Sunday, December 13, 2009

'Twas 12 Days Before Christmas

People suck. Yeah, yeah I know, that's harsh and cynical and pessimistic, but guess what fuckers, they do. Not all of you. Certainly not those of you who read and enjoy this blog but, some people really suck hard and in so many different ways. I don't even know where to begin, but I'll try...

1. I know it's been said before, but it's true, people should have to get a license to reproduce. Easier said then done, but there are so many people who shouldn't be allowed to care for goldfish, nevermind a child, that it's ridiculous. That being said I wish PETA would fuck off already. Where's the big activist group for children's rights? Is there one? I don't even know which tells me if there is one, they suck too and/or aren't getting any publicity because it's so much more media friendly to talk about puppy mills and dead cats found in homes on 'Hoarders' than it is to talk about physical and sexual abuse and neglect. That's just a stab in the dark.

2. Bullshit is rampant in our society. Everyone's so concerned about what other people think of them that it's nicey-nice all the time and saving face and kissing ass. End it people. Maybe, if just once in awhile, we were all straight with each other, people wouldn't suck so much. Of course, I tend, apparently, to share my thoughts too often and people think I'm mean. My favourite was when a 35+ year old man recently shared his thoughts on the horrors of bi-racial marriages. Seriously?! It's 2009. The scarier thing is, this fucknut has children and is likely sharing those views and opinions with them. Or maybe the scariest thing is he thought it was okay to say this out loud. I really don't know. My husband, however, placed himself between me and this man, because not being a fan of bullshit or pretending to like someone I don't, I was sharing some strong feelings and opinions in response to his ridiculously ignorant remark.

3. Christmas is 12 days away. Not even close to being done shopping. Number of barriers in the way including the flu that attacked us this weekend, but really that wasn't the biggest obstacle. At present I'm not prepared to get into what the biggest obstacle is; my point is, I used to LOVE Christmas. Now I'm more like those other a-holes who whine and gripe about it all December long. And I hate that. People are messing with my Christmas spirit. I've decorated, listened to Christmas music ad nauseum all in the name of trying to get into the spirit and for the most part it just ain't happening.

This is depressing and so is this blog. However, I needed to vent. It was either that or go off on people who don't deserve it and/or resort to underhanded manipulative shit I try to stay away from.

Merry Christmas...

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

The PMS Chronicles

Hello. I do realize I've covered this topic before, but I think it bears mentioning again...

So here we are, another month, another uncontrollable surge of hormones. The emotional roller coaster I've been on this week has taken me everywhere from fighting off tears whilst singing along to Amy Grant's "Tennesee Christmas" (not sure what this was about. The farthest south I've ever been in my life is Minot, North Dakota) to having chest pains earlier today from sheer rage at the car dealership. Oh and there was a brief stop in Gull Lake, Saskatchewan where I came very close to committing manslaughter. Maybe that's where I'll start:

Monday I drove 697 kms. In one day. On my way home, I needed to stop for gas and food. I was hungry enough at this point that I was considering eating my lip balm but settled for a disgusting gas station sub instead. I was very tired and when I got to the gas station, which was full serve, I was more than ready and willing to let them pump my gas for me. So I waited a bit and when no one came out, decided, I am not above pumping my own gas and really I just need to get back on the road, so what the hell? Just as I had finished filling my tank, the stunned Oompa-Loompa (for the record she is not actually a "little person", just short ) who works there came out and cheerfully said,"Fill it with regular ma'am?" Um, nope, all done here. Thanks though. So as I may have been quite abrupt with this little ray of retarded sunshine, she looked confused and tried a different approach; "I love your purse!". I did not reply. It was really just for the best. So after trying to find something halfway suitable to eat I made my way to the till. By this time Farmer Ted had come in to get some gas as well and instructed Pollyanna the Wonder Tool to go fill his truck with gas. So, after awhile, Farmer Ted, who I assume was not PMSing began to do that exaggerated sigh thing a person does when they are becoming annoyed and tired of waiting. He did this again and looked at me. At this point I muttered "Good Lord" and looked outside to see where she was. She was, in fact, making her leisurely way back inside. No hurry. I like bunnies. (I'm assuming these were some of her thoughts).

Another woman then came to the front and helped my farmer friend with his purchase. Which left me with fuckface. So she apologizes for the wait, and again, I did not reply. How rude! Really, considering what I wanted to say, it really really was the best option. After a short time she became distracted by her belly button or maybe it was just a shiny object, I'm not sure, but I could take it no longer and reached across the counter and ripped my own receipt off the debit machine and signed it. She did not quite know how to react. This is one of those times where after I realize my reaction may have been slightly extreme. However, patience is not my virtue. Any I do have I use up every single day at work and there is none left for the rest of the idiots I encounter. And really, I don't think it phased her. She looked a little startled but then probably remembered that Skittles also come in tropical flavours and all was well with the world.

