Official "Blog Everything" Day - Ultimate Blogging Day

April 1 has been dubbed the Official “Blog Everything” Day. The idea originated with this gentleman and he intends to blog until he can’t blog no more. So, folks, it’s time to whip out your ideas on anything and everything.

Do it, because you know you wanna - I know I'll be digging around for some topics.


Now I must save up all my thinking/writing ideas for tomorrow...

Pointlessness Part 1

Well, I’m still in shock-mode from my eyeglasses and the price, but I tell you, Super Glue sure pulled me through.

While I ogle these piles of paper on my desk and try to figure out the best way to get all this work done (unfortunately throwing them in the shredder isn’t an option) I’ll leave you with Part 1 of AJ’s Many Things of Sorts That’s Rather Pointless.

My Desk At Work 1
My Desk At Work 2

"And Your Total Comes To..."

So, like, hi. Apologies in advance, but I’m SO not in the mood.

Yesterday I went on the torturous hunt to find new eyeglasses. Well I found a pair after about an hour of searching and during that time I seriously must have drove my dad insane.

Me: Dad, what do you think? Silver or black?
Pops: *blank stare*
Me: Do these look funny on me?
Pops: *blank stare*
Me: I hate the sides on these… they look funny.
Pops: *blank stare*
Pops: OH! How about these?
Pops: *picks up the most horrid puke green glasses known to man, knowing damn well I HATE the colour green on me*
Me: *blank stare of death*

I finally picked out a pair I liked and went to do the whole prescription-adjusting thing. Once that was done the lady totalled up the final price. Now, before I went looking for eyeglasses, I had an idea how much it was going to cost me – about an arm and a leg. Well, I was off… WAAAAAY off. Let’s put it this way… these sacks of shit I’m wearing cost me not only an arm and a leg, but ALSO my other arm, other leg, every strand of hair on my head, my fingers and toes (yes, including the little piggy’s) and my large intestine right down to the bowls.

I thought I was going to cry.

At that moment, I knew my life would not be the same for the next while.

Good-bye piercings and tattoos! Good-bye fancy, expensive dinners! Good-bye pretty skirts and shorts!

/me cries.

I asked J to guess the total. He estimated it was approximately $250 CAD. I told him to try guessing a FEW hundred dollars above that.

Honestly? This pains me.

Eye Definitely Knew It

So how was my weekend? Let me tell ya!

I cleaned. I cleaned like I never cleaned before. Soon my place will be clean and it’ll be like a miracle! J was so proud of me and I am so proud of me.

But then… it all came crashing down on me like a bag of bricks. I swear I am cursed.

Remember this story? Well, *insert sarcasm* I am just sooooo excited that honestly? I just can’t hide it! Another goddamn, cunt-fuck piece of motherlickin’, shit-ass eyeglasses broke on me. HONESTLY. I did NOT break them on purpose like my dad would claim! So now I’ll have to find and pay for a new pair out of my own pocket money because I used up my eyewear benefits back in September last year. Oh, and the finding a pair process? It is a long and torturous process because I am so damn picky with what I put on my face.

Okay, it’s like this. I was craving a slurpee so I was changing into a hoodie so that I could go to a Seven-11. I was taking my eyeglasses off – not in a rough manner like a psycho freak -when all of a sudden SNAP! The piece that connects the eyeglasses to the head broke off. Here I am, standing in the bedroom, glaring at the two separate pieces thinking to myself, “I’ma kill you. THEN BURN YOU ON A STAKE.” Then I threw the broken pieces onto the bed and sulked all the way to the convenience store.

It was horrible. I couldn’t see a thing.

“Excuse me sir, but is the white-walking man telling us that we are allowed to cross the street?”

Because the mall is closed early on Sundays, I wasn’t able to quickly find a new pair. Knowing that I had to somehow survive till the end of the work day, on Monday, I needed to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve taping my eyewear together so that I looked like an even bigger loser. Then, ta-da!, came Super Glue to the rescue! I managed to glue together the two pieces and so far it’s working. It’s a little wobbly and shaky, but I’m hoping it’ll last till 4:30 p.m. (the time I’m off work). It’s a long shot but if all fails, I’m willing to bring on the clear tape.

