Yes, I know I haven't posted anything since the Kenny Loggins story back in January. Life has been in-freaking-SANE, including a lot of stuff I can't talk about here. Suffice to say it all falls under the category of "long story". I have a couple different stories for here though, at least one of which I know I said I'd tell here, and since I'm home alone and bored and no one wants to go to Tony Roma's (I would fucking SHANK someone for ribs right now) I'll put a couple stories up here for you guys.
The first one, I know I mentioned I would tell here sometime, the story of how it came to be raining in my bathroom, and the surreal moments that followed.
Let's go back in time to a hot summer Friday night that started out with me having no plans, as per usual (see "Getting out of my chair avoidance") when I started texting back and forth with my friend Tara. Turned out she had lost her job for a really, REALLY stupid reason, and was understandably upset about it. I told her that instead of just hopping some random Greyhound and leaving town out of sheer frustration (she's crazy neurotic and I totally wouldn't put it past her to do this) I told her to just come over, we'd get drunk and do whatever drunk people do. Usually something stupid. Also keep in mind that, at this point, I had not been home long enough to eat anything, and it was like 30 degrees Celcius outside.
So, she comes over, we walk to the liquor store (or as she would say, the licker store) and get our booze and go back to my apartment. I was drinking vodka that I was mixing with lemonade, which was probably my first mistake. I find lemonade to be both tasty and very thirst-quenching, and because of the heat, I was drinking a lot of it, totally not stopping to consider that I had mixed alcohol with this particular lemonade and should probably slow down. I was thirsty as hell and obviously not thinking. So I got much drunker than I normally do, since I'm actually not much of a drinker, in a big hurry. It's worth reiterating that at this point, I also had not eaten since around noon. Then I made what was probably my second mistake. I got stoned.
Okay, as an aside here. I've been a pot smoker for...uhh...I don't know...probably about nine years now. Mostly, I smoke weed because if I don't, I don't sleep. I have a really hard time mentally shutting down enough to relax and fall asleep, and even if I can get that far, I am a light sleeper and wake easily. I will not get a prescription for any kind of sleep aid like Ambien, because people die from that. Nytol doesn't work anymore unless I take literally SIX TIMES the recommended maximum dose, and there's no possible way that's even remotely healthy for me. If you still disapprove of my smoking weed to sleep, come talk to me about it again after you've gone a week without sleeping and you're hearing and seeing shit that isn't really there. Smoking weed around other people, and for simple recreational purposes, is actually pretty unusual for me. Back to the story.
So, at this point, I'm stoned, I'm drunk, my friend is drunk and probably partially stoned just from the haze I generated (I do not mess around when it comes to weed. The stuff I get through my room mate would probably put a lightweight in a coma) when my miniature pinscher, Dog (yes, that was her name) comes skittering into the living room. That in itself was nothing unusual, but the weird thing was that she was all wet. Dog HATED water, and I couldn't think of anywhere she could have been in the apartment where she would have gotten wet, other than maybe falling into the water bowl. So I got up and sort of swayed my way down the hall Dog had come from to see what the hell was going on.
Have you ever seen it rain indoors? I have, actually more than once. It's a weird experience when you're sober, at the best of times, never mind when you're crosseyed drunk and stoned to boot. I was bewildered and reacting very slowly. I'm pretty sure it was Tara who suggested we go upstairs and see if the apartment above me was also having water issues. She also had the presence of mind to call my landlord, using the phone number that was on a notice I had stuck to my fridge, probably for that exact reason. So, we go upstairs and I knock on the door. There's no answer right at first, then Tara heard the sounds of a little kid. So we reasoned that either my neighbours were indeed home, or they had simply abandoned their child in a flooding apartment. Either way, louder knocking was in order. So I knocked again, much louder, and finally the female half of the couple answers the door. They're Asian, and do not speak much English. I ask her if they have water running, or pipes leaking, or anything that could be causing my bathroom-monsoon. She tries a couple times to explain, but the language barrier is just too much to overcome, so she gestures for me to come inside.
Their apartment was laid out exactly the same as mine, so when I came around the corner away from the front door, I was fully aware that the bath tub's manual shutoffs were behind a panel in the wall to my right. I was totally expecting to see that. What I was NOT expecting to see, however, was the sight of the male half of this couple, up to his elbows in the panel, water spraying everywhere while he was wearing nothing but tighty-whities. Or, ginch, if you prefer. Yes, I know that was an unnecessary clarification. I just like the word "ginch". Also, "gonch".
It such a surreal moment; maybe you had to be there. Water was spraying everywhere, my weird neighbour was in his gonch, (haha, gonch) it was raining in my bathroom, the world was swaying back and forth, and both halves of Neighbour Couple were talking to each other in a language I couldn't even remotely hope to understand. I knew that if I did not get out of that apartment ASAP, I was going to go into a fit of hysterical laughter, because for some reason, that's often how I handle tension. Plus, I was still pretty stoned, and in that state, EVERYTHING is hilarious.
