The Great Exploding Chapstick Debacle - Part Deux

So New Homeowner was in town and she happened upon the most excellent idea (cannot believe I didn't think of it myself...) ever for the fixing of THE GREAT EXPLODING CHAPSTICK DEBACLE.

Shoppers Drug Mart would get theirs, dammit!

NH suggested that I buy another Bonne Bell chapstick (same as the exploded one), get a receipt for it, and then RETURN THE EXPLODED ONE on the new receipt.

Pure genius I tell you.

So NH and I go to the brand-spanking new Shoppers and buy one Raspberry Vita Gloss tube. Get a receipt for it. The plan is working, mwahahhaha.

Then we go to another Shoppers and mozy up to the cosmetics counter.

Me: Here, take your crap and there's my receipt.
CC: Okay no problem. Oh, you got this at the brand-spanking new Shoppers? Damn that store! We're always having to take their shitty returns!!

Me to myself: Uh, okay. I'm pretty sure I originally bought it here, but okay, whatever you say.

CC: Would you like another one?
Me: No thanks. Just give me my money back, please.

And that is how I got my $5 back for The Great Exploding Chapstick.

Genius, I tell you!

Oh bus, why do you forsake me?

Before I get into all the Christmas joy that has occurred, I'd like to tell you a little story about what happens when I ride the bus (without my sister).

So after my last exam I get to the stop where my bus, well, stops. The only bus that stops at that particular stop. The. Only. One. Got that?

As I'm on the phone with New Homeowner ('cause she's visiting - squee), I don't really bother looking at the bus number, and really? Why would I anyway? I usually don't.

So I climb aboard and have myself a seat. The bus leaves. And goes up and behind the university - in the exact opposite direction that I want to go. Before I realize this (because the new iMoo is so fascinating) I have gone far enough that I no longer have the slightest clue as to where I am and it's now too far to walk back.

I scramble off the bus and stand at some god forsaken bus stop in the middle of god knows where - and call New Homeowner: Heeeelp meeeeeeee! I don't know where I am. I'm at the corner of Lost in Winnipeg and You'll Never Find Your Way Back Mwhahaha. Heeeelp Meeeee!

After all, she is the one with the map. (See, me not so stupid after all... maybe.)

We decide that I should take the next bus back (that's in half an hour, folks) to the university and she'll pick me up there.

So I'm waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And, just to break up the monotony, a car packed with guys decides to try and get my attention. Lord. Dudes, I think I just might be old enough to be your mother. True, I 'd have to have been fairly young when knocked up, but dudes, get a grip.

Maybe I should have asked them for a ride? The good ideas always occur later. Sigh.

Finally get to the University (without incident, I feel compelled to add) and New Homeowner is there to pick me up.

And so ends another scintillating adventure in Crazy Town.

Next: The conclusion of The Great Exploding Chapstick Debacle as per popular request. Actually, one person only but who am I to argue with the fan(s).

Oy. Just oy.

Only in this city can I leave three hours early and STILL be half an hour late for my exam.

Oy.

Was it a Cello? Maybe a Violin? How about a Timpani?

Citrusboy teaches guitar at a music school here in this lovely city, so on Sunday we went to a Christmas Dinner hosted by the school.

Now, imagine an entire restaurant/comedy club that has been shut down just for you, filled with people saying things like: "You know, a drum room is just so different from a guitar room" and "Drums get really loud, don't they?" and "When you tune your guitar, how tight is your G-string?" Seriously. How. Tight. Is. Your. G-string. I'll just let that sink in for a couple of minutes.

Yes folks, that was my night. Even the comedian wanted to hang himself. Every time he swore, he got the 'ole stink eye and the audience let out a bunch of "ooooooooooooohs". Goddamn people, we're not in church! So, so weird.

This place (and by this place, I mean Winnipeg) just gets stranger by the minute.

Not to mention being stuck in a room with an abominable amount of G-strings.

Top 10 Christmas Traditions

Since we're on a Christmas roll around these here parts:

Top 10 Favourite Christmas Traditions or as many as you can think of”:

1. Christmas Eve Dinner. Yum.
2. Wrapping presents
3. Piling the presents under the tree
4. Decorating the tree and putting lights up everywhere. Lights. Fun.
5. Picking out presents
6. Polish Christmas Eve wafer. Love that wafer!
7. Marzipan. Love love LOVE marzipan. Marzipan and poo would probably taste good.
8. Opening presents
9. Spending a cozy day with family and friends
10. Peppermint Hot Chocolate

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I'm on my way to Polo Park, when I pass their billboard and do a double take. I can't be seeing what I'm really seeing, can I?

On the billboard it says: Lululemon now open.

What? What? Seriously? Squeeeeeee!!!

Winnipeg is certainly moving up in the world. Now just add a Pottery Barn and a Sephora and I'm good. And an IKEA, but then I'm definitely good.

So, of course, the first store I must must go into is Lululemon.

And I see it. My future is nigh. My dream gym bag, purse and school bag all rolled into one: Oh dear god, and it's pink too. I think I might cry.

Now, just to be a good girl, I will give it at least my customary 24 hour waiting period to make sure I have not gone temporarily insane at the simple thought that a Lululemon actually exists here before I buy. I might even wait until New Homeowner gets here and have her advise yay or nay on my sanity.

But dude, a Lululemon! *sigh*

Argh!

New Homeowner is coming for a visit.

Argh!

So excited. So, so excited!

ARGH!!!

That's all I can muster at the moment: AAAAAAAAARGH!!!!

Excuse me while I go sob in a corner with joy.

The Travails of the Godparent

Citrusboy and I are godparents to a cute almost-one year-old who lives in Ontario, while we live in you-know-where (hint: it starts with an H and ends with an LL). Baby Girl's birthday is mid-December and Christmas is late December, so we end up insane around, say, today.

We finally rounded up all the gifts we wanted to give her for both occasions and realized that we would have to send the humungo package today if it was going to make it in time for her birthday.

Little did I know:

1. Not enough Christmas wrapping paper in the house.
2. Can't find the gobs of packing tape that I know we have somewhere.
3. Only box I can find that's big enough almost doesn't close once we've stuffed it full of presents.

So...we now have to run to the mall, get the wrapping paper and packing tape, wrap the gifts up, stuff 'em in the box, tape up the box, and get to the post office - all before it closes in one hour.

So that's how I came to be wrapping presents at a coffee shop's table in the middle of the mall.

But, I am proud to say, I had enough time to buy an Italian Soda for citrusboy and a Peppermint Hot Chocolate for me when all was said and done.

Yay, pressure wrapping!

Christmas Top Five

As we're also planning on putting up the (miniscule) Christmas Tree tomorrow, I thought I would join in on New Homeowner's Top 5 List.

Top 5 Christmas Songs

5. So This is Christmas by John Lennon - Always makes a tear well up. Not a happy song, but what can I say?

4. Do They Know It's Christmas? by BandAid - The 80s original since I'm an old geezer.

3. Feliz Navidad by Jose Feliciano - I know, it's stupid so don't laugh, but I just love this song (except when Celine Dion is singing it).

2. All I Want for Christmas is You - The one off the Love Actually soundtrack by Olivia Olson works for me.

1. Last Christmas by Wham - LOVE IT!!!! I don't think it gets any better than this. Truly.

Hmm, really this is a list of pretty depressing songs. What does that mean?

