Maybe If I Could Bedazzle Them?

I discovered something very important about myself today.

After a classic battle of Lorraine vs. herself that has lasted many years and caused many sleepless nights, I finally conceded.

I, Lorraine, third (and favourite) child of Doug and Sandra, lover of all things that are Heinz ketchup, in sound mind and body, declare in a LOUD BOOMING VOICE, AS INDICATED BY THESE CAPITAL LETTERS, THAT................

*dramatic pause*

I totally don't like plain t-shirts.

I KNOW, I KNOW! How can she not like plain t-shirts? What is there not to like? I swear, I TRIED to like them! Oh how I did try. You don't know how many times I stood in a change room after worming my way into a cost effective, comfortable plain t-shirt and convinced my reflection:

a) that it actually looked really good on her

b) to accept that not every shirt requires a design or unique characteristic to look good

c) that the plainness of the t-shirt is, in effect, its very own fashion.

Regretfully, these successful self-convincing arguments triggered countless plain t-shirt casualties. Perfectly acceptable plain t-shirts were purchased and promptly demoted to pajama shirt status. Yes, these plain t-shirts were not even granted the dignity to be worn in public. That is, until they were packed up in the semi-annual closet purge and donated to charity, where hopefully someone who was a little more appreciative of plain t-shirts gave them a loving, accepting home. A home where their self-esteems could flourish, away from the constant degradation they had become accustomed to in my residence; where they could feel the sweet exhilaration of being chosen above all other shirts, and not just worn on laundry day; where they could maintain their fresh laundry scent until the next time they were worn instead of gradually absorbing the wooden odor of the chest of drawers during their six month hibernation period.

As soon as I built up the courage to admit to myself that I don't like them, I felt a wave of freedom wash over me. The shackles were broken. My eyes were opened. Somewhere in the distance, the hallelujah chorus started playing. I don't like plain t-shirts, and THAT'S OKAY. I don't have to be ashamed. It was like I was trying so hard to be someone I'm not - someone who likes plain t-shirts.

Now, let me be clear; I don't want to be labeled as an anti-plain-t-shirter. I am all for plain t-shirts. They are versatile, comfortable, and look great on many, many people - most annoyingly, those girls who could make even a burlap sac look fashionable. (I hate those girls.) However, I need some character to my t-shirts. Some pizzaz. You know why? Because I am FULL of pizzaz. Maybe even some flair, depending on the day. And if my clothes can't reflect who I am, then really...why even bother wearing them in the first place?

My Relationship With Tacos

Every once in awhile, when it is near the end of the work day and I am debating what to make for supper, one of the most marvelous words in the spanish dictionary forms in my mind:


(I actually do visualize it in that crappy '97 Microsoft word art format. I clearly need to upgrade my mental operating system.)

No matter how bad a day I am having, realizing I will soon be partaking in savoury tacos is enough to put me in good spirits. The rest of the work day is usually a write off since all I can do after I have this epiphany is bounce up and down in my chair while my brain rhythmically chants Tacos tacos tacos TACOS TACOS tacos tacos T-A-C-O-S, tacos tacos TAAAAACOS!

TacosTACOStacosTACOStacos!

TaCoStAcOsTaCoStAcOs!

taCOS! taCOS! TAcos! TAcos!

socat!

Tacos??

Ta......

COS!!!!

TACOS!

As soon as 5:00 p.m. hits, I begin the taco obtaining process by racing to the grocery store. I approach with the intensity of a Mission Impossible movie, determined to fend off danger and distractions in any form. Runaway shopping cart in the parking lot? BACKFLIP OVER IT! Driver not paying attention? DRAMATIC ROLLING OFF OF HOOD THROUGH THE AIR WITH PERFECT LANDING! Shoelace undone? LEAVE THE SHOE BEHIND, THERE IS NO TIME! Elderly woman taking too long to go through the entrance? VULCAN DEATH GRIP! (It's possible the vulcan death grip actually appeared in a different movie, but that is irrelevant.)

Upon entering the store, I am immediately greeted with more obstacles and distractions. Slow walkers, delicious non-taco food, cute guys with scottish accents asking for help with their packages...........of sugar. (The latter ONLY happens on taco craving days. It's a cruel conspiracy of the universe.) I skillfully dodge them all, assemble my taco ingredients, pay, and depart for home. Tacos tacos tacos tacos TACOS!

I arrive home in a tizzy. I can't get to my door fast enough. My work clothes fly through the air like a child's refused vegetables and are replaced by ground beef and sour cream splatter acceptable clothing. It's usually at this point that I realize I've forgotten to buy one of the main staples of tacos: taco seasoning. Once I have recovered from this initial blow and have finished blaming past Lorraine for her blatant incompetency, I review my options.

Current Lorraine's Options:

1. Drive back to grocery store. Repeat Mission Impossible theme. Consider repelling through roof over taco seasoning aisle.
2. Go to the nearby gas station in the hopes they have taco seasoning.
3. Call gas station to first confirm if they have taco seasoning as to not waste precious potential taco-eating minutes.
4. Decide all prior options take up too much time and attempt to make own seasoning with pepper, montreal steak spice, and a bottle I'm pretty sure is garlic salt. (I always go with this option.)