Now I’m sure there are people out there thinking to themselves, “Just buy contacts! They’re great!” Well I’m sure you are right, but at this moment I’m not sure if I could handle contacts because my eyes are extremely dry, and my left eye had an issue a few years ago which involved an eye patch like a pirate. Eh, that’s a whole story on its own.

Please See Attached Note

Ever since I’ve been in elementary school, I’ve always had the habit of writing on my hands or arms. My hands and arms became my notebook/daytimer. I managed to organize tasks and post-it notes in a way that only I could understand.

Is this a bad thing? I’ve had many people tell me that it’s a habit I should stop because the ink could leak into my pores then into my blood stream and then BAM! Poisoning of some sort. Eh, maybe it’s all nonsense or maybe it’s something I should check up on.

One night, a couple of years ago when I was still in post-secondary schooling, I wrote a note on my hand in red ink before going to bed. During my first class, my friend beside me asked me what was on my face. I took out a compact mirror and lone behold I had that red-inked writing on my cheek. I must have placed my hand under my face in such a way that the ink must have imprinted itself to, well, my face.

It honestly took me a long time to wash that message off my cheek.

My friend suggested that maybe I should stop using my hands as my own personal notepad. I agreed.

So naturally, what did I do to help remind myself not to write on my hands? I wrote myself a goddamn note on my hand, “do NOT write on hand”.

The next morning that note found its way on my face, just like the last note.

Seriously, folks. what.the.hell.

Two years later I’m still writing notes on my hand and I still manage to get the occasional weird note stuck to my face. At this rate, I’ll be a 70 year old woman with “find dentures” embossed to my forehead.

All Your Base Are Belong To Us

Part of an email that I received from the IS department regarding our password for our new booking system:


Your EBMS password has been reset to:

35546d49_5^&GFT-A6

To change your password within the system please go to: yada, yada, yada


An hour later, I get this email:


the system could not accept passwords that weird and long... so I have reset the reset password to:

8char005


Haha. What the fuck. *sigh* Maybe I’m the only one that found this amusing.

Eye Knew It

Before my family and I moved to Calgary, from Edmonton, my eye sight was fantastic. I was 13 years old at the time and just starting grade 8. One day I noticed that I was having a hard time seeing the chalk board. I’d mosey on up to the front of the class, sit on the floor and take notes from there. After a month of doing this, my teacher (Ms. Moody – and yes, she was moody and scary) asked me if I had problems seeing the board. I told her that the writing on the board was a little blurry and she suggested that I tell my parents and go see an eye doctor.

I went home after school and after a few hours I finally told my parents of my issue. They set up an eye appointment for me and I was set.

They day of the appointment, I was terrified. I’m so not kidding when I say I had an over… oh what’s the word I’m thinking of… over-imaginative? over-active? over-crazy? Anyway, an over-one-of-those-words mind. I was terrified because I believed that I had some sort of fucked up eye disorder that was slowly causing me to go blind and that was why I couldn’t see things far away.

Well, as I’m sure we’ve all figured out by now, it wasn’t an eye disorder; in fact, I was near-sighted. And so began the horrors of wearing glasses.

One of these horrors is losing my eye glasses. I try to wear my glasses all the time and I’m completely lost without them. I’ve had my glasses squashed because someone’s fat ass sat on them, I’ve had them smooshed while having sex and someone decided to roll over them, I’ve even had a screw pop the fuck out and nearly fly right in my eye, and all in all? I’ve gone through a few pairs of glasses.

The worst, though, is losing your glasses and not knowing where you put them.

“Where’d the hell I put them?”

“Those fuckers were right here. I know it.”

“OKAY WHO’S THE JACKASS THAT HID MY GLASSES, JACKASS.”

There have been times where I would look high and low for my dear glasses, but to no avail they could not be found.

It would be at that moment when I’d realize that I had been doing a great job searching for my glasses.