Top 5 Christmas Movies

5. Sleepless In Seattle - I'm putting this one in 'cause it all starts on Christmas Eve - that counts, right?

4. Love Actually - So great. So sweet. So cozy.

3. A Charlie Brown Christmas - The original 1965 one, of course.

2. How the Grinch Stole Christmas! - Definitely the 1966 cartoon version.

1. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation - Love this movie even when it's not Christmas. It's just...the best. Must watch it every year.

The Great Exploding Chapstick Debacle

So I bought one of those liquidy Bonne Bell Vita Gloss chapstick thingies in sheer raspberry from Shoppers, because, one, a girl can never have enough lip gloss and, two, it had extra Shoppers Points.

I open the package and the damn thing explodes everywhere. E-X-P-L-O-D-E-S. Sheer raspberry gloss all over the counter and my hands. Sheer, sticky-won't-come-off-with-soap-only turpentine raspberry gloss all over my hands. And me? I have to catch the bus in, like, one minute.

I stomp over to Shoppers and say: What the fuck is this shit you're selling me? And the stupid, prissy, smart-ass Shoppers Cosmetics Counter whore with her nose in the air has the gall, the nerve, the asshatness to ask me if I have my receipt.

Yeah, bitch. I have my receipt. And you know where I'm putting it next?

No, you dumbass, I don't have my receipt. Why the hell would I keep a receipt for a $5 lip gloss that I was assuming, quite rightly in my opinion, wasn't going to explode in my face when I tried to take it out of the package.

The SPSSCC whore just stares at me. Sorry, can't do anything for you.

Look crazy, why would I lie about a receipt and a lip gloss. She's all: Nope. I'm all: That's it? She's all: Yeah. That's it.

So I guess now I have to write an email to Shoppers. Let's see if they don't give a rat's bony ass about their customers either.

Tea? What Tea?

I love to go out for tea. Love tea. Love it. And there are so many places in Toronto. Love it. Getting together with all my girlfriends and pretending we're civilized. Nothing else like it.

So I decide I want to go to tea here. In Winnipeg. You just know this story ain't gonna have no happy ending.

I decide on, like, one of, like, only two teahouses in Winnipeg proper (and it's not really a teahouse, per se either) and off citrusboy and I went.

Now let me just tell you: beforehand, I had checked their hours. Thursday 12-9. Great. Awesome. Sounds like a plan, man.

So we get there. Their little sign says OPEN. Cool. This might actually work, I think. I should have knocked on some wood, because I get a little closer and see: CLOSED FOR PAINTING. OPEN FROM 12-4.

You have got to be shitting and covering me with sprinkles. I look at my watch. It is seriously 4:01. Seriously.

This-city-HATES-me. Anybody really need more proof?

That's the Sound of My Head Hitting the Floor

So I was up all night (until 4:30 am to be exact) trying to finish a nutrition assignment that I needed to hand in the next day. Or make that this day. Today. And I needed to get up by 6 am in order to make the bus on time to hand the damn thing in. So that's 1.5 hours of sleep I just got.

Maybe I can squeeze some pity sushi out of citrusboy later today.

Even though it's my own damn fault. Because, after having over a month to work on it, I barely did anything. Because I went out to see a movie and out to dinner the day before it was due. And stayed out until 8. Because I'm a procrastinating little twit and everybody knows it. Except, hopefully, the nutrition professor.

Either way, anyone wanna send over some pity sushi if only because they feel I'm going to need it when I realize the world doesn't hire procrastinating dieticians?

Humpty Dumpty? Gave the Finger to Winnipeg?

So we had some people come over on the weekend, before which I wanted to get some party food. You know, the usual casualties: Spinach dip and bread bowl, Smartfood, tortillas and salsa. And, I wanted some party mix chips. And I don't mean any old crappy party mix. I mean the good stuff: Humpty Dumpty Cheesy Party Mix.

I set out to Superstore: Nothing. Safeway: Nothing. IGA: Nothing. Sobey's: Nothing. Shoppers: Nothing. Wal-Mart: Nothing.

This freakin' city doesn't have any Humpty Dumpty products? Nothing? Seriously? Oh. My. God. Now I've seen it all. I need to move.

Broke-down Gal

So we go to a bar on Wednesday night for some cheap beer and cheap wings, 'cause, well, we're cheap. I forget my driver's license at home, because, well, I don't drive anymore and it's well past its expiry date anyway.

And wouldn't you know it, they happen to be carding at said club. So citrusboy pulls out his license and the big-bad-bouncer-guy checks it. I'm all: Hee, hee, I forgot mine. Hee. Big-bad-bouncer-guy takes one look at me and says: That's okay, go right in. Not quite what you were thinking, huh? Not quite what I was expecting either. So fine, we go in and have a dandy time. But not the end of my story, my friends. No, indeed.

The next day I'm talking to a friend and I tell her where we went for wings. I add that I didn't have any ID and he still let me in. She's all: NO WAY. They never do that. They never ever ever ever EVER let anyone in without ID. Uh, okay, I think.

So I'm an old hag apparently who couldn't possibly pass for 17 if her life depended on it. I must look 90 years old for him to be so sure about not getting busted for under-age drinking.

Wonderful. Winnipeg has turned me into some crazy broken-down, decrepit, fossil. I wonder when the mummifying begins?

Heal Me, Oh Great Masseuse!

When I first went for massage therapy, hoping to cure my lovely, lovely back pain, the RMT didn't do a particularly good job. In fact, I think she made it worse: it hurt like a bitch for almost a week. Which, I'm told, is not supposed to happen. And she never told me to come back. So what? She thought she cured me in one go? Not bloody likely.

So after a couple of months, I thought I'd try it again and went back. To someone else, mind you. And she was all: Oh, this? I can fix this!

Seriously? You can fix this? Because if you can, I will give you my first born. And my second born. And anything born after that. Then again, that might not effectively display my deep and eternal gratitude for the fix-up, as I hate children. If you can fix this, I will give you my chocolate danish. Yes, I will. My chocolate danish. Now there's some gratitude!

So two massages later, and it's definitely feeling less numb.

Wow, Winnipeg houses a miracle worker. Maybe this city is good for something.

So Much for Getting Sushi Today

First (second?) snowfall of the year. 25 cm and more on the way. Blinding wind and snow. Everything closed. -30C tomorrow. I can hardly wait. Really.

But at least I got new boots. Yay boots!

Love Me Some Library

The Millennium Library is finally open. Finally! Open! Let us all rejoice.

Finally, all the books I have been waiting oh so patiently to read will be mine. Bwahahahaha! Though I suppose since most people have been waiting two years for the damn thing to open, while I've only had to wait one year, I should have nothing to complain about. So I won't.

And the library is pretty awesome, I must say. Probably as big as Mississauga's Central Library (maybe even bigger) although I'm not convinced there are as many books.

So I go in, grab the mountain of books (think I'll be able to finish them in three weeks?)
that I have waiting for me, when what do I hear? A tour? Of the library? I'm in!

So it's me and 12 teetering seniors (this entire city consists soley of teetering seniors), wending our way though the library and its four floors plus staircases. This should somehow end badly, but it doesn't.

We get to the children's section which has an aboriginal design: One lady says "What's that supposed to look like? The inside of a teepee or something?" Heh. Good one.

The most amusing part was when I walked right out of the library and past the sensors with my unchecked books and the alarm didn't go off. Then I walked back in and guess what? Yup, the alarm went off. Winnipeg, you are infinitely backwards!

And this cooler-than-thou library has my Vegetarian Times magazine. Score! And Cat Fancy. Heh. But, sadly, no In Touch or Scoop to which I've become "mildly" addicted. Maybe if I foam at the mouth I can convince them to get it?