The whole cause of this was my neighbour thinking he could fix something to do with the shutoffs, and he damaged the valve inside somehow so that it would no longer close. The pressure made the pipe break somewhere and because he had already wrecked the valve, there was no way for him to shut the water off. Now, I'm a reasonably intelligent person, and fairly capable of fixing small things. I can install weather stripping, change a light bulb, wire speakers, prep a room for painting then paint it, install drywall, and fix computers and cars with a fair degree of competence, thanks to my parents (my father in particular) for making sure I could do simple fixes on my own. Even if it's something I've never done before, I can usually figure things out. However, that being said, the two things I NEVER mess with are electrical and plumbing. My room mate is a plumber and I've learned a lot just from watching him, but I still wouldn't take on anything more complicated than plungering a toilet, because I don't know what the shit I'm doing and when plumbing (or electrical) goes wrong, it goes wrong BADLY. If my neighbour had had even a modicum of common sense, he would have either called a plumber or the landlord. But no. Instead he created a rain storm in my bathroom.
And let me tell you, the image of him in his soaking wet ginch (hehehe, ginch) was burned into my retinas for a long, LONG time. The only really sad part about it came along a couple years later, when he tweaked out and murdered his wife. I'm now really, REALLY glad I didn't point and laugh when I saw his undies.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Do Not Take His Name In Vain!
Before I can properly tell this story, I need to refer you to this post:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/12/year-kenny-loggins-ruined-christmas.html
from one of my favourite blogs, Allie Brosh's Hyperbole and A Half. I honestly almost peed myself the first time I read it, and I passed it along to several friends, one of whom was my cousin Rae, who thought it was just as hilarious as I did.
Fast forward to Christmas day and the family dinner at my parents' house. I had had a LOT of wine, and since I rarely drink, it hit me hard. Also, since I don't drive, I was forced to hitch a ride back into the city (my parents live in an outlying suburb of the city I live in) with Rae and her husband in his giant pedo-van, which thankfully was big enough to carry all the stuff I'd gotten for Christmas. To make things easier to carry, and so we could do it all in one trip, I had stuck several smaller gifts into a large gift back that had come holding the talking plushy bacon that Rae had given me for Christmas. Maybe someday I'll post pics of my substantial collection of bacon-related things. Anyway, I digress.
We loaded the large gift bag, a big box containing large standing heater, a box holding an electric blanket and one other thing into the back of the van. The drive home was uneventful, but when we got there and Rae and I started unloading my stuff, things started to come undone, so to speak.
One of the handles on the gift bag I was carrying tore off, so I resorted to dragging it through the snow and up to the sidewalk. Meanwhile, several paces ahead of me, Rae was having her own difficulties as the handle on the heater box ripped and she nearly dropped it. I managed to drag the gift bag a few more steps before it got caught on something and I kind of lurched, nearly falling over it. Did I mention I had had a lot to drink? Yeah. Rae was stone cold sober, since she had other plans for later in the evening, but you'd have never known it by the way we were both acting. Even I'd have bet we were both shitfaced.
When I nearly fell, instead of cursing or saying pretty much anything that a normal person would have said in such circumstances, I decided instead to call upon Allie's God of Ruined Christmases. "KENNY LOGGINS!!" I hollered furiously up to the sky, rather like Steve Carell screaming, "KELLY CLARKSON!!" when he was getting his chest waxed in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin". Then Rae and I both collapsed into hysterical laughter.
We just sat on the sidewalk, surrounded by my stuff, laughing and laughing and unable to get up. Just as I started to pull myself together, I imagined my neighbours inside the apartment building, doing their own peaceful Christmas night things, when all of a sudden the name "Kenny Loggins" bellowed into the air rent the still, winter night air. For some stupid drunken reason, this struck me as even more funny and I only managed to make it a few steps closer to Rae and the door before I started cracking up again. I can only imagine what my neighbours must have thought.
We managed to make it into the vestibule, where we sat for awhile, catching our breath and trying to pull ourselves together before tackling the last massive challenge before us: stairs. Somehow we made it, and I kept snickering and giggling to myself the whole way wondering what Rae's husband must have thought, sitting in the van in the middle of my unplowed, starlit street watching his wife and her insane cousin sitting on the sidewalk, laughing like loons after screaming something unintelligible about Kenny Loggins.
Ahh, Christmas.
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/12/year-kenny-loggins-ruined-christmas.html
from one of my favourite blogs, Allie Brosh's Hyperbole and A Half. I honestly almost peed myself the first time I read it, and I passed it along to several friends, one of whom was my cousin Rae, who thought it was just as hilarious as I did.
Fast forward to Christmas day and the family dinner at my parents' house. I had had a LOT of wine, and since I rarely drink, it hit me hard. Also, since I don't drive, I was forced to hitch a ride back into the city (my parents live in an outlying suburb of the city I live in) with Rae and her husband in his giant pedo-van, which thankfully was big enough to carry all the stuff I'd gotten for Christmas. To make things easier to carry, and so we could do it all in one trip, I had stuck several smaller gifts into a large gift back that had come holding the talking plushy bacon that Rae had given me for Christmas. Maybe someday I'll post pics of my substantial collection of bacon-related things. Anyway, I digress.