As for me, I have chosen to not partake in anymore of Amy Grant's Christmas carols this week. In between bouts of rage I continue to have overwhelming feelings of love for my husband and children and stop myself from sending them a group text stating so...really that would frighten them more than the anger.

Bottomline is Mother Nature is mean and right now, so am I. (except when I'm crying). ;)

Friday, November 6, 2009

The Dissolution of Friday Night

Once upon a time I was known as Fargs. Fargs was a good time. She was the go to girl if you wanted to have a few drinks and a lot of laughs. Nary a Friday night passed without a drink or two, maybe a house party or a trip to the bar. Want to party til 4 in the morning? I was your girl? 6 a.m., why not? Bring it.

Cut to a Friday night in 2009. I just washed all my floors. Including my large living room floor on my hands and knees. I folded some laundry and put it away before that. Did some filing, so to speak and have plans to later go through the flyers and make a list of which sales I'd like to try and hit tomorrow.

What the fuck?!

The craziest thing I've done tonight is partake of this lovely little cocktail sitting here in front of me (vodka and cranberry Gingerale is delightful). And at most I'll have two because I have to be up at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow due to various sporting engagements (not my own).

Sigh. Where have all the good times gone?

Part of the reason for my fierce house cleaning tonight is a) my husband isn't home so I always get more done and b) last weekend my husband's very nice aunt came and watched our children for us overnight and c) she very likely partook in a flea dip and looked into getting her Twinrex (sp?) shot after spending the night in our home. As I've mentioned before, we've got the four kids and both work full time. I don't know if I have bothered to mention we also have a Golden Retriever and two cats. The hair in here is like something out of a horror movie. We had to leave unexpectedly and it wasn't a trip for pleasure so my usual obsessive compulsive clean up before anybody enters our home wasn't able to wasn't pretty. Now my husband's aunt is an awesome lady. She's so nice and would never dream of mentioning the shape our home was in but I can't get it out of my head. Hence the guilty clean. Oh I've done it more than once. Someone will show up unexpectedly and our house is gross (which is more often than not) and then within either minutes to a day or two of them leaving I do a full scale attack on the house. And inevitably we don't have company again for two months and/or until the house is back to it's "charming" self.

But I digress....the whole point of this was I think I killed Fargs. And damnit, I liked her.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

PMS and Why

Okay lady friends (and those gentleman who've decided to peruse this entry), we all know how much we hate to be accused of having PMS. Sure, sure, it's fine for us to admit we have it or joke about having it but please, for the Love of God, don't tell us that's what our problem is...

For example, I had a mood swing so extreme this past Saturday that I'm sure a slight tsunami was created. Had a great day. So relaxed. Caught up on a bunch of TV shows, laid on the couch, just vegged. It was super fantastic. Felt really good about it. Then it was time to get up and get moving again. Off to work a fundraiser for my son's upcoming trip to Europe. I didn't want to go. I dislike 98% of the people in the fundraising group. It was cold out. I was going to be mixing drinks, in the cold, for the next three hours straight. With idiots. Anyway, my youngest had woken up from his nap and I was trying to get ready so I called (yelled really loudly and probably somewhat demanding-ly) down to my husband to ask him to come and get this guy up and out of his crib. And my husband had the nerve to respond in kind. He yelled at me! Can you believe it? I certainly did not. I was only raising my voice to be helpful and heard over the TV....and even if I was being somewhat 'curt' there is certainly no need to yell back. So then after a mild discussion in the bedroom where he had the audacity to accuse ME of freaking out, I lost my mind for about 30 seconds. I may or may not have picked up and slammed down a decorative basket. I may have raised my voice ever so slightly to impress upon an important point I was making. Really, the details are not important, what is important, is I was fucking mad. So mad I was even kind of surprised at myself. In the moment, I was convinced this was very likely HIS fault. So I left the house without saying another word and drove to the meeting spot for the fundraiser.

Cut to Tim Horton's parking lot. I inform my co-fundraisers I will be driving in by myself and am relieved when they don't ask why. Actually, to back it up a bit, on the 10 minute drive to Tim Horton's I considered saying "fuck it" and heading to Saskatoon or to Regina and using my credit card and just having a night away and not telling my husband where I was or what I was doing. As this likely would've really smoothed things over between us. I should point out that Saskatoon is the farther place from me, and it's only two hours away. I'm a rebel. So rebellious, in fact, that instead I went to the fundraiser.

