter 30 of novel.

Step 19: Laugh at Hot Guy for not having touched his coffee yet.

Step 20: Discover coffee on dining room desk. Drink a bit.

Step 21: Let dogs out. Wait two minutes. Let dogs in.

Step 22: Unplug keyboard and mouse from old computer in dining room. Carry to bedroom. Connect them to new computer.

Step 23: Write pointless blog. Re-read pointless post twelve times. Hit 'Publish Post' button.

I meant to spend my vacation writing. I really did.

Sadly, my desk is piled up to the ceiling with crap I haven't bothered to put away. What can I say: it's a horizontal surface and the first law of horizontal surfaces is that they must be piled full of random crap. Also, for several days there was no chair in my room. Standing in front of a desk piled with junk isn't conducive to most writing endeavours.

What's happened over the past week? Funny you should ask... Because the answer isn't very interesting, but I'm going to share it anyways.

Hot Guy returned from his trip to New York and announced that he had joined the crew of a German reality TV show historical boat. He'll be leaving the country the day after tomorrow. This sucks, but at least I may once again be able to concentrate on things other than his beautiful arms.

I have decided to rechristen English as Ford. You know why... And if you don't, then clearly you are not a geek. He really has no clue about life on this planet and how it works. But he's charming and he means well. And he's just so gosh-darned entertaining.

We have a new character to add to the roster. His name will be Shane. As in MacGowan...

I bought a new chair. It rocks. I wish I were sitting on it right now, but it's in the dining room in front of my other computer. It entertains Beandog greatly when I roll around the room. He fears for my safety and tries to rescue me from the chair's evil clutches. My dog rocks!

I had a tremendously disturbing experience a month ago. I got my hair cut really short and made an alarming discovery: my hair is brown. For frig's sake! I haven't got brown hair! I finally took myself to the hairdresser this past week and demanded this be rectified immediately. I said I didn't care what colour it was, so long as it wasn't brown. It's deep, bright red now. My hair rocks!

I ate some chocolate. And by some I mean approximately my own body weight. Chocolate rocks!

I bought some new shirts at a Boxing Day sale. They make me look like I have cleavage. Cleavage rocks! So does Boxing Day.

The Incredible Puking Wonderdog (AKA the Stinky Monkey) puked. A lot. Puking sucks! Cleaning it up sucks more. Cleaning up multiple pukes really, really sucks.

Things I didn't do could fill a much longer list, but writing it would depress me. Oh, I haven't updated the standings of my readers and their various points. I'll try to get around to tallying everything up tomorrow.

Merry Monday to all and to all a good night.