So maybe Winnipeg has something going for it? I concede one point.

Cruisin' For A Bruisin'

Lived in Toronto 28 years. Never hit by a car.
Lived in Winnipeg 1 year. Hit by a car.

And I don't mean while we were in another car. I mean while walking on our own two feet.

And I don't mean crossing against the light. I mean crossing while the shiny, happy, walk guy blinked away in all his walk-this-way-yellowness.

And I don't mean in the middle of the night when all the drunks are out. I mean at seven in the evening.

Take from that what you will. I leave it to your imagination to figure out what I take from it.

Happy Halloween! Huh? What? It's Over? Oh.

So I'm a tad late with my Halloween story. Whatever. You'll forgive me right? If only because I live in this hell-hole and you have the deepest sympathy for me, right? Right. Let's carry on.

On the 27th, citrusboy and I were invited to a Halloween social. I know what you're thinking: Awesome! Nope, not awesome, because let me explain something to you about Winnipeg Socials. It's not the usual dinner-dance thingy where you stuff your face, booze it up, dance till 3am, then throw up in the cab on your way home. Not personal experience, by the way, but I've heard stories. Don't laugh - it's true.

Winnipeg Socials are thrown in order to pay for a couple's wedding. Say what? I said. You go, pay the entrance fee, pay for your booze, no or almost no food is served (does kielbasa on a toothpick count?), are forced to participate in raffles and contests (ie. "donate" more money to the cause - the cause being some couple you've never clapped eyes on before), and then go home properly sober.

To say the least, I find this offensive. If you can't afford the lobster dinner for 500, for God's sakes, get the freakin' chicken dinner for 150. I mean, really. Why do you think I should pay for your lobster? What? I didn't quite hear you. Oh, because that's how it's done here. I see. Well, that ain't how it's done in my mind. In my opinion, you get what you can afford and that's it.

I suppose people will argue that they go to these socials to have a good time at a party, but I can do the same thing at my own home with my own booze and my own friends. Without paying for some lobster that, after all, I'm never going to get to eat anyway.

On the 28th, we got invited to a real Halloween party: booze it up, then stumble home.

Citrusboy and I dressed up as Caesar and Cleopatra (respectively, of course - though I would like to see citrusboy put on those crazy fake eyelashes of mine).

There were prizes to be had, but they were not had by us. The Candy Corn won best costume, I think. And it was a pretty awesome outfit, though I'm still not sure what Candy Corn is. Suffice to say, she looked like an Oompa-Loompa (from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, not Willy Wonka). Oh my God, I just looked it up: she totally looked like a Candy Corn.

Oh, and apparently cabs are not to be found in Winnipeg on Halloween night. Either a busy signal or a "we're out of cabs asshole" greeted us as we tried to make our way home.

Where have I found myself, where there are no cabs and I must pay for lobster I don't even get to eat?

Heave big, huge, gigantic, enormous, hefty, immeasurably immense sigh and bury myself back in my bedsheets, never to emerge until I'm safely back in Toronto.

iGross

Okay, so I'm standing in the very long, exceedingly painful, everybody-needs-their-crack-fix-all-at-the-same-time line at the Tim Hortons on campus, when I spot some nastiness across the way.

Some campus organization (I didn't bother to figure out which one, but maybe in retrospect I should have) had set up a table with baskets of bagels and timbits (linked for the I don't know what the effing hell you're talking about crowd). I watched as a woman licked her fingers, picked up two bagels, manhandled them for about 45 seconds, then PUT THEM BACK IN THE BASKET. Gross.

But that's not all. No, it's not. Then someone upset the bowl of timbits (I believe they were honey-glazed, but that's neither here nor there) and they went flying to the floor in a tan sea of miniature missiles. So, of course, one of the organizationees had the very bright idea of picking them up with her bare hands, putting them back in the bowl, and PUTTING THE BOWL BACK ON THE TABLE. Double gross. Triple gross. Gross ad nauseum to infinity and beyond.

At this point I had to turn away, afraid that my quickie breakfast of ham and rye would resurface and rejoin the world of the living.

Finally, I get to the front of the line and order my Mocha Cafe sans "topping". Now, this absence of "topping" is for several reasons:

1. It turns the coffee into the calorie allotment for my dinner and then some.

2. How can you trust something called "topping" and not, say, whipped cream. Or cream from a can. Or anything but "topping". Yew.

3. Fifty cents extra? Please.

So, just to reiterate, the ideal scenario here is a Mocha Cafe without "topping". Of course, the ideal scenario does not occur in the small, small world of Winnipeg Damsel. Winnipeg Damsel receives a Cafe Mocha avec "topping".

There goes my buck ten. And remind me to never take food from any campus organization promoting anything. I don't care if they're giving away free chocolate danishes. I'm not touching the shit.

It's Brad Pitt's Fault

So apparently Brad Pitt is in town filming The Assassination of Jesse James. Well, good on you dude, but seriously, you're making me late for class every day. Every Damn Day.

The entire downtown area is one big clogged sinkhole thanks to you. The buses are rerouted all over the place, all the traffic is going down one street and one street only, and really, Winnipeg's downtown just ain't that big.

All because you and yours just couldn't stay in Vancouver where you belong.

I better get an Angelina Jolie sighting out of this.

The Death of an iPod

That is one sad looking iPod. Sad-sac Whitey.
I think Whitey has gone to the great Apple Storage Facility in the sky. Which means, it is now time to stop relying on an iPod that was given to me by an ex-boyfriend and time to get one of my very own.

Except for that pesky money thing. Maybe I can sell my soul on eBay in order to pay for it? Like that one chick did? Or maybe not. I think citrusboy already has jurisdiction over in that area.

Well, if I ever accumulate enough money, like maybe playing some lottery numbers (4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42 anyone?), then should I get a shuffle or a nano? Black or white? 2GB or 4GB? Oh the choices!

By the way, you can send any donations to winnipeg_damsel@yahoo.ca and I will send you a picture of me and my brand-new iPod, most likely in the midst of a snowstorm. All for free! Can you beat that deal?

School of Idiocy

You know, I don't appreciate being tested on my ability to read minute. Isn't the whole idea of setting a test to assess the ability of how well the taker can retain relevant information?

Happy Thanksgiving!

I've been sick for the past week now and just can't seem to shake it. I was feeling better on Saturday so we went out to a party where I got tanked. Then I woke up the next morning with a whole bunch of new symptoms - though now I see that drinking probably wasn't the brightest idea and may have been my downfall.

Thus on Monday, I woke up feeling like you would have to scrape me off the bed to get me out of it and promptly sent citrusboy off for anything that would stop me from sticking a turkey thermometer into my head.

He came back with this:
I've never tasted this before, but let me tell you here and now, I have never tasted anything so filthy and vile in all my life. Buckley's smells like a mixture of cat piss and hair dye and tastes like Vicks Vaporub. Since the main ingredients consist of camphor, menthol, pine needle oil, and tincture of capsicum, why am I surprised? I won't subject you to the photo citrusboy managed to take as it went down the hatch - I fear it may break your monitors. You know it's not a good sign when one whiff clears your sinuses for the rest of the day.

So sinuses cleared, I went about making lunch and dinner. For lunch we had wine and cheese which was very yummy, until a certain Cow Kitty decided that only he should partake.
This year I decided to try the PETA Vegan Nut Roast instead of turkey. Gasp, the horror, the horror, I know. But really, those damn birds are just too big. It wasn't bad, but I'm not convinced I would make it again.
We had some pie and then rolled over and died from too much food.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Welcome to: Hell on Skis

Picture it: Sicily 19-

No, no, just kidding.