I had been wearing my eyeglasses the entire time.

Better Days Ahead

I have always been a tad anti-social. Sometimes I prefer to keep to myself and enjoy the company of friends that I’ve had for years. I enjoy being able to sit back and observe rather than get in conversations and sometimes get lost in them. I’m very content with this. I also enjoy the rush of things. Once I get going there is no stopping me. I dislike slow movement except for when I feel like lounging. Being with J has benefited my fast pace of walking. Seeing as how he is 6’11”, I’ve been able to learn to keep up with his long strides. I cannot stand being squashed among people. Taking the city transportation is a nightmare. I can be found hidden in a corner of the city train going to work and heading home. Back there I am always finding myself having simple conversations in my head of all the things that are going on around me.

How dreadful. Here are three guys, probably in their late 20s, talking about some hockey video game. This one guy, who is missing a few front teeth, is so into this game that his excitement just radiates when he is explaining how awesome this game is to his friends. One friend looks like the cartilage in his ear is thinning. Its white, literally, patches of it around the rim of his ear. This other guy doesn’t seem to be paying much attention; he’s too busy texting on his cell phone.

Then there’s the token drunk guy. The kind you see riding the train to stay out of the cold and all they do is ride the train, back and forth, until they are busted by city police.

The faces on some of these people riding the train are terrible. They look worn out as if they hadn’t slept in days or showered in weeks.

Good God, what is that smell? Winter is always the worst. It’s an indescribable stench that fills the entire cart. It is by far worse than the sweat that drips off the bodies during summer. And when newcomers hop on the train, cold air emits off them and sinks right in your bones.

What the fuck is going on now? The train has stopped and has been standing still for at least a few minutes. It’s like that Seinfeld episode where Elaine is headed to a wedding and she’s trapped on a train that will not move. The thoughts that go through her head are just like mine.

“Who the hell just touched me? Oh God. I can’t breathe in here. What’ IS that smell?? GET ME OUT.”

If Hell is anything like this, I certainly hope that I’ve been good enough to surpass my way to something better to avoid going through this everyday.

While I wait for my favourite season (summer), I will continue to hope for warmer days when I can go skateboarding in the park to unwind from the hustle and bustle of the wretched public transportation (aka The Unwashed Public). Until then, I’ll keep dreaming while riding my board around my apartment carpet.

Technical Difficulties

Issues, folks, I am having issues.

Sleep? It’s nearly non-existent. Yeah, hi? I’m just the girl in the back of the training class who’s dozing off because she can’t keep her eyes open.

Absent-minded? Yes! Forget your work shoes at home because, you know, it’s cool wearing business attire and then wearing your fucking muddy DC’s around the office.

Procrastinator? Of course! Because it’s okay to wait six months to submit a health care claim at the last minute. Literally.

Chicken shit? Naturally, that’s me! I’ll just keep putting off the phone call to my dad because I’ve been too lazy to check up on that website he has been asking me about so that I can put my two cents in.

Lazy? Hahaha. You folks obviously haven’t seen my place. In the words of Xtina? Dirrrrrrrty.

Confused? Oh so very confused. Blogger? Yeah, I can’t seem to figure this and that out. Comments aren't commenting. Posts aren't posting. Screw it I say; I’ll leave it as is!

Focusing skills? NONE. Who am I kidding, I can’t even finish this entry because I’ve seriously got to get my ass into gear and phone my dad.

[Edited to Add]

Okay, Blogger, it's just you and I. Let's fight it out and start working together. You see all that text above? Yeah, that was supposed to be posted LAST NIGHT. Currently, it's the NEXT DAY and you are not showing. To make matters worse... it's St. Patrick's Day. WHERE IS MY GREEN?! NON-EXISTENT.

Thank God it's Friday.

Pure Genius

When I was younger (okay, I admit, during my high school years), I honestly thought I was a genius. Thinking back on it, I realize the majority of the things I’ve done/thought were out of plan stupidity. I’d like to refer to these as my “I Was Young, Let Me Be Dumb” years.