Waiting for the ground beef to cook is the part that requires the most patience.

There's so much pink! Why is there so much pink? HOW IS THERE STILL SO MUCH PINK!? Why won't you turn brown?? Are you too GOOD to turn brown? Are you not turning brown just because I want you to turn brown?? Fine, I DON'T want you to turn brown! Okay, I didn't mean it; please turn brown.

Once the ground beef is ready and the ingredients have been strategically placed in the taco shells, the excitement starts to climax. I am SO close to the prize. I take a second to mentally prepare myself. It's time. No more waiting. Everything, everything (from the grocery store) has lead to this moment. I pick up my first taco, which is horribly overstuffed in all the excitement and has already started to fall apart. Handling it delicately and lovingly, I take my first bite. And then.......

Tacorgasm.

Yes, it just doesn't get any better than this.

I eat until I am over satisfied, and put away my leftover ingredients in a post-taco-daze.

Until next time tacos...until next time.

Title: Master. First Name: Is what. Last Name: You Will Address Me As.

I logged onto Westjet's website yesterday to book some flights for my upcoming vacation. When I reached the section where you enter your personal information, I saw they had a new title available in the drop down list:

My initial reaction was to wonder if people other than Jedi Knights actually hold the title of Master, and if it is imperative they are addressed as such while travelling?

"Would you like a beverage, sir?"

"I'm sorry, I do not respond to anyone who does not address me by my proper title of Master."

According to wikipedia, it was formerly common (in Anglophone Canada) for the English usage of master to be followed for boys, when addressing letters or in formal address, but use of the title Master has now largely ceased, outside of highly formal situations (such as for weddings and wedding invitations).

...wedding invitations??

You are cordially invited to the wedding of:

Master Sarah Johnson

and

Master Tom Henry

Their parents hope that the union of these two Masters will result in exponential growth of Masterdom for the family and will produce many Master sons and daughters, who will then procreate with other Masters creating a Master societal hierarchy in which they will be the sole Masters with the most Masterhood.

At least, that's how I'd write MY wedding invitation.

My second reaction was HEY...I could have some fun with this:

Once I had exhausted all my ideas for things I could be Master of, I started wondering what kind of a debacle the following would cause:

I imagine it would go something like this:

Westjet Rep: First name?

Me: Last Name.

WR: No, what is your FIRST name.

Me: Last Name...

WR: Fine, what is your LAST name then?

Me: First Name.

WR: I just asked you for your first name!

Me: I know. That's why I said Last Name.

WR: Look. Just tell me what your FIRST name is. The one that comes BEFORE your last name.

Me: Last name.

WR: *head explodes*

Sometimes The Most Effective Way To Express Your Feelings Is Through a Pie Chart

Last night started off as a pretty average night. I came home from work, ate, relaxed, tv'd, internetted, and completely ignored my plans to go to bed at a semi-decent time. I'd finally started to drift off around 12:30 a.m. when I was awoken by what I can only describe as the sound of someone stomping in big, wet, sloshy rainboots down my condo hallway.

I was immediately extremely confused. My brain struggled to push me into full consciousness while trying to comprehend why someone would be stomping in big, wet, sloshy rainboots down my hallway in the middle of the night.

Fully awake and slightly terrified, I stared wide-eyed at the ceiling and weighed what I had heard against logic. I decided there were only two distinct possibilities; either there was an angry fisherman standing outside my condo door, or something else happened that only SOUNDED like an angry fisherman stomped down the hall to my door. Which was more likely though?

Reasons it could be an angry fisherman:

-Was raining today...could account for sloshy rainboots

-Building security not very effective. Could totally see some pimply teenager holding the door open with one hand for murderous-looking angry fisherman while holding six pack of beer, video games and graphic novel with the other

Reasons it would NOT be an angry fisherman:

-Fishermen rare in Edmonton due to lack of large bodies of water

-Have you ever seen a picture of a fisherman who DOESN'T look happy? Like, really.

Although I carefully weighed each factor, I was still pretty torn:

My next step was to determine if this sound was worth getting out of bed to investigate.

I quickly made a mental list of pros and cons for getting up:

Pro - If angry fisherman is present and threatening situation ensues, can better utilize mad ninja skills if not lying down

Con - Must leave illusion of impenetrable fortress created by hiding under covers

Pro - By getting up, I will burn 7 of the 400 calories I intended to burn off before deciding to skip the gym today

Con - On a scale of "unlikely" to "extremely likely", the odds of me tripping on something in the dark are "definite"

Pro - Angry fisherman might be cute?

Con - If there is no evidence to back up strange sound, will have no choice but to determine sound was a result of a bad food dream forcing me to sacrifice my customary fruit-roll-up snack before bed

Pro - Maybe the lottery ticket I bought last week WAS a winner, and the sound I heard was actually people excitedly hiding so that when I walk out of my room they will jump out and yell "SURPRISE! YOU ARE A MILLIONAIRE! Here is your oversized cardboard cheque. We apologize for how difficult it will be to fit it into the bank machine's deposit slot. Would you like to pay someone to deposit it for you?"