We loaded the large gift bag, a big box containing large standing heater, a box holding an electric blanket and one other thing into the back of the van. The drive home was uneventful, but when we got there and Rae and I started unloading my stuff, things started to come undone, so to speak.
One of the handles on the gift bag I was carrying tore off, so I resorted to dragging it through the snow and up to the sidewalk. Meanwhile, several paces ahead of me, Rae was having her own difficulties as the handle on the heater box ripped and she nearly dropped it. I managed to drag the gift bag a few more steps before it got caught on something and I kind of lurched, nearly falling over it. Did I mention I had had a lot to drink? Yeah. Rae was stone cold sober, since she had other plans for later in the evening, but you'd have never known it by the way we were both acting. Even I'd have bet we were both shitfaced.
When I nearly fell, instead of cursing or saying pretty much anything that a normal person would have said in such circumstances, I decided instead to call upon Allie's God of Ruined Christmases. "KENNY LOGGINS!!" I hollered furiously up to the sky, rather like Steve Carell screaming, "KELLY CLARKSON!!" when he was getting his chest waxed in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin". Then Rae and I both collapsed into hysterical laughter.
We just sat on the sidewalk, surrounded by my stuff, laughing and laughing and unable to get up. Just as I started to pull myself together, I imagined my neighbours inside the apartment building, doing their own peaceful Christmas night things, when all of a sudden the name "Kenny Loggins" bellowed into the air rent the still, winter night air. For some stupid drunken reason, this struck me as even more funny and I only managed to make it a few steps closer to Rae and the door before I started cracking up again. I can only imagine what my neighbours must have thought.
We managed to make it into the vestibule, where we sat for awhile, catching our breath and trying to pull ourselves together before tackling the last massive challenge before us: stairs. Somehow we made it, and I kept snickering and giggling to myself the whole way wondering what Rae's husband must have thought, sitting in the van in the middle of my unplowed, starlit street watching his wife and her insane cousin sitting on the sidewalk, laughing like loons after screaming something unintelligible about Kenny Loggins.
Ahh, Christmas.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Merry Christmas vs Happy Holidays
So, I promised a post bitching about Christmas, and this is about as close as it's going to get, for now anyways.
Two days ago I was at themaul mall, picking up a Christmas card for my friend's teenage son. I found one with a suitably silly fart joke on it, and was waiting in line to pay. It's important to note at this point in the story that the cashier was of some ethnic background other than white. (That's all I got...I won't try to pinpoint what exactly her background was, I have no idea; just that she was dark-skinned and wore a head scarf.)
She rang up the purchase of a bitchy old lady in front of me, then brightly wished her "Happy Holidays!"
From this old woman's reaction, you would have thought the cashier had broken all ten commandments at once.
"What do you mean, 'HAPPY HOLIDAYS??' the harpy absolutely shrieked. "Whatever happened to 'Merry Christmas'?? It's people like YOU" (here she jabbed an accusing finger at the cashier, who was very rapidly going from shocked to upset) "that take the Christ out of Christmas!" and on and on and on and ON she went. At this point, I'm getting annoyed and impatient and my natural desire to protect service staff kicks in. The cashier can't say anything. But I certainly fuckin can. And I will. Finally I interrupted the old bat on her rant.
"Lady," I snapped, "get a bloody GRIP!" She spun around, looking as stunned as she would have if I had smacked the back of her head. Believe me, I was tempted. "What did you say??" she screeched at me. "I said, get a grip. Calm down, you are flipping out over NOTHING. LESS than nothing. 'Happy holidays' is a well-wish, just like merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, joyous solstice, Happy zombie Jesus day, or whatever the hell you celebrate. She could have told you to go to hell. She could have told you to go die in a fire. Take 'Happy Holidays's as the well-wish it was meant to be, shut your cakehole and get on with your life! Good GOD!!" (Okay yeah, I realise I wasn't very polite. I just hate when people act like that. I spent a lot of years in customer service, in the same position as that poor cashier, and I can't tell you how many times I wished some other customer would come to my rescue.)
The old bag looked surprised to find someone who could make as much, if not more, noise than her, and she gave me what we in the service industry like to call, "Cat-butt face". I can't describe it; suffice to say that when you see cat-butt face, you'll know EXACTLY what I mean. She exclaimed, "Well, I never!" and I had one more brain-to-mouth filter failure when I snapped back, "Well maybe you SHOULD!" She snatched up her receipt and her items, gave the cashier (who was now trying very hard not to laugh) and I one last, incensed look before storming out of the store. The cashier rang up my stuff uneventfully and on my way out of the store, I stopped in the doorway and called out, "Happy holidays, miss!"
Two days ago I was at the
She rang up the purchase of a bitchy old lady in front of me, then brightly wished her "Happy Holidays!"
