A gay old time

One of the many reasons I love livin' in Canada?
This article says it all!

Dear folks in the Vatican,
Our Prime Minister just told you to stick it.
Buah ha ha.

Kissies,
Ren

P.S. Jesus may love you, but the rest of us think you're assholes.

What I learned today:

Don't get a cortosone shot in your knee during your lunch break. Cause when the freezing wears off during your work day, it's a pain like no other. And the great part? I've had it done before. Why didn't I remember the crazy pain?!?!?! WHY!??!!?!??!

Thank you.

I'm really a 96 year old cranky pants in disguise

Saturday. I waste a day volunteering for a large sneaker corporation. Actually, I didn't do anything for them. It was the dumbass PR team they'd hired that I'm pissed off at. Any hoodle. I chilled out all day doing "make work" projects. Lotsa fun. Like having burning spears inserted into my eyes.

At least I got free shit. Yay. And a wasted day. Double yay.

Got home around 11.30pm and decided to head to the local bar. Had a few drinks, decided that I was old and tired and needed to sleep.

I'm walking down the hall to my yuppie scum loft when I can hear the loud strains of top 40 vomit, erm, music. I look out the window and there are like 100 people "dancing" to some shite DJ out on the courtyard. I almost burst into tears. Now, don't get me wrong, but yeah, I'm a raging racist and fuck me if all you white folk don't dance the same fuckin' way. Geezus. Kidding. I dance like I'm having a seizure. Really. But I digress.

Right. So I get into my cozy little place and I can feel the music. Not in some flaky granola way. I mean I can feel it. And it's fucking up my breathing. I figure I can sleep through this cause y'know, I'm really tired. So I crawl into bed, make sure the cats are on either side of me (they make great sound barriers) and turn off the lights. At that EXACT moment, Mr. DJ cranks up the Sean Paul. Now don't get me wrong, I like Sean Paul. But not when he's screaming in my ear and making stuff vibrate on the walls. A moment later the "whoo" girls kick in. I've prayed for death many a time, but this night I meant it.

I actually had to fight the urge to call the cops about the noise.
WTF?!?!?!?

I'm only 28! Why am I thinking about ending someone else's party? When did this happen?!?!?!?!
Arrrrrgh.
Send help. And a 2-4 of beer. NOW!

Further proof that I am no longer 19 years old

Got together with an old friend of mine for dinner and drinks last night. I was having a particularly bad week (as I've whined about several times already), so the alcohol flowed freely. Dinner was excellent. Well, with the exception of the shitty funk band that kept doing their "sound check". Um, doesn't a sound check comprise of "check one. check one" and some long hair playing a few chords from Stairway to Heaven? Thought so.

Band stops, dinner continues, all's good.

We decide after dinner that we need more drinks.
Head off to this really cool bar.
The bartender, who's kinda yummy, makes wicked bevvies. Even slips us a double.
I'm feeling happy. My friend and I start to reminisce about our past relationship (yes, exes make the best friends). Funny the things one remembers about the past. Lotsa laughs abounded.

We decide to hit the abode for further drinks.
At this point it's now officially LATE. Guess who has to row less than 7 hours later? That's right. Me. I'm one fuckin' bad ass. I shrug it off and head for that last drink.
We giggle and sit around for another hour or so. I admit, that yes, I have to head home to sleep.

Catch a cab. Somewhere along the drive home, I realise that I am drunk. It's all right, I'm almost home. Almost. My brain decides that there isn't enough room in my gut for all this alcohol, it's gotta go somewhere.
I manage to get out of the cab with no accidents. It's on the walk home that I calmly lean over and ralph in the shrubberies. Ah, I put the ass in class, let me tell you.
Get home. Fall asleep. But not before looking at the clock. Ha! Less than 4 hours before I gotta get up and row.

Wake up thinking I'm going to die. It's 4.45 am. I feebly reach for the phone and call my rowing partner. Thank gawd she's understanding. I manage to postpone the row to tomorrow morning. Fall back asleep until 7.30am.
Vow never to do this again.

Bet you five bucks I pull this shit again in the next week.

Awwww yeah.

Woke up at 4.30am. No headache.
Went rowing. No headache.
Drove home blasting Queens of the Stone Age. No headache.
Did some ironing. No headache.
Thought about the office. Killer, vomit inducing headache.