One year for Halloween I dressed up as a Dark and Stormy Night. Oh the questions everyone had. You see, I dressed up in all black (during my short-lived goth days) and I carried around an obviously looking water pistol. When the folks at school asked me what I was dressed as, I simply replied, “A Dark and Stormy Night! Here is the dark *point at my outfit* and here is the stormy! *shoots water pistol at person*” At the time, I seriously thought it was a great idea…

Speaking (writing) of great ideas and stormy, at one point I also believed I could start a thunderstorm in my locker, at school, using a cup of water and tin foil. Ugh. Just thinking about it is too embarrassing to tell… I’ll have to stop here with this tale. But! It isn’t as bad as the guy who started a family of mold, in his locker beside mine, using pudding.

Now on to something completely unrelated, but just as equally “smart” in my ideas, St. Patrick’s Day. Here’s a piece of information about me… I hate the colour green. I have no problem with lovely green trees and grass, or someone wearing a green shirt; the problem I have with green is if it’s on me. I cannot wear the colour green without getting violently angry. I don’t know what it is about the colour and having it on me, but I can’t even wear green undergarments because I know it’s there.

On St. Patrick’s Day, for many years, I would avoid The Pinch by putting green nail polish on my middle finger, on my right hand. That’s it, nothing more. Whenever someone would approach me, with the Attack of the Pinch, I would tell them to stop the armies for I am wearing green. They would give me the quick glance -up and down- trying to spot this green, but to no avail they could not find a thing. It was then that I would flash them the middle finger (in a salute to the FUCK YOU) and I’d run off laughing.

This year, though, I’m not too sure what to do. I have no green nail polish (I do not want to have to spend the few dollars for a bottle I will use once) and I’m fearful of the Pinch Attack. I’m thinking that maybe this year I’ll hide until 12 a.m. of March 18, 2006.

Insanity Is When You Start Talking Crap - Literally

Ugh. You people are sick. Sick I tell ya. There are some things in this world that we, or at least I, will never understand.

Skid marks. Shit stains at the bottom of a toilet bowl.

HOW DOES THAT WORK?!

It doesn’t matter if it’s coming out of J’s ass or weirdo ladies taking dumps in the women’s facilities; how does one create a force so strong that it leaves a trail of poo along the side of the bowl straight to the bottom? This is not Hansel and Gretel. The shit will find its way to the drain. Believe me.

Disgusting.

Even at home, J manages to leave stains so bad that it doesn’t matter if you flush it 50 times… you’ve got to get out the toilet brush… and ooooh how I hate the toilet brush. In fact, it’s to the point that after J is done his business, I can hear him in the bathroom saying, “oooh… no…. AJ, you do not want to look at the toilet.” It’s at that moment, I know what he’s done (he finds it funny – good God, he has a good laugh about the situation).

People! There is no reason that there should be crap stains at the bottom of the toilet bowl! We, at least North America, are fortunate enough to be living in a country that provides us with toilets that contain WATER at the bottom. We do not own the German toilet. There is no logical reason for this insanity.

Pointless Ramblings of a Monday Morning

I have no idea what is wrong with me today. I.can.not.seem.to.focus. Maybe my problem is that it’s 10:30 a.m. and I haven’t had any coffee yet. Or maybe it was the fact that my weekend sucked, my desk at work looks like its been struck by a tornado, I’ve got a crap load of projects/presentations to do and I can’t even remember what they all are, another friend of mine is getting married (I’m extremely happy for her, but whatthefuck? what about me? Sorry, jealous side), or maybe it’s because I AM SO FUCKING SICK OF WINTER I WANT SUMMER AND SKIRTS WITH FLIP-FLOPS.

Why hasn’t a hot pot of coffee appeared already?

Keep On Truckin'

Mullets! Yes, the mullet! The Business In the Front – Party At the Back, The Tennessee Waterfall, The 10/90! All of these? the mullet. Today, I say, is Mullet Day!

I happen to dig the mullet, but I’m rather particular about my pickings. Mullets on a strapping young man? Mmm-hmm. A mullet on this man? Hehehe. No.