Seriously though, picture this: leaves still on the trees, some green, some orange; grass still valiantly green; bushes and shrubs still fluffy and full; random flowers bravely holding up their heads.

Then, picture it all covered by a BLIZZARD. In early October.
Oy, woe is me.

Breach of the Penguins

Breach alert! Breach alert! There's been a huge Penguins violation. Methinks I need to get a new shower curtain. It was a doomed love affair from the start.

And thank you Fatty, for the extra-large watering holes. I mean, I agree with you: the bathroom floor looked just a little bit too dry for my taste as well.

Someone obviously has too much time on her hands if she can lie about on guitars all the live-long day!

If A Plane Is Made Out Of Paper, Does It Still Fly?

I was cutting through the brand-new engineering building on campus, when I noticed a couple of guys on the fourth floor trying to "fly" paper airplanes down into the courtyard. Of course, they failed miserably; duds, all of them.

Then some guy down in the courtyard looks up at them and yells "Hey, I hope you're not in aerospace!". Heh.

Sometimes, you gotta love the engineers.

Ever Try To See a Doctor in Winnipeg AND Try to Hold Down a Job At The Same Time?

Citrusboy has a painfully sore throat. Citrusboy wants to see a doctor. Also, citrusboy doesn't want to miss too many hours of work, as less absence equals more bonus, thus he would prefer to go after work.

Citrusboy calls a doctor that he's seen before. Citrusboy asks what time they accept their last patient. The answer is: twelve thirty. In the afternoon. Twelve thirty in the afternoon.

Citrusboy calls around to more clinics and gets more or less the same answer. At this point, Winnipeg Damsel's jaw has hit the floor. Where are we? Nunavut?

So the only place left to go is the one and only After Hours Clinic in Winnipeg. And, by the way, after hours means until 10 pm. We've been there once and only once. I was obviously desperate or possibly delirious, as in its spare time it substitutes for a meth and hep C clinic. And no, I wasn't there for some wayward heroin addiction gone wrong.

I tell citrusboy that unless he feels like death is imminent, I wouldn't bother going. I mean, sitting squeezed between a crackhead and a hooker was a once in a lifetime experience, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Citrusboy decides to wait. Thank gawd.

Privacy, People, Privacy

So I'm at the gym, taking a shower. I usually hate showering at the gym because it tends towards the gungy and that's just gross. But I have made concessions for this gym as it is truly a joy to shower there.

So anyway, I'm showering. The curtain is closed. Closed. I'll say it again: CLOSED. And in walks the cleaning woman. What the fuck? He-llo, I am SHOWERING in here, you dumb-ass bitch!

She's all "sorry, sorry", but what the hell? I mean, really, would you wander into someone's shower if the curtain was closed. Get a clue, lady!

So now, I'm thinking I may never shower there again. You ruined it for me, you cow!

A Little Piece of Heaven

I did it. I finally got a Green Tea Lemonade from Starbucks. Finally. And it was good.

They made it with Melon Syrup instead of Classic Syrup, which I was told tasted better, so I went for it. Definitely yummy.

Next, Passion Tea Lemonade. If they don't run out of Passion. Or something.

Reading As Self-Defense

I like to read on the bus, mainly as it's the best way to ignore crazies. And when you spend two to three hours on the bus every day, you meet a lot of crazies.

So there I am engrossed in The Clear Path, which, I might add, is a guide to writing English essays (as its subtitle indicates), safe in the knowledge that no one will want to talk to me about this book. NO ONE. Of course I'm wrong as usual, since I catch some guy staring at the front cover like his eyeballs were glued to it. I ignore him.

Then, the chickie sitting next to me gets off the bus (bitch!) and the afore mentioned guy sits down next to me and starts asking me about the book. Dude! It's an essay help book! Nevertheless, he insists on asking me if I like it, if it's good, and if I'm good at English. Oh lord.

Then he meanders onto the topic of astrology. He actually asked me what my sign is. Get a grip, man! This isn't the 60s. Or the 70s. It's not even the 80s anymore. He says he used to be a Libra but now he's a Leo. Uh huh. Born again, I see.

Then he gets to the crux of the conversation. Do I exercise? Now, I admit, I've been asked the very original question of "Where do you work out?" before by some enterprising soul in the form of Mr. Gold's Gym Macho Man, but this is getting ridiculous. So I go on about yoga and how much pain my body is in and how I think I've broken every single breakable thing in my body. I talk so much, that when I stop for breath he high-tails it off the bus.

I out-crazied a crazy. Smirk.

Cow Kitty Pursuit?

This is where Cow Kitty spends most of his time. Yes, it is a shoebox. I don't know, so don't ask.
Yesterday, this is where Cow Kitty decided to spend his time - while we were playing Trivial Pursuit.
I don't know, I just don't know.

Don't EVER Try To Rent a Game In Winnipeg

Why do I always feel like I'm on another planet every time I go somewhere in this Pottery Barn forsaken place?

We went into Blockbuster last week to see if maybe they had the Mario Baseball game for Gamecube in stock. We didn't see any so we decided we'd do the normal thing and ask the pimply-faced, mouth full of metal kid at the front desk. The conversation went something like this:

Us: Do you have Mario Baseball?

Pimply-Faced, Mouth Full of Metal Kid At The Front Desk: Huh?

Us: Mario Baseball. Do you have it?

PFMFMKFD: *Gives blank stare*

Us: M-A-R-I-O B-A-S-E-B-A-L-L. For the Gamecube. You know, the new game that came out.

PFMFMKFD: Oh. No.

Us: No? Never? You're never, ever going to have it?

PFMFMKFD: No. *Long pause while he contemplates this in his little tiny head* You mean you wanna rent it?

Us: Um, yeah. That's why we're in a store that rents video games.

PFMFMKFD: Uh, you could buy it at Future Shop.

Us: Yes, yes we could. But we want to rent it. So you're never ever EVER going to get in Mario Baseball. Even though you have all the Mario Partys, Mario Golf, and Paper Mario.

PFMFMKFD: No. *Looks around surreptitiously* But you could try Rogers.

Us: Uh, okay. Thanks.

This insanely inane prattle resulted in us hoofing it to Wal-Mart. And buying the game just so we wouldn't have to partake in any more such witty repartee.

Starf*cks

Have you ever tried to get a Green Tea Lemonade? And every time you asked for one they had run out of some needed ingredient? No? Well, I have. It has now happened twice. If it happens one more time, I'm moving back to Toronto. Seriously.

This is what I get for going to a Starbucks in the middle of nowhere, like Winnipeg.

The first time, I was at Chapters and I was ready to forego my precious usual and was all geared up to order something new (based on New Homeowner's recommendation) when I noticed their honking-huge sign stating I could do no such thing. GREEN TEA LEMONADE SOLD OUT. How do you sell out of lemonade? I mean, did you run out of green? Maybe tea? Or was it the lemons that did you in?

So I pull myself together and order my favourite standby, a Caramel Macchiato. Ho hum, ho hum, I'm waiting. Finally, the woman hands me... an iced caramel macchiato. Not quite what I ordered and not quite what I like as the caramel tends to clump up into little frozen bits which is not at all pleasant.

So I'm all stammering, That's not what I wanted, when the cashier looks at it and says, That's not what she wanted. So they make me another one. And tell me I can have both. What in the hell am I going to do with two coffees?!? One iced and one not. Gawd. I walk around for a while with these two stupid coffees in my hands, debating with myself as to what I should do. I don't want to waste a coffee but I can't drink both. I end up trashing one. How sad.