Hmmm. I think it's time to get my butt outta here.

In other news, Rice Crisps make your breath smell like ass.

We're all fugitives/Look at the way we live

Guh.
So my office computer's hard drive fried to its own soundtrack. It was impressive at the time. And then I realised that it was all over.
Then the migraine set in.
Then I had Taco Bell for lunch.
Yup. A cruddy day was had.

By the evening I came to the screaming conclusion that I HATE MY JOB.
I'd rather chew off my good leg than continue travelling out into the ghetto to hang out at Weasel Central.
I'm trying to be zen about it, but right now it ain't working.
I believe in Karma and I'm starting to think that either I was a really bad person in another life or the universe is testing me.
And frankly if it's the cosmos, fuck off, I hate tests.

But here I sit with a plastic smile on my face, wondering who's watching over my shoulder.
I can't do this anymore.
I need a vacation. A new job. And while I'm at it, a pony.

Pray for Mojo.

My computer hates me.
I just lost what I thought was the funniest, most strung out sounding post.
Dammit.

I can't recapture the magic of that cracked out entry.
Well, I probably could, but that's not the point.

The point is that I work in the ghetto and my computer is a tool of the devil.
Damn you Weasel Central! Damn you!

Did you know that one of the side effects of using Nexium is "dry mouth"?
Yes. It's true.
I have been drinking water non-stop since I started my prescription.

Believe it or not, I'm sure I'd have a more productive day if I wasn't constantly running off to the loo.
I'm thisclose to moving my office into the lady's room.

*sigh*

If you'll excuse me, I've gotta go pee.

It ain't over til it's over

Good to know that the suit with the Band who Must Remain Nameless was just a hoax. But really, couldn't you totally see them doing something like that? Next they'll be suing anyone who makes the same guitar god face that they do. I can see it now.

Had a wonderfully chilled out weekend, complete with a kick ass endurance row yesterday morning. Yes, I'm relishing the quiet little things in life. That's what it's all about.
I don't think it gets any better than that, does it?

I love the guy who sits in front of me at work. He is currently "singing" along with the radio. And when I asked him what the hell he was singing, he made this mock angry face and said "Lenny Kravitz of course. What are you? Deaf?" I lurve him. He's too funny.

Too all my girls who are currently experiencing heart ache (there really are too many of you right now)...for those in the city, hugs and drinks veddy soon, and those who are outta town/country/continent....virtual drinks and LOTS of hugs abound!

What happens when you have too much time and money on your hands

Um, I'll probably get sued for even mentioning this link, but hey, whatever:

They're at it again.

Y'know, I used to really like this band. I still kinda do. I still have some of their stuff on tape. I even liked their song on that horrible "Mission Impossible 2" soundtrack. I loved the video, cause Weasel Central's headquarter in the States gets destroyed in it, bringing me minutes of joy.

But really. It's 2 chords. You can't own two effin' chords. Are album sales that slow that you must sue for ahem, "copyright infringement"?!?!?!?!?!

Uh, huh. The best part? They say they won't sue as long as they get FIFTY PERCENT of royalties on whatever song features those two chords.

I hope the whole story's just one wicked hoax. Please, let it be a joke.
Especially since they're suing a Canadian band. Dude. S'kinda funny, eh?

I think I'm going to die at my desk.
Scratch that. I know I'm going to die at my desk.

I need a vanilla Coke.
With a hefty shot of vanilla vodka.
Awww yeah.

Azucar!

Dang. Celia Cruz just passed away.

Compay Segundo, Celia Cruz and Carol Shields. All in one week.

*sigh*

In other news...I've got killer cramps that could stop a footballer (American or British) in his tracks.
Happy, happy, joy, joy.

May I present to you, Part two of my Tuesday: revenge of the cosmos.

So you already know about my great work day.

I manage to get out of here at a half decent hour, but being a bleeding heart, I agree to pick my mum up from work, effectively adding 45 minutes to my driving time. My workout is scheduled at 6. I've left the office at 4.45. Uh huh. So I figure on the way home I don't have time to drop mum at her house. She's cool with this and I drive with her to the gym. She notices rain clouds and asks if I'm going to take my umbrella. I am a bad ass, so I say no. She heads home, I head to the gym. I have the world's worst workout. I realise I should have cancelled my session, headed home and slept. My trainer feels sorry for me (and those who have to witness this) and ends the session right on time. We're standing around chatting and he points out that I'm looking a wee bit pudgy these days. I announce in a very loud voice, that yes, I am pudgy because I am fucking bloated. He turns a million shades of red, I give him a hug and head out.

