It's official....

To all outward appearances, I may resemble a normal (ish?) 27-year-old woman. Maybe a little on the edge, what with the piercings and tattoos and stuff. A little kicky. A little wild. A little... sumthin' sumthin'.... (suggestive eyebrow wiggle).


Lies. All lies. You see, as it turns out, emotionally speaking, I am actually a 67-year-old woman named Ida, who collects those ghastly little fat kid figurines and has a poster of a wretched looking kitten with the caption, "Hang on there, baby, Friday's coming!" (note: I actually am very fond of the name Ida. This is the only thing keeping me from the abyss.)


Frick. Frickity frick frick frick.


I don't even know how or when it happened. One day, I'm feeling relatively "hip", "with it", and the next....


I'm watching freakin' ballroom dancing with bated breath, while frantically humming Frank Sinatra along with the quick-step performance. And it was really, really good! Frick. And I mean, really, really good.
Oh yeah, and I also passed up M&Ms in favour of pumpkin seeds. Pumpkin seeds, people! Next thing, it will be prunes.
And another thing? I'm wearin' my glasses right now. That's right! Even though I look better with my contacts, I know that long term wearing can result in a higher risk of eye disease and various other complaints.
I'm so f**king screwed.
On a completely different tack, for a moment, (before I return to wallowing in my own delicious self-pity) I have endeared myself immeasurably to my colleagues at work. At about 4:00, I pushed back from my desk, cursed out my computer, and then announced my intention to my fellow cubicle minion. "Yo Sandra*(*not her real name). I'm on a quest for chocolate. You want anything?" Sandra was doin' good, so after making inquiries of the other ladies, I embarked on my quest. And I make it to the upstairs hallway connecting the Cancer Centre and the main hospital. Unbeknownst to me, apparently this hallway, for the brief time I needed a fatty, sugary snack, had become, "The Hallway of Supermodels with little tiny butts and size zero jeans. (I mean really, who the hell makes size zero jeans? It's not even logical!)" Now I am by no means fat (as long as you don't ask my dad, who by many accounts is kind of an idiot/expert when it comes to destroying people's self esteems). But I am tallish and half English, which means that even if I suddenly lost, oh, let's say 50 pounds, my skeletal structure would still not fit into anything remotely approaching a size zero (hiss). It's the Viking, I'm told. Or the milkman. I was never really clear which.
But I digress. Anyway, I successfully navigated "The Hallway of Supermodels with little tiny butts and size zero jeans", and made it to the canteen to purchase... A jumbo box of Junior Mints. 'Cause they're low-fat, right? Right? But still delicious. I have made the perfect choice, ha ha ha ha. Unfortunately, I still had to navigate said "Supermodel/tiny butt/size zero" hallway with a huge box of chocolate. Yeah, I know they're looking at me. Judging me. Thinking, "Fat". Of course, that would be if their poor, glucose-starved brains were able to form a coherent thought other than, "So... hungry..." (Look at me, I'm Judge Judgington!) I made it back, doled out the Junior Mints, and relayed my story to Sandra. She made the appropriate noises (haha... aww...of course you're not fat! Awww...haha), and we got into a discussion about healthy eating. This is where I think I endeared myself the most. "Sandra," I said, "you know that little voice in the back of your head, that quiet voice that says, 'hey, how about some carrot sticks instead of those Junior Mints? Or celery? Yummy!' It was screaming at me while I navigated that hallway. And you want to know something invaluable... Something I learned during this emotional journey?" "What?" Sandra asked. "Sometimes you gotta punch that voice right in the mouth and say, 'Not now, bitch! I'm eatin' Junior Mints!'"
I may have made her spray coffee on her computer. I don't know. Information Systems doesn't know. I'm not saying either way.
Back to self pity mode again for one moment. Anybody got a surefire method of fixing a piercing infection? My navel is spewing pus like one of those soft-serve Milky Dame "ice cream" fountains. Oh, and no wise-ass stuff like, "Take the piercing out, stupid.", because this baby is staying in, damn it.

Things I learned this weekend....

1. It is very hard, nay, impossible to pry a determined "Pork Chop" (a reasonable facsimile is pictured to the left) off my green tea frappucino when she decides she wants whipping cream.

2. But you can brake suddenly....

(thump.) Yup. That works.

3. I rock.

4. I may have a shoe problem.

5. I spend way too much money on comic books.

6. I think I'm going to take motorcycle lessons. To help the environment.

7. I have a crush on Sullivan Ballou. It's a harmless crush, trust me. Essentially, he wrote a letter that out-romantificates any letter any other man could ever ever write. If you don't believe me, go here.

8. My brother rocks. Look what he bought me.

9. That's all for now, but there's one more day in the weekend. There may be more stuff pending.

10. In fact, I'm almost sure of it.

11. Oh, yeah, I also saw Shrek the Third. It's a renter. Cute, but a renter.

I Like to Sing-A...

I saw this three days ago. It made me laugh for 10 minutes. Then... I showed it to my main man, the Mack Daddy himself. Big Daddy M. Me brother. And for the last 72 hours, every time we look at each other, one of us will start singing "I like to sing-a, about the moon-a and ah June-a and the spring-a... I like to sing-a.." whilst doing a bizarre tap-dance-esque routine. I would like to state for the record that he does it far mo' bettah than me. Is true. So.... what's new... My job. She rules. Most people will mock me for what I am about to write, but it is only because they do not understand the purity of joy that can be obtained when one is faced with mountains of frustrating, redundant, bureaucratic red tape. It's freakin' awesome. It's like doing your taxes. Every day. WHOOT! And believe me, I know how sick this sounds, but I am really, really enjoying it. It's as though my psychological disorders and my formal education have meshed into a single, perfect job. "OCD, meet MBT. I'm sure you two will get along great. Oh look! There's Father Issues! I'm gonna go say hi." (I totally bet OCD and MBT are going to get it on. Hee.)

In other totally super awesome keen news, I will soon be seeing my bestest buddy in the whole world soon. In Sin City. (YAY! SINS!) Mr. Kovbasa, Big Mack Daddy M and myself will be meeting in Vegas in a couple of weeks, and I can hardly wait. I've planned our trip around two things. Cirque de Soleil, and the M and Ms store. And the wax museum. Okay, three things. Oh, and there's a car museum at the Imperial Palace.... And a roller coaster at New York New York.... Okay, more than three. Shut it. It's going to be super wicked awesome cool because I have been missing Mr. K something fierce. I'm cool, though. I haven't been letting on at all. Subtle. That is me..... "I LIKE TO SING-A!!! ABOUT THE MOON-A AND AH JUNE-A AND THE SPRING-A!!!!! WHOOOOOO!"