International man of mystery!

The guy in the office beside me is KILLING me! In a good way. This guy is about a year away from retirement, and pretty much every day I come into work, he curses and swears all day long. I always think something catastrophic has happened to him the way he lets go. Just now he moaned Ohhhhhh shiiiiit! Fuuuuuuck, no! and I was ready pop my head up in case he just got news that someone had died (he always sounds this upset) and then a minute later he’s all hideyho neighbor! Want me to grab you a coffee hyuk hyuk! I don’t get it! I don’t want it to end either, because I love imagining what could possibly be going on in his ‘puter to make him react the way he does about twelve times a day. I am dying to ask him what upsets him so much, so many times a day – and does he know that his inner voice is actually his outer voice? I’m a newbie here, and nobody else seems to react to his outbreaks (I always jerk my head around, look at my co-workers and give them the wobbly eyebrows to communicate, are you hearing this? But everybody just keeps their head down and work through his naughty words.

I live for stuff like this!

(omg, he just blew a huge raspberry, like a three year old who has run out of bad words to say and resorts to sticking their tongue out. But he also just smiled at me while he put his coat on! )

Ohfergod’s sake!

For the kajillionth time, my husband asked me what I want for Christmas.  I have told him, do, the math, a kajillion times what I want.  He sent me an email today with the words “can you provide guidance?”

My reply:

Ooops, thought I did.  Sorrrrrrry.

 Get out of your chair and leave your buildng.  Find your car, open the door and put your keys in the ignition.  Drive to a major retailer (the Bay, Sears or Sephora).  This will be hellish because you have left it to two weeks before Christmas.  Find your store.  Walk in looking cute, ruffled, vulnerable and confused. Did you wear a plaid flannel shirt and jeans today?  That is usually the best look for this type of excursion.  If you do the aforementioned, the sales associates will flock to you.  Find the cutest sales associate (WARNING: Sephora has gay associates and they are not immune to your charms, in fact, they will cut female associates to get to you first).   Ask the chosen associate for Chloe Eau de Parfum – stumble on these words, they will find it endearing.   If you are feeling like a high roller, throw in a body lotion.

 If you go to Sephora, they usually throw in free samples of stuff.*

If I knew how to insert one of those poll-thingeys I totally would to see how many of you think he will succeed on this mission.

*I threw that in to totally eff with his mind because they will ask him “what kind of samples would your wife like sir?”  Bwahahaha, he will be so confused!  Oh wait, I will probably end up with products that are meant for asian skin tone and black hair.  That was a bad idea.


I would be a great rock star

For Julie, because you wanted to know what I think about in a 10 minute span.

Yesterday when I should have been (insert: doing dishes, emptying the dishwasher, making a meal with all food groups represented, doing laundry, folding laundry, putting away laundry, sweeping the kitchen floor, supervising homework, making our bed, putting up Christmas decorations, filing papers in the home office, organizing the recycling, cleaning out the fridge, doing Christmas baking, cleaning the bathrooms, cleaning out the car, returning overdue library books, writing Christmas cards, doing some online Christmas shopping…..) I found myself daydreaming about being a rock star.  Not so much about actually being on stage showing off my moves like Jagger, but rather coming up with what my rider would look like (do you know what a rider is?  For those who don’t spend a lot of time thinking about being a rock star, a rider is the your list of DEMANDS as the talent, for what you NEED to have in order to put on the best damn show ever.

A list of a few of my needs:

Peanut butter M&M’s.  Read this one carefully.  I said peanut butter.  If you bring me peanut M&M’s I will cut you and throw you in the Screamer Pits (high five Walking Dead reference!) It must be peanut butter.

Aspirin – not for headaches, but to crush and rub all over my face to give me a youthful glow.  Try it. 

A feather filled couch.  It’s like a hug when you lie on it and this rock star, like Temple Grandin, needs a hugging machine too.

All flavours of MIO.  One word, addicted. 

Three sizes of leather jeans, because as I rapidly approach 40, overnight my body rebels in ways that makes guessing what size I will be in the morning completely unpredictable.  I feel like a freaking Barbapapa and if you have to ask what a Barbapap is you are too young to know and I hate you (you can catch episodes on YouTube in French if you really want to know).  And leather, well, because I’m a rock star.  Duh.