From this old woman's reaction, you would have thought the cashier had broken all ten commandments at once.
"What do you mean, 'HAPPY HOLIDAYS??' the harpy absolutely shrieked. "Whatever happened to 'Merry Christmas'?? It's people like YOU" (here she jabbed an accusing finger at the cashier, who was very rapidly going from shocked to upset) "that take the Christ out of Christmas!" and on and on and on and ON she went. At this point, I'm getting annoyed and impatient and my natural desire to protect service staff kicks in. The cashier can't say anything. But I certainly fuckin can. And I will. Finally I interrupted the old bat on her rant.
"Lady," I snapped, "get a bloody GRIP!" She spun around, looking as stunned as she would have if I had smacked the back of her head. Believe me, I was tempted. "What did you say??" she screeched at me. "I said, get a grip. Calm down, you are flipping out over NOTHING. LESS than nothing. 'Happy holidays' is a well-wish, just like merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, joyous solstice, Happy zombie Jesus day, or whatever the hell you celebrate. She could have told you to go to hell. She could have told you to go die in a fire. Take 'Happy Holidays's as the well-wish it was meant to be, shut your cakehole and get on with your life! Good GOD!!" (Okay yeah, I realise I wasn't very polite. I just hate when people act like that. I spent a lot of years in customer service, in the same position as that poor cashier, and I can't tell you how many times I wished some other customer would come to my rescue.)
The old bag looked surprised to find someone who could make as much, if not more, noise than her, and she gave me what we in the service industry like to call, "Cat-butt face". I can't describe it; suffice to say that when you see cat-butt face, you'll know EXACTLY what I mean. She exclaimed, "Well, I never!" and I had one more brain-to-mouth filter failure when I snapped back, "Well maybe you SHOULD!" She snatched up her receipt and her items, gave the cashier (who was now trying very hard not to laugh) and I one last, incensed look before storming out of the store. The cashier rang up my stuff uneventfully and on my way out of the store, I stopped in the doorway and called out, "Happy holidays, miss!"
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
My scarf, or how hawky ruined Christmas.
So, the weather here in my corner of Canuckistan has turned cold again, so of course I bundle up for work, because well...it's cold. And I hate the cold. I told you there'd be at least one post about me bitching about the cold, and this is partially it.
When I bundle up for the trip to work, I wear a jacket I've named Gargantucoat. Gargantucoat weighs a lot, and is normally issued to northern offshore rig workers. It's rated for something like -50C, is fireproof, waterproof, and probably bulletproof. Lord knows it's thick enough. I inherited Gargantucoat from my father, who no longer works in the field but is now a paper pusher. I also have a pair of black fleece mittens, and a green striped toque (pronounced "tuke", rhyming with "nuke" for you Americans) with ear flaps, tassels, and a pom pom on top. I bought this hat a couple winters ago, my friend T had a matching one, but lost it. Lame-sauce, T. I also wear a scarf made of variegated green wool that, when hanging loose around my neck, reaches to my knees. This is the scarf this post is about.
My trip home, depending which way I take, involves either two buses, or a bus, a train, then another bus. Today was a train day, suiting me fine, because at least the train station is underground and somewhat out of the weather. I settled myself in my seat when the train came and was looking out the window, thinking of nothing in particular other than what I needed to do when I got to the mall station, when a woman sat down across from me. (The seats on the train are in pairs facing each other.) She said hello to me, and since I'm Canadian and politeness is deeply ingrained in my being, I said hello back, even though I honestly have no interest in speaking to strangers on the train.
After a few minutes of semi-awkward silence, she said, "I like your hat." So I replied, "Thanks. I got it at Zellers a couple winters ago." "Oh, that's nice," she replied brightly. "Where did you get your scarf? I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE it! I want one just like that for my daughter. She'd loooooooooooove it too!" Yes, she actually drew out the word "love" like that. Oh lord. Here we go. They need to have crazy-people detectors at the train station entrances, if you ask me. Nothing like being trapped on a train with a scarf-obsessed loon.
"Sorry," I replied. "It's one of a kind." She pounced on that immediately, her tone suggesting I was deliberately withholding information from her because there was no possible way I could tolerate some other being on the planet having a scarf anything like as nice as mine. "How do you KNOW it's one of a kind?" she demanded. "Maybe it was just the last one in the store!" I sighed. I'd already had a long day and now somehow I was roped into this insane conversation about my scarf, of all things. "I know it's one of a kind because I made it," I replied, which is true. It may surprise many people to know that I'm actually an avid wool-worker, I love to knit and crochet. This particular scarf I crocheted two years ago, and it's served me very well. I've actually grown quite fond of it. Maybe someday I'll post a picture of it or something.
"But my daughter would LOOOOOVE it! Can I have it? You could just give it to me! You can always make another one, right? Right??"
"Lady," I replied, pretty much at the end of my patience, "I made this for myself. I've been wearing it two years. I got the yarn at Wal-Mart, if you're really that interested. I'm sure they still carry it. Learn to knit, scarves are easy to make. Then your daughter can have one just like mine."