The second time I tried to get a Lemonade, there was only one guy behind the counter. He was taking orders AND making all the drinks. On a Saturday morning. What the hell? Poor guy.

Anyway, he takes my order for the GT Lemonade and only charges me for a regular lemonade. Okay fine. I'm bitch enough not to mention it. Then he starts to make it and realizes, Oh shit man, we're out of lemonade. Out. Of. Lemonade. GAH!

Would I like anything else? Uh, okay, gimme the largest, most expensive thing you got. As I'm only paying $2.20 for it. So I got a venti Strawberries & Creme Frappuccino. Good, but I would still have preferred my lemonade.

So, you might think I'm making out like a bandit with these Starbucks cats, but really all I want is a Green Tea Lemonade. Just a lemonade. That's it. Why is that so hard?

"Happy" Anniversary!!!

So yesterday was our one year anniversary of living in Winnipeg.

I've been here for one year. Someone needs to have their head examined. And that would be me, for those of you who may be wondering.

Since citrusboy had the day off, we decided to "celebrate". We went to three movies. Yes, three. It was nuts, but we did it. We made New Homeowner's cheesy pasta and destroyed our calorie-counting in one fell swoop. But we did leave out the bacon so there's something. Maybe some semblance of self-control? But later we ordered Chinese food, so maybe not.

And we played Trivial Pursuit. And I FINALLY WON. Yes! I beat citrusboy, who always manages to win through sheer luck and the Sports category. So unfair. BUT I BEAT HIM YESTERDAY, so there. Just a little proud of myself. Just a little.

And, of course, being the Canadians we are, we watched the first season of Corner Gas. So durned funny.

I know it's all very exciting, so try not to be too jealous of me and my wild fun times in Winnipeg.

Gawd, I need a drink.

Drinky Drinky

In light of the bad night I had and the bad day I am currently having, the beacon is a liquor store opening up next to us. Yay booze! I shall never be sober again.

That's how much hooch I need to deal with this city. A whole store's worth.

Hello Kitty? I Rock the Hair Bow!

I did it. I bloody well did it! I finished a video game! A whole video game!

I am just so proud of myself. And I finished it in, like, three days. While it was rented.

I am totally awesome. Not only did I manage to finish a game for three years olds in like 4 times the time it would take a baby to finish it, but I saved myself forty bucks! Well, I saved citrusboy forty bucks anyway.

I will take congratulations and large sums of coins. Kitty coins, that is. Unless you have real money. In which case, bring it on!

Why Me? Why?

Cow Kitty loves staring out the window. He lurves it. So sometimes he attracts attention 'cause he's just so darn-tootin' cute.

This time it was a little girl who kept looking into my window as I was peacefully trying to watch The Simpsons. So I thought I would do something nice, Winnipeg-style, and not be my usual bitch self, Toronto-style. I opened the screen door and said: Do you wanna pet the nice kitty?

Big mistake. Big. Huge.

She proceeds to call over her brother and some other little boy who I presume is their friend. They stand in my doorway and pet the kitty. Okaaaay, fine.

THEN they spot the Game Cube. After that it's all "Can we come in?" "Can we play video games?" "Can I feed the cat?" "Can I see the cat's babies?" (This being a male cat and all.) "You know that cat's babies are called kittens?" "Where are your children?" "How come you have a Game Cube and no children?" You should have seen their eyebrows fall right off the top of their heads when I said my husband and I played it. "Can we play the Game Cube?" "Pleeeeeease?" "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!?!"

I cannot deal with these children so I sent them off to ask their mothers if they could come inside, thinking that any smart parent would immediately say: HELL NO! And that would be the end of that.

But I suck and the world, particularity Winnipeg, is out to get me so of course one kid comes back and says his mother said he's allowed to come in. Huh? Is she out of her tree? Maybe he's lying, I have no idea.

So the kid marches right into my apartment and politely takes his shoes off. At least his crazy-ass parents have taught him some manners. And then makes himself comfortable in front of the Game Cube.

And just at that moment, who happens to walk by but none other than citrusboy. Ah dear god, my saviour. I say: Honey, this boy wants to play video games. Why don't you play with him? And like the good husband he is, as he can no longer extricate himself from this situation amicably, he parks his ass on the carpet and plays Game Cube with some random kid from the neighbourhood. For several hours.

I run away to the computer and pretend I'm really really busy, grown-up fashion. I grow weary and tired and want to take a nap. But the kid plays on. How the hell do we get rid of this kid?

Then he goes to the bathroom. And takes a pee with the door ajar. Oh dear god. But he did wash his hands after.

Finally citrusboy says the kid has to pack it up because we're going out. As a consolation prize, he lends the kid some PS1 games. Turns out he has a PS2 at home. And here I thought he was video game deprived.

As he's leaving he's all: I'm gonna come back tomorrow and we can play some more. Okay? Okay?

Great, I can never open my blinds again. I hope I can learn to live in a world of darkness. And oh yeah, I have to kill that cat of mine.

That's the very first and last time I try to be nice.

Umbrellas, Daggers, Olives, Oh My!

When you start saying things like "There's not enough stomach in my food", you know you've had a leetle too much to drink. Especially if it's only been three martinis later.

So it's Saturday and citrusboy, Carsin O'Genic, Crys, and I have decided we need to celebrate my birthday with, what else, but sushi and martinis.

But first the extra-nasty, it's-the-icing-that-counts Safeway cake.
I decided to forego a really yummy almond meringue cake and, at my request, got this mess. Think what you want, but I heart icing!

After I licked most of the flowers off the cake, we decided it was time to do some drinking. As we don't own a bodega, we were forced (yes, forced) to go to the martini bar to get our drunken kicks.
New Homeowner was kind enough to send me a birthday card, complete with a drinks umbrella. She thought that a martini with an umbrella in it would rock. She was right. So cheers, NH!
And look, there's even a matching pink dagger through the olives! Even my martinis match. I am such a loser.

By the way, still sober here. First sentence of post has not been uttered as of yet.
But the best moment of the night came when I remembered all about Soho liqueur. I can't believe I forgot all about it until citrusboy pointed it out at their bar. I tried to get it in Toronto once a long time ago and the people at the store looked at me like I was mentally unstable (which may be a true fact, but asking for booze doesn't make one so, does it?). They hauled out this book with a list of all their products and made me find it. So when I actually found what I was looking for, they were baffled and thought "This shit totally exists?". Then they made up some stuff about it being out of stock or something. Idiots. So anyway, I got a Lychee Martini. It has been added into my permanent martini rotation. Score one, Winnipeg!
Speaking of, not quite so sober anymore. Sentence has definitely been uddered. I mean, uttered. This is around the 10th martini mark.
And apparently neither was Carsin O'Genic, as he attempted to eat a huge wasabi ball topped with ginger.
The end result was not pretty. So not pretty in fact, that I won't subject you to the pictures I got of the aftermath.

After we had drunk enough (enough?!?) we were going to go to a club, but the music they were playing was horrible. Horrifying. Horrendous. Need I go on? So we ended up at Baked. I really have no idea how. I tried to get my almond meringue then but they were all out. Damn! So I got a caramel cheesecake. Not bad. And some of citrusboy's club sandwich. Yum, greasy bacon. Does a drunk good!

We stumbled home and I passed right out. Got up the next morning and felt perfectly fine. Yeah, I still got it!

Are You Feeling A Little Mixed-Up?