*Three white t-shirts; one with a boat neck, one with a v-neck, and one with a crew neck.  It all depends on if I like my collar bones that day.  Yes, it does matter, shut up.

Room temperature water, and lots of it.  But I also need an assistant who will cut me off drinking it about 2 hours before I go on stage.  I liken my bladder to a drip coffee maker, it takes a while for everything to filter through, and I don’t want to leave the stage to go pee. 

Pictures of my children/husband doing magazine quality activities.  But not my actual children (they were bugging me when I was writing this – I may or may not ask for them).

PoP Chips – also addicted.  All flavours except plain.  Screamer Pits if you bring me plain.

Some gay friends surrounding me– sigh, I actually just want this all the time, pretend rock star or no pretend rock star.  Who’s going to tell me if I look good or not and make me giggle? *The Gays would really help me with what neck line to choose. 

Music.  Okay, this is important.  While the crowd is warming up to hear me, I need the following songs:

Heartbreak Hotel by Elvis Presley.  I am slowly trying to convert the entire world to the Church of Elvis and may or may not be pumping in brain washing gases into the air of the stadium while Elvis plays in the background.  Bwahahaha, or should I say hubba hubba.  (Oh, and hells yes I am playing a stadium in this day dream – though I do have intimate “playing a night club” day dreams too).

Edge of Seventeen by Fleetwood Mac.  See if you can follow me on this one – I like to pretend that I am a rock star pretending that I am Joan Cusack from School of Rock pretending to be Stevie Nicks…..yes I am this complicated in real life.

Kickstart my Heart by Motley Crue.  Try not getting all hyper and excitable when you hear this song.  The crowd will be soooo pumped to hear me after hearing this.  And special surprise, Tommy Lee is my guest guitarist tonight – sweet!

When She Begins by Social Distortion.  Well, this is the song I will come out on stage to, because I am a She, and I am about to Begin.  Get it? When She Begins?  Oh, and super cool rockers like Mike Ness from Social Distortion will be  in my roped off VIP area to watch my show, and I am not letting Gwyneth Paltrow into my VIP area because that girl just needs to be said no to sometimes. 

Well, my daydream ended there when a telemarketer called.  I gave Edie the old stinkeye when she answered phone and gestured wildly that I was not home but she gave me the phone anyways.

Baaaack to reality.




If I could turn back time….


(this post is not about Cher and a bunch of cute boys in navy uniforms, sorrrrrryyyyyyy……)


Yesterday I had a meeting the The City.  I love going into The City because I live in a bit of Pleasantville, which, while very nice, sometimes doesn’t always inspire or offer up the grit that a more urban setting can.  Sometimes I need grit, horns honking, sirens screaming and good street style to shake me out of my mini-van existence.  The City makes me feel energetic, alive and a little bit bad ass stomping down the city streets in my motorcycle boots with tunes a-blaring in my ears.  Just try and not take on the world when you are listening to Cock in my Pocket by Iggy Pop, I dare you.


With The City comes the mixed bag demographic that we don’t have in Pleasantville – oh sure, there are lots of LV and Coach bags here, but not so much the homeless, the crazies,  fashion makers and risk takers. 


Which brings me to yesterday afternoon.  On the street I was asked many times for spare change, and while yes, I did a have a few coins jingling in my change purse, it was always no, sorry man, not today.  I never walk by, ignore, pretend they aren’t there, but I do let them down gently, with a venti Starbucks’ coffee in one hand.


There was one older gentleman who asked me for spare change, and I delivered my line, looking straight at his eyes without missing a step.  He had a pair of the gentlest, kindest eyes, and the kind of weathered face only a rough go of things can give you.  I had already passed him when the impact of his eyes truly struck me.  I slowed down, I thought about going back and giving him the contents of my change purse, but I didn’t.  Why didn’t I?  I don’t know, fear of looking silly on a busy sidewalk (where nobody knows me) turning around and retracing my steps.  Fear of engaging a stranger, fear of, fear of, fear of I don’t know what.  But last night I fell asleep with those kind eyes haunting me, and how I wish I could turn back time and go give him the what, three dollars I had in my wallet? 


I like to think of myself as an empathetic, charitable individual, but today I have the creepy crawlies in my skin because I walked on by even when my conscience was tugging at me, go, go back, give him something, the tiniest fraction of what you have, go, go give to him!


Yeah, I need to hit reset on this one.