Okay, that was totally the wrong thing to say. I realised it a split-second too late. This woman went from whiny to hosebeast in about half a second, and I am still trapped on the train with her, two stations away from my stop. She flips out at my suggestion and starts YELLING IN ALL CAPS!!!
"I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THAT, JUST GIVE ME YOURS!! YOU CAN MAKE ANOTHER ONE! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WON'T GIVE ME A STUPID SCARF, I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY, YOU'VE RUINED MY DAUGHTER'S CHRISTMAS!!"
Uhh...did your daughter have hear heart set on my scarf? Has she been following me around all winter, watching and waiting for an opportunity to steal it? Do you realise I need it to stop my face from freezing off? Does your daughter know that her mother goes around shaking people down on the train in order to complete her Christmas shopping?
I wrapped my scarf around my neck and stuffed it down the neck of Gargantucoat, zipping it up in case she got desperate and made a grab for it. Thankfully by then it was my stop and I got off the train and just about ran to the exit.
On the plus side, I ruined someone's Christmas! A complete stranger! Over a scarf that cost me about $7 in wool and one afternoon to make! Woo!
When I bundle up for the trip to work, I wear a jacket I've named Gargantucoat. Gargantucoat weighs a lot, and is normally issued to northern offshore rig workers. It's rated for something like -50C, is fireproof, waterproof, and probably bulletproof. Lord knows it's thick enough. I inherited Gargantucoat from my father, who no longer works in the field but is now a paper pusher. I also have a pair of black fleece mittens, and a green striped toque (pronounced "tuke", rhyming with "nuke" for you Americans) with ear flaps, tassels, and a pom pom on top. I bought this hat a couple winters ago, my friend T had a matching one, but lost it. Lame-sauce, T. I also wear a scarf made of variegated green wool that, when hanging loose around my neck, reaches to my knees. This is the scarf this post is about.
My trip home, depending which way I take, involves either two buses, or a bus, a train, then another bus. Today was a train day, suiting me fine, because at least the train station is underground and somewhat out of the weather. I settled myself in my seat when the train came and was looking out the window, thinking of nothing in particular other than what I needed to do when I got to the mall station, when a woman sat down across from me. (The seats on the train are in pairs facing each other.) She said hello to me, and since I'm Canadian and politeness is deeply ingrained in my being, I said hello back, even though I honestly have no interest in speaking to strangers on the train.
After a few minutes of semi-awkward silence, she said, "I like your hat." So I replied, "Thanks. I got it at Zellers a couple winters ago." "Oh, that's nice," she replied brightly. "Where did you get your scarf? I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE it! I want one just like that for my daughter. She'd loooooooooooove it too!" Yes, she actually drew out the word "love" like that. Oh lord. Here we go. They need to have crazy-people detectors at the train station entrances, if you ask me. Nothing like being trapped on a train with a scarf-obsessed loon.
"Sorry," I replied. "It's one of a kind." She pounced on that immediately, her tone suggesting I was deliberately withholding information from her because there was no possible way I could tolerate some other being on the planet having a scarf anything like as nice as mine. "How do you KNOW it's one of a kind?" she demanded. "Maybe it was just the last one in the store!" I sighed. I'd already had a long day and now somehow I was roped into this insane conversation about my scarf, of all things. "I know it's one of a kind because I made it," I replied, which is true. It may surprise many people to know that I'm actually an avid wool-worker, I love to knit and crochet. This particular scarf I crocheted two years ago, and it's served me very well. I've actually grown quite fond of it. Maybe someday I'll post a picture of it or something.
"But my daughter would LOOOOOVE it! Can I have it? You could just give it to me! You can always make another one, right? Right??"
"Lady," I replied, pretty much at the end of my patience, "I made this for myself. I've been wearing it two years. I got the yarn at Wal-Mart, if you're really that interested. I'm sure they still carry it. Learn to knit, scarves are easy to make. Then your daughter can have one just like mine."
Okay, that was totally the wrong thing to say. I realised it a split-second too late. This woman went from whiny to hosebeast in about half a second, and I am still trapped on the train with her, two stations away from my stop. She flips out at my suggestion and starts YELLING IN ALL CAPS!!!
"I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THAT, JUST GIVE ME YOURS!! YOU CAN MAKE ANOTHER ONE! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WON'T GIVE ME A STUPID SCARF, I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY, YOU'VE RUINED MY DAUGHTER'S CHRISTMAS!!"
Uhh...did your daughter have hear heart set on my scarf? Has she been following me around all winter, watching and waiting for an opportunity to steal it? Do you realise I need it to stop my face from freezing off? Does your daughter know that her mother goes around shaking people down on the train in order to complete her Christmas shopping?
I wrapped my scarf around my neck and stuffed it down the neck of Gargantucoat, zipping it up in case she got desperate and made a grab for it. Thankfully by then it was my stop and I got off the train and just about ran to the exit.