I was in the kitchen a couple of days ago trying to make some spinach soup. Trying being the operative word.

Apparently I don't even know how to work a blender. Apparently.

So I have my spinach all puréed in the blender. Then I pour some of the liquidy soupy part into the blender for further mixing with the puréed spinach. Then, I put the cover on. Oh yes, I did put it on. I'm not quite all that half-baked. Then I hit the power button. Then the pulse button. All the while holding the cover down firmly. Like the instructions say.

Can you see where this is going?

The cover flies off. Boiling hot soup everywhere. Spinach chunks everywhere. Everywhere. On the counters. On the walls. On the floor. In the cat food. On me.

Lesson learned? Indeed yes. The blender is only good for two things: Pina coladas and daiquiris.

Another little surprise for me!

Citrusboy came home from work early bearing the gift of a box of Jalapeno Poppers. Mmm Jalapeno Poppers! He had the good intentions of bringing me home some sushi, but the restaurant doesn't open until 5. As if!

Let's say it all together now: What the hell is wrong with this city?!?

I'm taking the day off today from writing anything worthwhile. Not that that's what I've been doing in the past anyway, so anyhoo. (See, I didn't even bother thinking up a title).

But my point is: it's my birthday today and I refuse to do anything. Except make that creamy, gooey, calorie-laden cheesy pasta dish (recipe courtesy of New Homeowner, who is obviously trying to kill me) for myself.

I won't even go to the gym. Suck on that slice of old cheddar, calorie gods!

So all together now: Happy birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me! Have some macaroni!

See you tomorrow folks.

Damn You, New Homeowner!

I got hoodwinked again. This time by New Homeowner. She's all: I have a new post up - you should really read it. And then immediately signs off MSN so I can't e-yell at her. Look what happens when I'm a nice friend. I get tagged.

So here goes. Even though you may really not care. I mean, really really not care.

7 things I plan to do before I die

1. Finish Paper Mario: the 1000 year door (it will be the first video game I've ever finished, as citrusboy so kindly mentioned today)
2. Live all around the world, spreading wisdom where ever I go
3. Get that dang-blasted professional degree
4. Become so flexible that I can put my legs behind my head
5. Make shopping into a full-time profession
6. Live in Manhattan for several years while plying my trade
7. Go to Japan and eat every single piece of sushi possible

7 things I can do
1. Play chess
2. Read. I mean crazy read.
3. Remember useless facts which sometimes come in handy during Trivial Pursuit
4. Write essays
5. Put together IKEA furniture in 2 seconds flat - I'm the original Konstruction Kommando
6. Cook yummy foodstuffs
7. Make citrusboy laugh. Even though no one else thinks I'm funny, I'd like to think he's laughing with me and not at me.

7 things I cannot do
1. Play checkers
2. Drive a standard car
3. Cut Cow Kitty's claws by myself
4. Make a grilled cheese sandwich. They always burn. Always.
5. Finish the Rings Trilogy by Tolkein. Got to the second last chapter of the last book and I just couldn't take it anymore. I have tried to read it three times now.
6. Give myself a manicure
7. Sleep without a teddy bear. So I suck. So what.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex
1. Sense of humour
2. Some brains
3. Tall
4. Likes animals
5. Likes my friends/tolerates my family
6. Treats his mother well
7. Nice smile/teeth

7 things that I say most often
1. Nice!
2. Lovely, honey.
3. What the hell is wrong with this city?!?
4. Moo.
5. Bloody fucking hell!!!
6. Sushi?
7. Cheese, please.

7 celebrity crushes
1. Scott Patterson
2. Patrick Swayze
3. John Cusack
4. Colin Firth
5. Paul Rudd
6. John Corbett
7. Gwen Stefani

7 people I want to do this (in no particular order) (Woohoo, my turn to torture people! Heh heh)
1. Lindsay
2. Deep End
3. Karate Explosion
4. Whoever lives in the 'Peg
5. Whoever hates doing these
6. Whoever likes Patrick Swayze

7. Whoever bothered reading this far. Consider it your punishment.

Gym Olympics

So I was on the elliptical thingy at the gym yesterday, when a guy came up to me and said "When are you done?". Now, there were, quite literally, a million other elliptical thingys free in the entire gym, including the exact same one right beside me. But we have this stupid rule that states: 30 minute maximum if someone else is waiting EVEN IF another machine is free. So even though I wanted to do another 15 minutes, I had to admit I only had 5 minutes left and give up the machine.

So I got off my machine and moved to the one right beside it to finish my 15 minutes. And the guy had the nerve to start talking to me. My god. You read while you do this? Is it recreational reading or studying? Don't you find it hard? What'cha readin'? I got so annoyed I just gave up and went to shower.

For them to even have such a sign means people must complain. Constantly and all the time. Get a grip, people! Just use another machine! What bloody difference does it make? You can't be THAT in love with one particular machine.

I hate people.

Sugar Was Poured

I went to the Def Leppard concert Friday night at the MTS centre. It was Fuckin' A (that's a direct Joe Elliott quote). I love you, Def Leppard!

Citrusboy was kind enough to get me tickets for my birthday and suffered through it like a man.

The Tea Party opened up for (or as it's called now: supported) Def Leppard and I must say, even though I was kind of upset that I didn't get to see Brian Adams instead, they were really good. Way better than I expected. During the break, after Tea Party's set, I did something quite silly.

I got this T-shirt. 'Cause I'm cool like that, folks, yes indeedy.
I will actually wear this thing out in public. But not to school. Because if I ever hear "Who's that?" I will have to kill myself.

The guy who was selling them was hilarious. He was all "They don't pay me enough to do this or that". So when a couple on the left of me wanted a shirt off the display, guess what answer they got. Or when they complained that it wasn't fair, because someone else got a shirt off the display. And then the guy on the right of me, who had been waiting for a while, had to add "Life's not fair, bitch. Get over it." I thought I was going to laugh right in their face.

One thing I find interesting about concert-goers in Winnipeg is that they are all very well-behaved. No insane rocking-out. No wild dancing in the stands. Some swaying, some singing, but nothing like Toronto, where people go CRAZY. And here they drink a lot of beer. I mean copious amounts of beer. People would even leave in the middle of the concert to get more beer. I guess some people go just for the beer. But I did smell pot, so I guess at least one person was rocking-out, or at least was well on his way.

All in all, I had an awesome time, even though we were one of the youngest people there. I probably can't say the same for citrusboy, but he did say it was worth the ticket price so he had to have some semblance of fun.

Yay, Def Leppard!

Stupid University Board People and Their Stupid University Board Decisions

Ever had one of those moments when all you can think is: What the fuck? Like seriously, what-the-fuck? I had just such a moment yesterday afternoon.

Citrusboy comes home and hands me the mail. There's a letter from the University, Faculty of Science, in the pile. What now, I think. I imagine all the gruesome things it might contain. We've decided you're an idiot and are expelling you. We've decided you can't take this or that course. We've decided you have to take the last year over again. We've decided we're going to murder you in your sleep because we just don't like you.

After I give myself a mini stroke, I open the envelope and quickly scan the letter. Turns out I've made the Dean's Honour List, where, I quote, the dean states "Your highly successful academic performance...offer my own congratulations and those of the Faculty, and to wish you every success in the future".

So let me get this straight, people. I get kick-ass grades and you STILL refuse me admission to a Professional Program? How does this work, Stupid University Board People, because I was under the impression that kick-ass grades was what was needed to enter the Professional Program.