I remember once, when I was about 20 years old, I was at a pub with a few friends when we spotted a male about our age sporting a mini-mullet. We were in awe.

*giggles like a school girl*

“Hi! TEEHEE. *wink* How you doin’? We looooooove your hair! May we run our fingers through it?”

“Uh, no.”

Okay, so we didn’t pick him up, but at least we tried.

This rant of mine will be a combination of two loves. The mullet and the Edmonton Oilers. Why in God’s name would I combine the two? Well you see, I am a hardcore Oilers fan. I grew up in a hockey family and I was born and mostly raised in Edmonton. Back in high school the Edmonton Oilers obtained a new hockey player. His name? Ryan Smyth (aka current assistant captain – aka captain team Canada). Oh.My.God. It was lust at first sight. This man had the best hockey/mullet hair I had ever seen and he was –and still is- an awesome player.

The things I’d do to just touch his hair.

So! In salute to The Mullet, I give out a great big, “Keep on truckin’!”


P.S. No, I do not own a mullet. Pshaw. Really now, have more faith in me.

Losing My First Tooth

One thing that I love about being able to write pointless crap again is reminiscing about my past and remembering all the good/stupid/funny/dumb times that I’ve been through.

During my lunch break at work, a friend and I got on the topic of stupid things we have thought and done as a child.

I still vividly remember losing my first tooth. I was sitting at the dining table awaiting my parents to hand me a bowl of Jello. “Mmm, mmm, MMMM – Jello!” I thought. That tasty, jiggling bowl of Jello was finally handed to me and I quickly grabbed a stainless steel spoon and dug right in.

I was a greedy child who didn’t like to share so I was in a rush to finish the Jello before my sister spotted me and begged for some. In my mad dash, to stuff my mouth with this jiggling goodness, I accidentally banged my spoon against my front tooth and immediately felt a pang of pain and shock.

I ran up the stairs to the bathroom and checked my tooth out in the mirror.

*wiggle* *wigglewiggle*

*wigglewigglewigglewigglewigglewiggle*

Oh, motherfucking, God.

I instantly began thinking to myself that my life was over. My tooth! My precious tooth! It’s goooooooone! In hopes of saving my life and avoiding being the Toothless Wonder, I figured that I could squeeze my tooth back into my gums and that everything would be okay. Well, that failed.

Quietly, I walked back downstairs and sat my sorry ass at the dining table. My parents must have noticed the long face because they had asked me what was wrong.

I was cornered. No turning away and running now. I confessed!

“Mommy… Daddy… *sob* I lost my tooth! It’s gone! What’s going to happen to me?!”

Oh, well, let me tell ya. They laughed. Yeah, they laughed at my pain and sorrow!

It was then that I was told of this magical fairy. Yes folks! The Tooth Fairy! By this point all I could think of was money… money.

Naturally, this fantasy fairy was spoiled when I found out -years later- that he or she doesn’t exist… along with the notion that money does not grow on trees and that the man I called Daddy is not an ATM machine…

The Losing Battle

That’s it, I’ve had enough! Hair! You and I are OVER! My long lasting I-Will-NOT-Go-To-A-Professional-Hairdresser Days are done. I can’t take it anymore.

I’m a cheap bastard. I.can.admit.it. I do not like paying the $15 (Canadian nonetheless) for a haircut. It’s not even a haircut; it’s more like a trim of a few inches. Allow me to backtrack a bit.

When I was 13 years old I didn’t see the point in going to the hairdresser to get my bangs trimmed. So I trimmed it myself in the school restroom during math class.

Heh.

After that mistake, yeah, I admit, I went to a professional for the rest of my haircuts. But then… at age 21… I refused to go to get my hair trimmed at a hairdresser so I did it myself (at home this time). I made the executive decision that I wasn’t willing to pay the dollar price and besides, my hair and I got into a massive argument where very harsh words were exchanged.

Me: “You fucking lousy piece of shit! Ima cut you. Ima cut you gooood!”

Hair: “Hah! Go ahead, do it! I dare you! I ain’t afraid!”

