Don't Look At Me

It's been an exhausting couple of days for reasons that need not be blogged about in detail for the whole world to read (I know the whole world reads this. Don't even worry.) and there appears to be no end in sight with another day of overtime at work tomorrow and then a harrowing and vomit inducing bus ride to Ottawa for the weekend. The bright side of said bus ride means ample opportunity for people watching, since the underbelly of the world appears to flock to bus terminals like horseflies to a steaming pile. I promise to diligently keep notes and report back my findings. I find myself far too concerned with the backgrounds and personal struggles (that I conjure up all on my own without a shred of proof to back it up, which, at the end of the day, is probably far more demeaning then hurling any silent insult ever could be) of complete strangers to really take that much joy in people watching anymore. I don't know when my world shifted, but we're all just out there trying to make it work the best way we know how, right? So what if that involves a citrusy ensemble with plastic bags around your feet and a shopping cart full of nothing in particular?

I have mixed feelings about a weekend away for a whole shitpile (theme of the night?) of reasons, one being the fact that I have to fare thee well Streetbox McGee (I promise that was English) as she is moving to a far far away land, often referred to as 'Calgary' (cal-gah-ree) in mythical legends. It just hammers another nail into the coffin within which my Ottawa life lies. It's a heinous crime how fast time is permitted to move. Can we impose some kind of speed limit, here?

Unfortunately, I saved this little diddy until just before bed, so the ability to write with clarity about anything of substance, which is the NORM around here, is failing me miserably. Speaking of diddy, just remembered the man I quietly observed at the hospital, whose job cannot be determined as he sat around doing SFA all day long, who took it upon himself to bellow out to no one in particular that, "Bottom line, Roman Powlanski is a DIDDLER." J'taime Timmins and District Hospital.

Let me close this entry by highlighting an area of pure, unadulterated, adolescent joy for me because CHRISTINA AGUILERA fiiiiiinally released her goddamn single, and while I found it underwhelming upon first listen, I will play the shit out of it until it becomes the holiest thing that's ever graced my ear drums. I know she likes to "live a little" between albums to ensure all her songs are meaningful and come from a special placeblahblahblah.. but mother mary, the album STILL doesn't come out until June 8th. How am I to live off ONE song for TWO months? And leave your judgements at the door, alright, people? She's gaudy and horrendous and I love it.

Now tickle your ears with this little shanty:

Bonne Nuit.

Photo via ChristinaAguilera.com

Tea Gives Phoebe the Trots

If this weekend has taught me one thing, it's that I am perfectly content with never seeing the outdoors as long as there is a constant stream of Friends, Seinfeld, Will & Grace, The Golden Girls, or Roseanne on t.v. So there's a frightening glimpse into how I've festered over the last 36 hours. It has also reminded me of how freaking incredible Heath Ledger's performance in the Dark Knight was, as I briefly broke away from regular programming to indulge in a little cinematic adventure. Honeslty, though, never once while watching that movie does it occur to me that Heath Ledger is under there. Only the good die young.

I've decided to dedicate today's blog to three websites that possess a certain je ne sais quoi that keeps me coming back for more when Facebook and Oh No They Didn't just aren't cuttin' it. I would like to descend in order from most to least frightening. Come along, won't you?

1) We have ALL done this at some point in our lives, regardless of gender, race, creed, sexual orientation and every other factor that makes the world go 'round. Something about a camera lens causes us patrons of the world to contort our faces into this unsightly shape and, in the most severe cases, is accompanied by an involuntary throwing up of the peace sign. (The use of "throwing up" is no mistake in that sentence.) All introductions aside, I give you:

STOP MAKING THAT DUCKFACE!

Anyone who knows me knows I am just as guilty of committing duckface as any frat brat out there and if it weren't for my disabling of tagged photos on ol' FB, you'd have more than enough ammo to support this claim. HOWEVER, the discovery of this website has instilled in me a conscious determination to refrain from partaking in this horrific phenomenon anymore. It may be a gradual process, but one day, & with the help of the sobering images found at this site, I will be duckface free. I do attribute my tendency to duckface to the fact that I don't much love my own smile, but I know there's a way around it that doesn't involve duckfacing, and I'll find it.

2) I am the proud owner of a large (exact weight to be determined), fluffy, sassy white rabbit named Ellen (will also respond to Petunia and Peach). That being said, it's safe to say I'm slowly morphing into a 'crazy rabbit lady', a "you complete me" situation. Right? Run for the hills. Anyway, when I stumbled across this gem, it was a right click+save to favourites type deal.

DISAPPROVING RABBITS

CTRL + ALT + DSPRV

I never appreciated the inherent disapproving nature of a rabbit's face until this site brought it to light. I promise it's time well wasted whether you have your very own bunnicula (flashbaaaack. Remember that book?) or not. The captions are what really seal the deal on these sour-faced fluffballs, so kudos to the creators for their keen ability to peer into the inner workings of tiny little bunny brains.