On the plus side, I ruined someone's Christmas! A complete stranger! Over a scarf that cost me about $7 in wool and one afternoon to make! Woo!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Shower
Well. It's been an interesting couple of weeks. Getting into the swing of things at my new job, which, though it pays well enough, is boring as fuck. Making some improvements around the apartment, and trying to get myself together for Christmas, which I hate. I'm sure there will be at least one angry post about Christmas, Christmas shopping, fad toys, my bitchy sister, or all of the above. But today, I'm talking about my shower.
Everyone has to shower. If we don't, we smell bad, and repulse people. While repulsing people isn't necessarily a BAD thing, being smelly, grubby and itchy is. I shower typically daily, when I get home from work, because I have a dirty job, and I also have masses of very long thick hair that takes a billion zillion years to dry. I could speed up the process with a hair dryer, I guess, which I may or may not still own. I honestly don't know. I can tell you that I never DID own one until I got a longhaired dog, though. But I digress. The shower.
I like my showers to be a relaxing experience. I love the warm water pouring over me, the white noise from the fan, the steaminess, everything. I even have speakers in my bathroom that I can hook my Zune up to so I can sing and not take a break from actively annoying my upstairs neighbours while I attend to the necessary task of showering. I also have a wall-mounted candle holder in the shape of a tree that holds 8 tea lights, so I can even have a nice candle-lit bath or shower if I want. However, I also live in an apartment building, which means I cannot be in complete control of the water temperature.
I'm pretty sure everyone has had this experience. You're in the shower, rinsing your hair, using the back brush, jerking off, whatever your shower routine is, when all of a sudden your nice warm shower betrays you. Everything's fine, then all of a sudden someone's washing machine or dishwasher kicks in, and the spray goes from comfortably warm and steamy to JESUS CHRIST ICICLES!! Once you recover from that unpleasantness, which may or may not involve slipping, hitting your head on the wall or faucet and/or possibly ripping down your shower curtain to escape the arctic blast, you manage to get back into your shower groove and are just starting to trust the water again when some jackass in the building has the nerve to flush his toilet. Then once again, suddenly the water temperature has a major mood swing. Only instead of Jesus Christ Icicles, you get MOTHERFUCKER MOLTEN LAVA!! This is usually the point where I pull out the serious cuss words and as long as I don't have a head full of shampoo or conditioner, at this point my shower is officially over.
Sometimes, just out of spite, I like to flush my toilet or run my dishwasher or washing machine when I know my upstairs neighbour is in the shower. It's my bitchy, passive-aggressive way of getting revenge for having to listen to him and his wife having boring, mechanical, practically SCHEDULED sex every Wednesday and Sunday nights, as well as that one time he tried to pull off some DIY plumbing one summer evening when I had a friend over, the end result of which was a rain storm coming through my bathroom ceiling and culminated in one of the most surreal moments in my entire life. Maybe some day I'll get around to telling that story.
Everyone has to shower. If we don't, we smell bad, and repulse people. While repulsing people isn't necessarily a BAD thing, being smelly, grubby and itchy is. I shower typically daily, when I get home from work, because I have a dirty job, and I also have masses of very long thick hair that takes a billion zillion years to dry. I could speed up the process with a hair dryer, I guess, which I may or may not still own. I honestly don't know. I can tell you that I never DID own one until I got a longhaired dog, though. But I digress. The shower.
I like my showers to be a relaxing experience. I love the warm water pouring over me, the white noise from the fan, the steaminess, everything. I even have speakers in my bathroom that I can hook my Zune up to so I can sing and not take a break from actively annoying my upstairs neighbours while I attend to the necessary task of showering. I also have a wall-mounted candle holder in the shape of a tree that holds 8 tea lights, so I can even have a nice candle-lit bath or shower if I want. However, I also live in an apartment building, which means I cannot be in complete control of the water temperature.
I'm pretty sure everyone has had this experience. You're in the shower, rinsing your hair, using the back brush, jerking off, whatever your shower routine is, when all of a sudden your nice warm shower betrays you. Everything's fine, then all of a sudden someone's washing machine or dishwasher kicks in, and the spray goes from comfortably warm and steamy to JESUS CHRIST ICICLES!! Once you recover from that unpleasantness, which may or may not involve slipping, hitting your head on the wall or faucet and/or possibly ripping down your shower curtain to escape the arctic blast, you manage to get back into your shower groove and are just starting to trust the water again when some jackass in the building has the nerve to flush his toilet. Then once again, suddenly the water temperature has a major mood swing. Only instead of Jesus Christ Icicles, you get MOTHERFUCKER MOLTEN LAVA!! This is usually the point where I pull out the serious cuss words and as long as I don't have a head full of shampoo or conditioner, at this point my shower is officially over.