I divided my loooooong hair into four sections, grabbed regular paper-cutting scissors and hacked away. Seriously, I hacked. It wasn’t your “take little snippets here and there to make sure it was even”, it was more of a “COMMON SCISSORS, YOU CAN DO IT!” (Side Note: I can still hear the sound of the scissors, crunching through my hair in a struggle) Once all was said and done, I took a couple of mirrors to examine my new do.

Gag. Cough. Screech.

So.un.even.

To fix my issue, I continued to hack away at the parts that were ever so slightly longer than the rest… then those sections were too short so I’d then hack the other longer sections… then those sections became too short… This went on for about another 15 minutes.

Um. Now that I think about it, maybe it is a good idea that I go to a professional instead.

Questions Without Answers

Today, a friend of mine asked me if I enjoy working with the Mat-Leave-Replacement-Lady.

“She’s okay I guess.” I said.

“You make it sound like there’s something wrong with her.” My friend replied.

“Yeah, she talks to herself.”

I just don’t understand it.

I’m constantly hearing my fellow employees talking to themselves. Or, at least I think they’re talking to themselves. For example:

1) Mat-Leave-Replacement-Lady will be in her office and all of a sudden I’ll hear her speaking very loudly about something-or-another that isn’t right or “Odd, that doesn’t belong there.” There won’t be anyone around but me, so what the hell do I do? Is she talking to me? Who’s she talking to? Is she a Think-Out-Loud sorta person? I don’t want to seem rude and make it seem like I’m ignoring her, but at the same time I don’t want to respond and have her think, “Bitch, I ain’t talking to you.” Good God, could you imagine?

2) Today, I’m doing my work when another employee walks right up to my desk, stands there and looks at some papers, mutters something about printing something twice? and continues to stand there is a confused state. Honestly, I don’t know if this man printed something twice. So, I look at him; give the groan and shrug that translates to “uh, I don’t know…”, and look back at my work while hoping that he’ll leave ASAP. I certainly hope he wasn’t expecting a real response from me or an answer to explain his paper mystery.

And it’s like this for nearly all of the folks I work with. I hope it’s not contagious and that I’ll start talking to myself too.

PxPx

As I was coming home today, listening to a variation of Rise Against and Senses Fail, I thought about the concert last night and how much I miss going to punk/hardcore shows like I did when I was younger. Last night MxPx opened for another band, which I didn’t stay for, and I was amazed. I had waited about a good 8-10 years to see them and it was worth it. Surprisingly, I managed to maintain the amount of drool being produced at my mouth at the sight of seeing Mike Herrera.

My friend Jamie, as I will call him, still goes to punk shows at various locations around the city. Maybe it’s time I took him up on his offer to join him.

While at the concert, I did manage to purchase a couple of wonderful items.

Yes, it's cute - I know.

Here's the hoodie I bought.

Here's the back of that hoodie.

The excitement, I could barely contain.

Dab-But-Try-Not-To-Pick

Fucks sake. I’m sick with a cold.

For the last week I could feel myself becoming sick, but I tried to ward it off by OD’ing on vitamin C, drinking lots of fluids and attempting to rest. Well, yesterday was the day that my body decided to give in. I’m sneezing, I’ve got a sore throat, I feel horrid and the worst part of it all? my nose is runny.

I hate, hate, having a runny nose. I hate runny noses as much as I hate the sound it makes when it’s being blown. Horrid, horrid sound. It disgusts me even to hear other people blow their nose. I have no idea what it is about it that I dislike so much.

I can’t blow my nose like a “normal” person. Because I have three piercings in my nose, all that jewelry gets in the way of a comfortable blow (as if there really is a comfortable blow). So instead I do the Dab-But-Try-Not-To-Pick. I dab my nose, but dab enough so that I get rid of that nasty snot while making sure it doesn’t look like I pick my nose.

Too much detail, I know.

So now my nose is bright red, stinging and sore. I’m deep down in the dumps and I’m going to bring everyone down with me (like I was going to suffer alone!).