Anywho, I tell the ladies I'm going alone. And maybe there was a touch of crazy in my eyes because no one argued or asked why. They simply accepted this. I did not look at what they were driving, just got into my SUV-crossover type of vehicle, that seats 7, and sped off to Regina. I beat them to our destination and waited in the parking lot. They pulled in. Five people in a little four door sedan. They all saw me get out of vehicle and then shoe-horned themselves out of theirs. Now, I'm not a fan of some of these folks, but I felt like a real a-hole.

So then it was time to start bartending. Myself and my 'partner' (read: idiot) were supposed to be making rye & cokes. Just for future reference and for those of you non-drinkers, rye and cokes are comprised of two things: rye. and. coke. So football fans are thirsty people and apparently when it's cold they can't get enough rye and coke. There was some pressure involved in this situation. So I set to filling cups with ice and shots of rye. I looked around for my partner/idiot and noticed she and her big ass were filling up a jug with pink lemonade. Confused? I was. And enraged. It took every last ounce of self control and common decency not to go over and yank the jug out of her hand and ask her what the fuck she was doing. Sorry if you are offended by the language (if you are, we probably shouldn't ever converse in person, especially if I'm at work) but I literally just stared at her for awhile, bottle of Rye in my hand and a tiny bit of irrational hatred in my heart. This carried on for most of the evening. She bumped into my with her ass more times than I care to mention and always managed to be in the way. Helpful, thanks.

But I've let this get away from the time I got home that night (after offering a ride home to some of my co-fundraisers so as not to feel as quite as big of an ass) I was in a good mood again. Cuddled up with said husband who I nearly shanked prior to leaving the house and all was good.

That was definitely the biggest swing but it happened on the worst possible day. I've had little ups and downs since. Today I was not waited on in a timely fashion in a clothing store so left all of my stuff on the counter and walked out....maybe some leftover hormone issues there. Patience isn't really my strength to begin with.

Point being, why the hell does PMS have to be so crazy? You never know from month to month what it will bring; it could be cramps from hell or bloating that just won't quit or several small or one major psychotic episode. Really, Mother Nature, what's the point? Give us girls a break. Then I got to thinking, maybe the whole point is to make this special time of the month so miserable, us girls will just keep getting knocked up to avoid it. Aha! I'm sure there's some kind of study done on that. Either way I'll carry on with being crazy because if I have anymore kids someday one idiot is going to get in my way and end up with a jug of pink lemonade shoved up her ass.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Just One More Thing

Just a little addendum to my previous note to our precious senior friends:

Rinsing your dentures off in the sink in the public bathroom in Zellers is NOT OKAY. #1: this is very unsanitary. Ger-ross. #2: I don't ever ever want to see your dentures out of your mouth. However if I'm in said bathroom and am washing my hands after using the facilities and I happen to glance over to see what it is your flinging back and forth under the tap over there, do not glare at me like I've commited some crime! I'm just following basic hygiene practises, you are the one bucking several accepted norms of proper social behaviour! And, #3: I had to work very hard not to get the giggles after you glared at me whilst waving your teeth around in the sink next to me. If I can't maintain control I come off lookin' like the crazy. #4: it's just not okay!

Monday, September 28, 2009

I'm so tired and why "fitness" blows.

Hello friends. I'm going to try to keep this short because I'm tired. Sooo tired. Why, you ask? Well really there are a number of contributing factors but for today I shall focus on fitness. Let me explain:

I have had four children (not good for anybody's figure unless you're that chick from Wild On!, you know, Brooke whassername) and I like two things a lot: vodka and carbs. I was going to say chocolate but that really doesn't capture the depth of my addiction to all things bad for me. White bread, white pasta, white rice. Bring it on. All of it. And then, kind sir, bring me a King size Twix bar (or Snickers, Skor, KitKat (the list of possibilities here is endless)) and a big ol' glass of milk. And whilst enjoying this diabetic nightmare of a feast, please put some Chelsea Lately or perhaps a little Intervention on the TV. And bring me a blanket. I'm sure by now you get the idea...