On the way out of the gym I run into the VERY happy and friendly member services gal (I still can't figure out how she stays so incredibly happy. Crack? E? Dunno). She asks how the workout went. I shake my head. Her smile disappears. I leave. It's raining. No worries, I've got a hood! I pull the hood on. The heavens decide that I have just done a very bad thing. The skies open up and the equivalent of a fire hose falls upon my pathetic head. I am soaked in a matter of seconds. I drop my head and mutter "d'oh". At that exact moment, a man in a shitty little car drives just close enough that the spray from his shitty little tires spray up a tsunami. I am now beyond soaked.

I head home with the intention of gorging myself on pizza and beer. But first, why don't I tinker with my new printer? You know where this is going. To make a long story short, I kinda got everything hooked up, gave up and wandered down to the pub for a beer and salad (yeah sounds healthy, but dude! It had lotsa cheese and double dressing!).

Cue credits and closing music, "Go with the flow", by Queens of the Stone Age.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Okay. You know you're having one of "Those Days" when the prescription antacid doesn't work and you need to pop half a roll of extra strength Rolaids. Awww yeah. Envy me.

That's all I'm going to say about my fun wow day at work. Honest.

But I will say this about my stomach....there is a very unhappy alien rumbling in my gut and I suspect that at any moment that fucker's gonna come ripping through my recently purchased (on sale!) white shirt from the Crap. I can feel it. I think I will call the alien Hank.

And as luck would have it, I'm going out for sushi at lunch. I think someone's gonna be getting a rice bowl and a ginger ale. Yee haw!

If you'll excuse me, Hank and I are gonna go for a walk.

The optimist in me just pointed out that even though I got the cracked out rep, I didn't get a lecture this time around. AND I'm getting a credit of a whole $15 back. Wow.

I'm so fuckin' excited, I just peed a little.

God hates me. Really he does.
How is it that I can get the same cracked out CSR twice in less than 2 weeks?!?!?! C'mon!
Why did she need to put me on hold for 10 minutes in order to cancel my policy? And why did she let me do it over the phone with no real security check? Hmmmm. Just thought of that. Oh well, whatev.

I'm tired.
I've got a headache and damn if I couldn't use a nap RIGHT THIS FREAKIN' MINUTE.
I could also use a burger.
And a cabanna boy to go get me a burger and a beer.

I am so much more hardcore than you

Got home. Barely bothered to change out of my work clothes. Hit the sofa for "a minute" (read: the next 5 hours). Got up off the sofa long enough to make a crappy dinner. Ended up only reading 2 pages of Harry Potter. Called my mother. Whinged about not having any effin' money. Turned on the telly, realised that CSI was on. Stayed on the phone with my mother and made snarky comments throughout the entire show. Drank an immitation Coke. Did the "all right, I'm going" thing on the phone with said mother for like 20 minutes. Finally got off the phone. Lay on the sofa for another 20 minutes. Finally decided to go to bed. But not before leaving a snarky message on my friend's answering machine.

Yes. Not only am I hardcore, but I'm the fuckin' Mother Teresa of my generation.
And don't you forget it.

Thinking warm and fuzzy thoughts for my blogger gal pal in the States.

Also thinking that I need to eat again. Yay for those pills that control my acid reflux! I just ate a spicy salad and an even spicier samosa. Yes, when I push my luck, I sure do push my luck.

Yes, guy.
I'm a fookin' retard.
And I only have another hour and a half of work.

Okay, loser moment. I'm excited to get outta the office to go home, hit the sofa and attempt to finish Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I am so hardcore it hurts.
Maybe I'll even have a peanut butter and jelly sammich while reading. Well, not while reading, cause that's bad. But you know what I mean. Heh.

What I've learned today, courtesy of my doctor:
Acid Reflux, thy name is Ren.

Dammit.
*urp*

So I'm checkin' out Salon.com and this story about Britney admitting to doing the nasty with the Timberlacky.

Um, does anyone out there really care?