I swear, the Stupid University Board People have a vendetta against me, ever since I challenged some of their more idiotic policies. For a while there, I thought that maybe my grades weren't as awesome as I thought they were, but no, they are. They just hate me.

How do I get a degree from a University where the people who run it act like they don't even have one?

Hopefully next year their loathing will dissipate and they'll admit me. Keep your fingers crossed. And your toes. And your shoelaces. And anything else you can think of.

It's A Bird, It's A Plane, No - It's Super Piercing!

My nose piercing continues to work its magic.

Ever since I had an extra hole put in my nose, no one has tried to piss me off. Usually - guaranteed - at least once a day, someone will tick me off, but good. Lately, nada. Not the bus driver. Not Financial Aid. Not even the Registrar's Office. Not even when I said I wanted to take courses outside my faculty but was too stupid to realize the deadline for switching faculties had passed. They just smiled, signed my sheet, and waved me off.

I went to cancel my gym membership and they canceled it with glee. With glee, I tell you! Glee! Last time I tried to do that (sans third nose hole) they gave me such a hard time that I thought it would be easier to just keep the membership and never use it. But this time, there was much laughing and giggling, and I even got a free magazine out of the whole deal.

At the library, the librarian chatted with me about one of the books I was taking out. These women never chat. They always have way more important things to do. Like wandering around aimlessly, "shelving" things. She also waived the new $1 per DVD charge. Which is excellent as I didn't have any actual money on me. And I saved myself two bucks. That could get me half a Beach Roll, people. It's no laughing matter.

I wonder what's up?

Asbestos? You Mean That's Bad?

I went to the University yesterday to beg for various sundry things from the powers that be. I'm so glad this is the first thing that greeted me when I walked into the University - Asbestos Spring Cleaning: Welcome One, Welcome All.

And not just in one spot, but all over the place, including the Student Centre building and the Science complex, two of the places I spend the most time at. Now we know the true genesis of my illness. It's not West Nile Virus like I was starting to think, but rather asbestos poisoning.

I salute (cough, cough) the University that has decided it is high-time it did some thing about those pesky lung/digestive troubles that have been plaguing faculty, staff, and students. Seeing as it's the year 2005 and not, say, 1925.

Hmm. There goes my bus. I'm gonna be late again!
Stupid Transit. Grumble, grumble. Mutter, mutter.

Incredible, Earth-Shattering Wordy-ness. Or Not.

Three nights ago, when I was lying in bed sleepless from said lung-puking, I thought of this great post to write about women authors who commit suicide. I thought it all out in my head, word for word. What I should have done was got my lazy ass out of bed and wrote it down, but I'm an idiot to the nth degree so now I can't remember a word of it. Apparently Winnipeg is prone to inducing amnesia now too.

So I'll try my best to live up to the title.

I was watching The Hours the other day when it dawned on me that most really good, awe-inspiring writers are completely off their rockers: Virginia Woolf; Sylvia Plath; Anne Sexton; Ernest Hemingway. They were so immured in their art that nothing else mattered. And when they couldn't produce to their own satisfaction, they offed themselves.

This is bad news for me and my writing. I'm not mad (well, citrusboy says I am, but what does he know) and I don't feel a great urge to do away with myself. To be so dedicated to your writing is amazing to me. I just don't feel it. I write trash, stupid little stories full of colloquialisms, while these great writers wrote, in such seductive language, about their tortured souls, their lives on the page for anyone to see.

So I got kind of depressed about that. But really, what sense is there in being depressed about the fact that you're not clinically depressed. Sounds insane. Maybe I'm on to something here. Or not.

Maybe I need to get some angst. See a therapist. Make stuff up. Pretend I hear voices. I'm not saying I want to kill myself, but does pen to paper really require one to suffer from nervous breakdowns and incurable depression in order to write really really well?

I guess I'll always be mediocre - unless I stick my head in an oven. Does that even work with electric ovens?

Let's Get, Let's get Rocked!

Okay, I still haven't written the afore-promised earth-shattering post because I just wasted all morning looking for the answers to the Def Leppard Guitar Contest. Fruitlessly, I might add.

You'd think you could find just about anything on the 'net but all I found was this. Which was highly amusing in itself. But I could just be an incompetent net-surfer. Or a really useless Def Leppard fan.

So if you want that post, people, cough up the answers. Especially if you want me to use the word colloquial.

I'll love you forever, by the way. Not enough, you say? I'll send you a bib that says: Spit Happens. What's that got to do with anything, you ask? Well nothing, but it's all I got.

Winnipeg Induces Nausea

Ugh. I feel like the smegma you find at the bottom of your shoe after walking through a heat-ridden, chewing gum covered sidewalk today. I was going to write this mind-boggling post about women writers but my brain is dead. Dead, I tell you. I think I up-chucked a couple of brain cells.

Winnipeg is slowly trying to kill me. By making me barf up a lung. And you need lungs to live.

Or it could be the two birth-control pills I took at the same time last night. Since I'm so brilliant and forgot all about the first one.

Or it could be the sushi I scarfed down yesterday for lunch.

But I choose to believe it's Winnipeg. This city is enough to make anyone nauseous.

So my post of incredible, earth-shattering wordy-ness will have to wait until tomorrow.

Pray for my right lung. Please.

Child's Play

So my mother calls me the other day and if we all remember my mother, we will all immediately realize that this could not possibly have gone well.

Now I've always thought I've been lucky enough to escape the familial pressure to squeeze out a couple of puppies as soon as I got married. Everybody around me is either having kids or being harangued every five minutes as to why they don't have 20 yet. I mean, my mother loves kids. She loves them so much she would eat them up with a spoon if she could, so I've been a little suspicious as to why she's kept silent for a whole entire year. Then the phone call came. And I could stop wondering.

My mother has a plan for me. Apparently the almost 10 years I have spent in school will be for naught. As soon as I graduate I am to produce the first grandchild. Shudder. So I point out the obvious (to me) fact of "why bother getting a degree then?" and she says I can't have children without a degree. Interesting little tidbit of information that's completely new to me. I wonder why the very bright people at University Marketing don't put that in the brochure? ATTENTION ALL POTENTIAL MOTHERS: You cannot reproduce until you graduate from this university (and that's not the School of Hard Knocks).

So then, in my feeble defense, I say "Well, I could just have kids now, since I won' be able to put my degree to any use after I start squeezing them out" and her response is "I'll look after them and you can work". Good god woman! The lengths she will go to.

And then she pins me with the very frightful statement of: Haven't you and citrusboy discussed this? Well, truthfully, we have. And quite truthfully, we don't really want kids because we're selfish bastards. I tell her I might consider adoption, because, well, I might and the fit she blows is worthy of Mount Vesuvius. I refuse to write down the things she said about adopted children because it's just not very nice. Frankly, I'm quite horrified, but there's no point in my blowing a steamy fit as well.

She goes on to tell me a life without children is tedious, unhappy, fruitless, miserable, and in general, just plain old stinking bad. I try and say I have no maternal instincts, that I just don't care enough, and I just don't see it. Maybe, one day, when I'm ninety, I will have realized the folly of my way, but not right now.

And then - a miracle happens. The phone cuts out. Seriously, it does. I am saved because I know she won't continue the conversation when next we speak.

So, thank you MTS. Even though you're one step above inept most of the time, this time you rock!

Deep-Fried Fun

On Saturday night, citrusboy and I went to a friend's house where we stayed up all night drinking beer and playing PS2. It was awesome - I felt like I was 16 again! We played this game where you launch your player out of his car towards a dartboard to try and get the highest score. Highly amusing when drunk. When sober, probably not so much.