Sometimes, just out of spite, I like to flush my toilet or run my dishwasher or washing machine when I know my upstairs neighbour is in the shower. It's my bitchy, passive-aggressive way of getting revenge for having to listen to him and his wife having boring, mechanical, practically SCHEDULED sex every Wednesday and Sunday nights, as well as that one time he tried to pull off some DIY plumbing one summer evening when I had a friend over, the end result of which was a rain storm coming through my bathroom ceiling and culminated in one of the most surreal moments in my entire life. Maybe some day I'll get around to telling that story.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
On the phone in the bathroom.
So, sometimes when I go out into public, I occasionally have to avail myself of a public washroom. I don't like it; I don't really think taking a crap is a spectator sport, but sometimes you just have to. One of my pet peeves, aside from water everywhere or a filthy bathroom or no toilet paper, is this new trend of people talking on their cellphones while in the public washroom.
I always wonder, do the people on the other end of the phone call KNOW that their friend is talking to them while they're on the crapper? What would they think if they did know? Is there something I can do to make them more aware?
So the other day on my way home from the job interview I mentioned previously, I stopped at a Tim's on my way home because I wanted a bagel, I was horrifically thirsty, and I REALLY needed to pee. So I go into the washroom, pick a stall, sit down and am doing my business when I realise the person in the stall next to me is on the phone. I was a little thrown right at first, I thought she was talking to me, which seemed weird. Who strikes up a conversation in the bathroom with a complete stranger in the stall beside them, really? I could tell she was trying to be quiet in what she was doing so the person on the other end of the phone wouldn't know she was in the bathroom, so I decided to make it clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone was being subjected to a bathroom conversation.
I waited for a brief lull in the conversation, put my hands over my mouth (like when you were a kid. Don't deny it, we all did it) and let rip with the loudest, lengthiest fart noise I could possibly produce. I had exhaled so hard and so long to make this fart noise that I was actually starting to see spots by the time I stopped. I followed that with a series of loud, quick, staccato fart noises, punctuated with the occasional groan or sigh.
Then I really started to get into it, partly because I was enjoying myself and partly because I knew if I stopped, I would start laughing. So I upped the ante, making longer and louder fart noises, mixing in some groans and moans and the occasional plea to God, sometimes banging on the walls of the stall or stamping my feet on the floor like I was taking the longest, loudest, biggest, most hellacious dump in the history of ever. From the stall next to me, there was a sudden, shocked silence. I could tell she was still there though; I could see her feet. On to the grand finale!
I took a big, deep breath, and made the loudest, longest fart noise I think I have ever produced in my lifetime, pressing my hands over my mouth harder to vary the pitch from a deep rumbler to a high squeal. I stamped my feet on the floor, and banged my elbows (my hands were busy) on the wall of the stall, then I cried out, "Oh god. Oh god, there's BLOOD!" I think that's what did it. I heard a rattle of TP roll, the bang of a stall door and retreating footsteps. She didn't even stop to wash her hands.
Yeah. I can be like that sometimes.
I always wonder, do the people on the other end of the phone call KNOW that their friend is talking to them while they're on the crapper? What would they think if they did know? Is there something I can do to make them more aware?
So the other day on my way home from the job interview I mentioned previously, I stopped at a Tim's on my way home because I wanted a bagel, I was horrifically thirsty, and I REALLY needed to pee. So I go into the washroom, pick a stall, sit down and am doing my business when I realise the person in the stall next to me is on the phone. I was a little thrown right at first, I thought she was talking to me, which seemed weird. Who strikes up a conversation in the bathroom with a complete stranger in the stall beside them, really? I could tell she was trying to be quiet in what she was doing so the person on the other end of the phone wouldn't know she was in the bathroom, so I decided to make it clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone was being subjected to a bathroom conversation.
I waited for a brief lull in the conversation, put my hands over my mouth (like when you were a kid. Don't deny it, we all did it) and let rip with the loudest, lengthiest fart noise I could possibly produce. I had exhaled so hard and so long to make this fart noise that I was actually starting to see spots by the time I stopped. I followed that with a series of loud, quick, staccato fart noises, punctuated with the occasional groan or sigh.
Then I really started to get into it, partly because I was enjoying myself and partly because I knew if I stopped, I would start laughing. So I upped the ante, making longer and louder fart noises, mixing in some groans and moans and the occasional plea to God, sometimes banging on the walls of the stall or stamping my feet on the floor like I was taking the longest, loudest, biggest, most hellacious dump in the history of ever. From the stall next to me, there was a sudden, shocked silence. I could tell she was still there though; I could see her feet. On to the grand finale!
I took a big, deep breath, and made the loudest, longest fart noise I think I have ever produced in my lifetime, pressing my hands over my mouth harder to vary the pitch from a deep rumbler to a high squeal. I stamped my feet on the floor, and banged my elbows (my hands were busy) on the wall of the stall, then I cried out, "Oh god. Oh god, there's BLOOD!" I think that's what did it. I heard a rattle of TP roll, the bang of a stall door and retreating footsteps. She didn't even stop to wash her hands.
Yeah. I can be like that sometimes.
Friday, October 29, 2010
This is why I don't leave my house!!