3) I LOVE CAAAAAKE. Cake and cake decorating. If I could make a sweet (pun!) living decorating cakes for the rest of my life, just hand me the icing tube and let me rrrrip. Sadly, my past creations work pretty diligently against this as a possible career path, but I worship those who make it happen. As blown away as I am by a box of Crayola Crayons constructed entirely out of cake, I'm pretty sure I enjoy a good cake disaster just as much, if not more. Voila:

CAKE WRECKS

Don't worry, "Jett" - those poo-bats are so disturbing,
no one will care whose cake this used to be.

The appeal of this site is pretty self-explanatory. You'd be hard pressed to find someone who doesn't love cake (if this applies to you, please stop reading and don't come back here ever again), much less cake gone horribly wrong at the expense of others. Poor Jett and his poo bats. They showcase a hefty percentage of amazing cakes, too, depending on whether you want to "ooh" or "ahh."

Duckface, rabbits, and cakes; my work here is done. If I've helped just one of you waste even an iota of your time, I've done my job. Procrastination is the key to prolonging life after all; so, you're welcome!

Photos via AntiDuckFace, Disapproving Rabbits, & Cake Wrecks.

Hobo Chic

Eating watermelon makes me sad that it's still -10 and lower (higher?) outside. You had your chance, Winter. YOU HAD YOUR CHAAAANCE. The watermelon I speak of was one measly chunk scavenged from the leftover bowl o' fruit provided for the tight-bunned, pinky-lifting, nasally batch of lawyers during their meeting at work today. (This is a sweeping generalization and does not apply to the pleasant, humble and down to earth bunch who I have come in contact with/am related to - Starcastic Beeotch, haiiii - and whom possess full use of their sinuses.) Back to my point, however; summer fruit eaten after windstorms and arctic temperatures recently returned to wipe out the freak streak of ridiculously warm and lovely weather caused serious symptoms of SAD for me this afternoon. (That's an acronym, not a word. Ya don't know, Google it.) Speaking of which, the work week has now come to an end and it's safe to say that the highlight of it was the confused gentleman who happened upon our business Wednesday afternoon. It went something like this:

Man walks past window, carefully reading business name and description on the door (all the while clad in an intensely dark and circular pair of sunglasses), almost passes by and then rethinks it and backs up again to the door. Man opens door and sticks head inside but not a limb more. Enter inquisitive and apprehensive receptionist (yers truly): "Hello." Man replies by entering through the door completely. Still no words. Looks around as though trying to make sense of where he is and how he got there. Curious/increasingly terrified receptionist: "Can I help you with something?" Man mutters to himself that perhaps he is in the wrong place, which consequently eases receptionist's mind and reassures her that he must have a legitimate question of some sort. "Do you speak French?" he asks. Receptionist apologetically tells him that no, she does not. Enter Boss Woman.
Boss Woman: Hello, how can I help you?
Man: Do you speak French?
Boss Woman: No, I don't but there is someone here who does.
*Retrieves Boss Man*
Boss Man: Hi there, what can I do for you?
Man (in ENGLISH): Do you want to buy this?
*opens plastic bag to reveal used pot with a price tag on it reading "$14"*
Boss Man: No, thanks. I'm good. Sorry about that.
Man leaves. Guess he wasn't in the right place after all.
Boss Man: Why did you tell that guy I wanted to buy a used pot?
Confusion for everyone.

I usually make love to the pooch at work, so I welcome strange and unpredictable interruptions such as this. Poor guy. I wonder how he came to the the price of $14. There must be something about that used pot that only he knows about. It should probably stay that way.
There will be no more pooch love for the next little while, however. It is apparently transcript season and every law office in the province has called to order transcripts from previous meetings. I'm pretty sure one of the lawyers from the last one I typed was Tom Hanks. In the one I started today, a combination of Mila Kunis/Elisha Cuthbert/the ginger from Glee seems to be leading the questioning. So far, no John Travolta. On that note, I leave you with a little game of "Spot the Differences":

CAN'T UNSEE.

Photos via OhNoTheyDidn't 1 & 2

Well, All Right. It's Okay.

Initiation into the blogging world, commence.

Tardy to the party. I know.

Listening to She & Him. Haven't checked out any of their stuff until now. It suits a particular mood. I think I dig. Not to mention Zooey Deschanel is the cutest thing I've ever seen. It irritates me a little bit.

This is one of those rare instances where I actually do need more ways with which to occupy my time. Living at home and working a 9-5 ("what a way to make a livin' / barely gettin' by / it's all takin' and no givin"; Dolly knows her shit) has already propelled me into the life of a middle-aged paper pusher. Wake up, go to work, come home, tv time/computer time/story time (in no particular order), go to bed. This is my own fault, I realize. You're only bored if you're boring. But c'est la vie - c'est MA vie, for now. This is what saving money in hopes of having a more exciting life (hello Toronto, see you soon) does to a person/student.. pudent? Sterson?

Alas, exhaustion. Hello and goodnight, bloggers.
It's been lovely meeting you.

Photo via SheandHim.com