Hence why I went to spin today at lunch. This was not my first time at spin, nor will it be my last. I hate it. There is burning and sweating and swearing and panting. Take away the burning and switch "swearing" for "dirty talk" and we could be talking about a real good time. But alas, we're not. We're talking about a chipper fit friend of mine on a bike at the front of the room telling me to do things like sprint. While standing. Or hey, maybe instead just do push-ups while your pedalling. I know, for fun, let's sprint and increase the tension (a.k.a. make it REALLY hard). Why go, you ask? Well, kids, with my love of TV, carbs and the vodka, if I don't go, pretty soon I'll be puking up my Peanut M&Ms and popcorn (mixed together at the theatre and it's Heaven) on the Biggest Loser while Jillian screams obscenities at me. And as much as I LOVE that show and have, on occasion, downed an entire box of Ferrero Rocher while watching it, I do not necessarily want to be part of it all.

So I go to spin. With two of friends who feel this is such a good time, they go twice a day sometimes! I know, I know. I just shake my head. And then I rest it on the pillow and eat a cookie. That usually makes me feel better.

Monday, September 21, 2009

To My Senior Friends...

I'd like to make a motion to create a bylaw (I have no idea what I'm talking about) to have all of my senior friends stay home during the following hours: 7:30 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. and again from 4:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m.. Why, you ask? Here's why: I have a job. Yep, go to it just about every day. Typically I'm running late (if it's in the a.m.) or I'm going home in the pursuit of sweet freedom and to escape talk of petite fit versus regular fit (a conversation heard in the mailroom at work today) and I'd like to be able to get where I'm going as quickly as possible. This becomes less possible if I'm driving behind one of my senior friends in his ten gallon cowboy hat driving 20km on his way to Co-op for coffee. Sir, please, for the love of God, just hold out and tell the rest of your senior friends that you'll be there by 8:30 at the latest. I'm sure they'll understand. And the bonus is a 95% less chance of my having a coronary episode before I turn 35.

I'd like to amend said bylaw to include the following clause; after it's dark out, if you are one of said 'senior friends': stay home. The other night two of my children and I were driving home from Dairy Queen at 9:15 p.m. and got behind one of our 'friends' who was driving 20 km/hour. It was dark. My ice cream was melting. Not okay. What was even more not okay was the fact that I could barely make out if anyone was actually operating the vehicle or not. It was one of our tinier friends. I get that you shrunk and that back in the day you were probably a solid 5'4" but those days are gone... If you insist on going out that late at night you need to at least be able to make it look like you can see, even though we both know you can't. Eventually we passed this person and noticed they seemed to have a healthy case of the shakes as well...and my Blizzard was a little too melt-y for my liking. I should add I did still eat it.

Okay, this got a little off my dear senior friends: feel free to roam the streets in broad daylight and when I'm at work. Other than that, stay at home and crochet or look for something you may or may not have lost. Like your teeth.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

What's the Point?

I was really gung ho about this when I first started as I imagined myself quickly being discovered as the next Jen Lancaster or Chelsea Handler. As I still do not have any followers I am thinking this is not going to happen. Which is unfortunate. If I hear one more reality show contestant or millionaire/celebrity say if you're not doing what you love then life simply isn't worth living I might lose complete control of my senses. This statement is usually said by someone who is either a) 22, single and loaded or b) loaded. Perhaps I should clarify, 'loaded' in this case means rich. Filthy rich. Although perhap there could be a double entendre here. Those who are either intoxicated, or more often, stoned, are prone to wax philosophical on the merits of pursuing one's dreams. Then they get distracted by a Dorito and all is lost....

Point being, I hate my job. I do not have the option to quit unless I'd like to have my vehicle repossessed, lose my house, and move myself, my husband and our four kids into a van down by the river. So for the time being, I'll do this little bit of writing a.k.a. "doing what I love" and it will have to suffice.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Vodka and Why it is my, and should be your, best friend

Was having a bit of a day earlier and then decided that maybe my good friend Vodka would be of help. And guess what? She was! God love her.

Terrifying Thought

What if retirement sucks? As a child all I wanted to do was grow up. Then I could do what I wanted. So far that seems to entail working 40 hours, sometimes more, a week at a job I hate with people I can't stand. Then I divide my 'free time' on the weekend between housework, laundry and grocrey shopping. Not the picture of freedom of choice I had in mind. So now I spend my days longing for retirement...but today a horrifying thought came along: What if retirement sucks? I'm not sure how this could be possible as I saw five or six elderly gentlemen having coffee at the Co-op Friday morning with a 40 of Rum on the table. That seems like nothing but good times. But maybe they were drinking before 10 a.m. to mourn the loss of their respective faculties ? Maybe they are lonely widowers...Depressing. For now, in an effort to keep a glimmer of hope alive, I'm going to assume neither and hope this was a Friday morning tradition they have enjoyed for many years and refuse to give up because it's AWESOME.