I'm pretty well-known for being kind of a shut-in. There are a lot of reasons for this. I don't like cold weather. I hate people. I don't like crowds, or really loud places. I don't really drink or dance so I totally don't belong in a bar. But the biggest reason, and I'm honestly not kidding, is laziness. I don't like to go places because going places puts me in a position where I have to do one of my must hated activites: Getting out of my chair.
I can almost hear you rolling your eyes at me. Knock it off. If you don't understand why I hate getting out of my chair, then clearly you have never felt the seductive power of a good sit.
However, because I've grown accustomed to certain luxuries, like living indoors and eating regularly, I HAD to go out today, because I had a job interview. I got offered the job on the spot, by the way. And so to get to this interview, I had to brave something I haven't had to deal with all summer: The bus.
Now, there are many people who, like me, are (reasonably) sane, normal, functional members of society. Our failing is that, for whatever reason, we do not drive and therefore need to avail ourselves of public transit. I despise taking the bus, in spite of the fact that for years, I've had to do it almost every day. This summer I was (dubiously) lucky enough to be working close to home, so I walked back and forth to work every day, but this new job means I'll be taking the bus every day again. Nngh. The bus is full of CRAZY PEOPLE.
I once saw a guy on the bus having a very animated argument with his own reflection in the window. I once also saw a very large drunken woman's over-taxed Yoga pants fall off, completely and indisputably solving an argument my friend and I were having over whether or not she was wearing underwear. In case you're curious, she wasn't. I once had my hand closed in the door of a bus, which then started pulling away from the curb. I lost a nice bracelet that day, but am glad that I did at least get my hand back. The drivers of our local transit are....special.
Today, because it's the Friday before Halloween, and I happened to be headed home from my interview about the time that the large high school across the street was letting out for the day, I couldn't even tell the difference between the crazies and the sane people anymore. When you see some dude on Halloween, wearing a large pink bunny suit, it's easy to think, "Hey, that guy is just getting into the spirit of things, nice costume!" When you see some dude wearing a large pink bunny suit on, say, September fourth, you can be fairly sure that his saddle is starting to slip, and you'll know to steer clear. Before I left my first inspection job with National Oilwell, on my way home one day in like...July...I saw some guy dressed head to toe in an outfit that made him look like Jigsaw, from the Saw movies. I decided it'd be better to just wait for the next bus, because I really didn't feel like getting stabbed that night.
In conclusion, public transit is full of crazy people. If you're lucky, they'll identify themselves by wearing some kind of totally out of place costume, like a pink bunny, or Jigsaw, or the Jolly Green Giant, or whatever the fuck. Or, you could end up sitting next to some whacko who looks like everyone else. Just like me....
I can almost hear you rolling your eyes at me. Knock it off. If you don't understand why I hate getting out of my chair, then clearly you have never felt the seductive power of a good sit.
However, because I've grown accustomed to certain luxuries, like living indoors and eating regularly, I HAD to go out today, because I had a job interview. I got offered the job on the spot, by the way. And so to get to this interview, I had to brave something I haven't had to deal with all summer: The bus.
Now, there are many people who, like me, are (reasonably) sane, normal, functional members of society. Our failing is that, for whatever reason, we do not drive and therefore need to avail ourselves of public transit. I despise taking the bus, in spite of the fact that for years, I've had to do it almost every day. This summer I was (dubiously) lucky enough to be working close to home, so I walked back and forth to work every day, but this new job means I'll be taking the bus every day again. Nngh. The bus is full of CRAZY PEOPLE.
I once saw a guy on the bus having a very animated argument with his own reflection in the window. I once also saw a very large drunken woman's over-taxed Yoga pants fall off, completely and indisputably solving an argument my friend and I were having over whether or not she was wearing underwear. In case you're curious, she wasn't. I once had my hand closed in the door of a bus, which then started pulling away from the curb. I lost a nice bracelet that day, but am glad that I did at least get my hand back. The drivers of our local transit are....special.
Today, because it's the Friday before Halloween, and I happened to be headed home from my interview about the time that the large high school across the street was letting out for the day, I couldn't even tell the difference between the crazies and the sane people anymore. When you see some dude on Halloween, wearing a large pink bunny suit, it's easy to think, "Hey, that guy is just getting into the spirit of things, nice costume!" When you see some dude wearing a large pink bunny suit on, say, September fourth, you can be fairly sure that his saddle is starting to slip, and you'll know to steer clear. Before I left my first inspection job with National Oilwell, on my way home one day in like...July...I saw some guy dressed head to toe in an outfit that made him look like Jigsaw, from the Saw movies. I decided it'd be better to just wait for the next bus, because I really didn't feel like getting stabbed that night.
In conclusion, public transit is full of crazy people. If you're lucky, they'll identify themselves by wearing some kind of totally out of place costume, like a pink bunny, or Jigsaw, or the Jolly Green Giant, or whatever the fuck. Or, you could end up sitting next to some whacko who looks like everyone else. Just like me....
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