We left at about 5 AM and walked down to Salisbury House, the closest greasy spoon I could find in Winnipeg that resembles Fran's. Unfortunately, they do not serve Mac n' Cheese or I'd be theirs forever, so I settled for some deep-fried perogies. Yum deep-fried. Yum perogies. Diet starts tomorrow.

On the way home I spotted this:
The white streak above the grass is actually a layer of mist hanging over the road. Stuff you just don't see in Toronto. Neat.

Winnipeg - You're A Pain In My Back!

So I've had this back pain on the left side of my back, where I've managed to lose sensation in about a third of my left side and I have this achy feeling around the shoulder blade area, for over three years now. A year ago I went to my doctor and, after feeling around for awhile, she told me nothing was wrong. Then she looked at me like I was a hypochondriac bitch who was most definitely wasting her time. Wonderful. Yet I still have pain woman, so SOMETHING has to be wrong. Right? An apathetic back just isn't normal, don't cha think? I guess in her experience a stab-me-with-a-pencil-I-won't-feel-it back is just par for the course as she wouldn't even let me get an x-ray.

Last week I decided I would see a Registered Massage Therapist (RMT). She should be able to figure out what's up with El Back-o. I get there and she also feels up my back and says she notices my muscles reacting in said numb-numb area. Aha, now we're getting somewhere. She does my massage and ends by telling me I have scoliosis. Which would explain quite a bit actually. Apparently the muscles on the left side of my back are straining too much to try and make up for the curve in my back, which causes the pain, and in the process they're crushing a nerve somewhere, which causes the stick-a-pencil-in-me feeling. HA HA you stupid doctor. I'm not a crazy with a I-love-wasting-doctors'-time complex. HA HA HA! Except now I'm officially broken.

Stupid Winnipeg. Giving me scoliosis on top of everything else it has done to me. Bah-humbug!

Hot, Hot Bear Action

Excellent week spent with New Homeowner. As predicted, we spent it boozing it up and staying up way past our bedtime, though, quite thankfully, no stomach pumping was involved.

On Sunday, we decided to go out for Thai and then hit the Martini Bar (not literally, mind you - although, if drunk enough, anything is possible). We decided that beer would be the perfect compliment to our Thai dinner and we were right. 300 degree weather calls for beer. In fact, it doesn't just call, it screams.
Afterwards, we headed straight to G's Martini, even though it was still daylight out. Don't hate, we're truly not alcoholics. As it turns out, and it would because this city it out to get me, G's was closed Sunday and Monday for the long weekend. In what city, in what country, on what planet does a bar close for a long weekend? Bars were made for long weekends, people! Made-for-them! I hate you Winnipeg! Hate, hate, hate!

So we were forced to go across the street for some margaritas on the patio. What a tragedy.
On the way home, we ran into some nature of the not-mosquito variety.
I also managed to accidentally kick one of the frogs as it was in mid-jump. Slimy. We made sure it was okay before we scurried away to make sure no more nature could reach out and touch us.

One Monday we stayed home and got rip-roaring drunk. We tried to play Simpson's Clue, but we were too stupid to actually try and figure out who done it. I ended up asking citrusboy the same question three times because my marking scheme went awry in my happy hootch haze.

Then we tried playing Mario Party 4, 5, and 6. That went slightly better as no real skill is actually required.

Then we played Trivial Pursuit 6. For some reason, the drunker we got, the smarter we got. That was the quickest game of TP I've ever played.

Then it was time to play Simpson's Game of Life. For the first time ever I decided to chose the Get A Job route instead of the Get An Education route and for the first time ever I won the game. What does that mean? Is there a sign there somewhere? Or was I just drunk-lucky?

For dinner New Homeowner made the best cheese pasta dish ever and we watched Dazed and Confused on DVD.

The only evidence that remains from this day is this:
Game of Life tiles drowning in my Pina Colada. Don't ask me how it happened.

You all know what happened on Tuesday afternoon so I'll just move on the evening portion of our day. Winnipeg is hosting Bears on Broadway (Bears on Broadway St. I kid you not) which are sort of like the Moose In Toronto, but I think there's an actual fund-raising point to the Bears, so we went to take a look-see.
Our favourite bear was Don Bearry, mainly for the clever naming and Cherry likeness.

Also Hot Hot Bear was pretty awesome too.
Then, from afar, we spotted a haven for the over-heated. A water fountain, aka Winnipeg's Ghetto Pool.
We decided to act like all the other ninnys in the fountain and got ourselves nicely spritzed.
That's when I noticed the sign that said:
But as I actually saw parents bring their children with bathing-suits on, I was beyond caring.

That done, we hiked back to the Sushi/Martini bar and had us a good old time. Nothing goes better together than some sushi and a martini. Really. Try it and you'll never go back.
The infamous Extra-Dirty Gin Martini also made an appearance.
As did the Extra-Yummy Firefly Roll.
I had an awesome time and I hope New Homeowner did too! Even though the mosquitos almost ate her alive. Even though everything I told her about Winnipeg was true. Even though she though I was lying the whole time. Even though. Cheers till next time!

The Nostril

On Tuesday New Homeowner and I ambled down to Osborne Village while I was still in a debate with myself as to whether or not I should put another hole in my body. We stopped off for lunch first where I tired to drink myself stupid so The Crypt people wouldn't let me anywhere near a needle, but New caught on to my devious plan. Too bad, it could have ended so well; me with my head in the toilet, but no extra holes that didn't belong in any place that was previously hole-free.

So New drags me into The Crypt anyway, where she proceeds to buy an Emily Strange Tee that I absolutely adore. She saw it first though, so it sucks to be me. Especially if I decide in the affirmative for that new decorative nose hole. She pays for the shirt and is about to walk out, when I, stupidly, dig my own grave. "What about my nose?" I say. "Oh," she says. "I thought you talked yourself out of it." And just when I could have made good on my escape, the owner at the counter notices me waffling, hauls out his appointment book and tells me to come back in half an hour. Now I'm stuck.

We wander around - me in sheer panic, New in shopping mode - until it's time. My piercer, who has reduced me to a body part and calls me The Nostril, looks very scary indeed, but turns out to be the biggest sweetheart alive. He takes the time to explain every little thing to me, lets me check out the spot where he's going to stick a gaping hole in my body, tells me to take a deep breath and then stabs me. No seriously. He takes a needle in his huge paws and stabs my nose. I suppose it hurt, but it was so quick that it didn't even matter. He was awesome. Though it definitely is a peculiar sensation to feel something slide in through the outside of your nose.

And here's the end result:

I love it. Citrusboy loves it and thinks it's sexy. Double-score for me! Anything that makes me sexier is worth a little misguided sheer panic, right?

Bachelor of Random Shit (BRS)

As some of you know, I'm registered in the Faculty of Science at my University. I am also in the process of taking certain courses to satisfy the prerequisites needed for the professional programs I'm applying to. I have also decided, in case the professional programs take one look at my application and laugh their asses off, that I would take some Nutrition courses so I could at least graduate as a Registered Dietician if said laughing occurred. Turns out, ironically, that Science students are barred from taking any Nutrition courses because the Science faculty doesn't allow it.

Right.

So now, if I don't happen to be one of the lucky 277 people who just happen to be vying for the same 23 spots, I will have no degree. Nothing. Because those prerequisites for professional science careers have nothing in common with the allowed Bachelor of Science programs.

Bachelor of Random Shit here I come.

I hate this province.