C'mon Brit, give it up. We already know you're a skanky ho who can't sing worth shit. So you put out. Big whoop. Am I supposed to be impressed? I'm thinking the answer is one big, fat, steaming no.

Must be a slow news day if that's one of the top "stories".
Geezus.

Heh, I just got ignored by the VeePee of the department.
This is definitely my lucky day.

I just found out why all the vegetarians I know are miserable. Food "suitable" for vegetarians tastes like shit. At least the stuff I've bought lately. Guh. The 3 bean minestrone was krap. With a side of krap. I think that may very well have been the last time I attempt to eat "healthy". Fuck that.

I need a fairy godmudder/fadder to do the following for me:
1. clean my gawd damn kitchen (it's getting gross and I don't think I could stomach it)
2. find me a new glamour-rama job that pays a billion dollars more than this soul sucking one

That's all I'm asking for. Well for now. It could change in like 10 minutes.

In case you're wondering (and I know you're not) I got new auto insurance. I wasn't on hold with these guys. I didn't get a lecture for not stating immediately that I had home insurance with the company. For that last one, um, I didn't mention it cause it took you a full 5 minutes to figure out how to imput my postal code. I didn't wanna throw you off. Geezus.
Any hoodle. The new guys. Amazing. In fact I think I told the rep that I loved her. I wasn't kidding either. They saved me two GRAND in the long run. Two grand that can go elsewhere. Like to my burgeoning crack habit. Kidding. It's heroin. Whoo. I'm just killin' it today.

I think I need a nap. And a cookie.

All right. The sun is shining, the birds are erm, no where to be seen around Weasel Central (though there is a buzzard in the office) and I'm happy.
Me.
Happy.
No punches in the throat today!
First date last night. Lasted hours. Fun was had. Sounds like a second one may be in the cards.
Yeah, I'd go on about it, but I don't wanna jinx a totally new thing. Besides I'm doing the "does she like me or does she like me" thing right now and it's taking up a lot of my brain capacity.

The easiest way to my heart? Ring me when I'm stuck in traffic and tell me to call you when I'm in the area. I'll ask why and you, in a growly oh too sexxy voice, will tell me that you want to order me a beer so it's fresh in front of me when I show up. Awww yeah.

Just cause you apologize to me, doesn't make you any less of a cow.

Even if you have a fancy pants corporate title.
Especially if you have a fancy pants corporate title.

All right. Between the stupidity of the call centre rep at the insurance place and my "higher" ups, I'm ready to go on a killing spree. But maybe I'll start with a punching spree. Punches to the throat for everyone!

Watch out bitch, this one's for you and your fancy fuckin' corporate title. And your inability to make one simple decision. It's a 'yes' or 'no' question. Pick one. Don't send me on a wild goose chase across six departments. I know I'm your lackey, but really. I don't have time for shit like that.

Asswipe.

Gotta love it.
I've been calling the new insurance goons for 2 days now and getting nothing but a busy signal. So I try again today and lo and behold! I get through. And end up on hold. 25 minutes and counting.

The best part? I realised 15 minutes ago that I gotta pee.

Why me?!?!?!? WHHYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!?!?!?

Apropos of nothing: I fucking hate Uncle Cracker.

Sloth, thy name is Ren.

I believe the burn out rate has been acheived. Guh. I have been ill for the last 2 weeks. If one more co-worker asks if I'm pregnant, someone's gonna get a punch in their eye. Fo' sho'.
I think this job is making me sick. Every morning when I think about coming into the office, I toss my cookies. Fuck. And I used to love this job. I thought I still did. Guess I was wrong.
It's the old "I love the people I work with, but damned if I don't hate the people I work for."
How veddy sad.

I believe I need a new job.
I was chatting with a good friend (the Fierce Accountant) about the joys of the job search (there are none), and I have given myself until January to get out of here. Why January, you may ask? Well, it's easy. That's the month that Weasel Central moves to its new swank headquarters in the 'burbs. Yup, out of the 'hood and into the 'burbs. Kill me now.

I forgot how hard it is to pimp yourself out to prospective employers when all you really wanna do is lie around in your underroos on the sofa while drinking foreign beer and watching all the "dirty" parts in Bound or that hott Peta Wilson/Ellen Barkin flick, Mercy. Though if you know of a job that's looking for someone who does all that kinda stuff, lemmie know, k?