It was upon realization that the safety of my cat could be in jeopardy (I don't know how fishermen feel about cats) that I finally decided to conduct a quick walk-around.

I stepped into the living room, turned on the light and was astonished by what I saw...

As it turns out, my cat was the angry fisherman!

Apparently the sound of big, wet, sloshy rainboots stomping down a hallway is identical to the sound your cat makes the first time she yaks all over your floor.

Important Warning Signs That You May Have Turned Into a Sloth

• You have a mini heart attack every time you hear someone walk outside the door of your condo because it could be your roommate, and you’re not quite sure if you have enough time in between hearing her keys jingle and sprinting to your bedroom in order to avoid her seeing you sitting on the couch eating freezer-burnt ice cream in nothing but your underwear


• You sit on the couch eating freezer-burnt ice cream in nothing but your underwear


• The vacuum was successfully retrieved from the closet, but the only function it now serves is to stand like a Greek statue in the middle of your living room. You dutifully walk around it as to not disturb its artistic stature.


• “Hey, this blog I found is so totally awesome, like I mean, wow, it’s so incredibly funny and I could read it forever and then I could read it some more and OH GOOD GAWD how has four hours past already?!”


• The only reasons you have removed yourself from the crater your ass has created in the couch is for washroom breaks and to heat up a microwave dinner.


• You feel physically incapable of turning off the tv even though you have a splitting headache from watching too much of it and it’s long past the point that anything remotely decent or entertaining would be on.

  Pretty soon you’re stuck flipping between a rerun of Hell’s Kitchen (you know, the one where Chef Ramsey loses his sh*t and shuts down dinner service) and one of the Matrix sequels where Morpheous struts around in sunglasses that are supposedly so cool they don’t even need arms.

• “I seem to have spilt some juice on the counter. I should probably clean that up. Yup. Probably should.”


• The garbage and recycling are so very full but you insist on stuffing them down some more because damn it, you’re not taking both those bags out simply because some empty milk carton has the arrogance to take up so much space.

If you identify with any of these telling signs but are still unsure if you are a sloth, it won’t hurt to take immediate corrective action just in case:

• Peel yourself off the couch and go outside for a run.
  

  If this task seems too daunting or pushes you too far out of your sloth comfort zone, at least pull yourself onto the elliptical beside your couch that has rapidly been collecting dust since you discovered one side squeaks like a squirrel that swallowed a chew toy, subsequently causing you to pull multiple muscles because you think by shifting your weight around you can trick the elliptical into not making said squeaky noise.
  

  Use earplugs to circumvent the squeaks.
  

  For motivation while you are exercising, put up some red tape between two walls or objects in front of your elliptical. This will create the illusion that you are in a race and very very close to the finish line. (For added effect, play theme song from Chariots of Fire in the background.)
  

  Once you have completed your allotted amount of exercise time, feel free to run through the red tape chest first with your arms flailing gloriously in the air. Jump up and down in slow motion. Avoid any nearby furniture. (Important note: Unfortunately, simply thinking about exercising does not burn any calories.)

• Call a friend to come over at a specified time. Choose someone you know well enough to invite over but not well enough that you wouldn’t care if they came in and saw you living like a sloth. You now have a deadline to tidy up, vacuum, do laundry, shower and make yourself look like you weren’t rescued from a bayou and raised by a pack of mangy wolves who cared little for personal hygiene.


• Trick yourself into thinking that you are the Terminator, but instead of fighting evil robots from the future, your mission is to destroy dirt and uncleanliness in all its forms. Schwarzenegger accent and catch phrases should be used sparingly.

Warning – prolonged slothen activity could be hazardous to your health. If you have been suffering from intense symptoms that have lasted for more than seven days, please consult your physician, therapist, life coach, and contact a junk removal service to remove the stack of pizza boxes that is threatening to fall over and bury your cat alive.

Spelling & Grammar Pet Peeves

I was talking with a friend today about spelling and grammar pet peeves. While I in no way claim to be the all knowing authoritative source for spelling and grammar, and do (on rare occasions, ahem) make errors myself, I cannot help but be bothered by some very common spelling and grammar mistakes. I've also discovered a definitive correlation between the type of error and my level of annoyance. If I were to chart it, it would go something like this:

C Level Errors

Annoyance Level: Mild

Annoyance Indications: furrowing of one or both eyebrows, narrowing of eyes

• then/than
• to/too
• its/it's
• effect/affect
• whose/who's
• double spaces between words

B Level Errors

Annoyance Level: Medium

Annoyance Indications: Unsuccessful suppression of eye twitches, low grunts of disapproval

• you're/your
• there/their/they're
• desert/dessert
• where/wear
• were/we're

A Level Errors

Annoyance Level: High

Annoyance Indications: Yeti-like noises and mannerisms

• using three commas instead of ellipses (,,,/...)
• apostrophes in the wrong place, such as turning "doesn't" into "does'nt". (Saw this error on a shirt in Bluenotes one day. True story.)
• spelling the word "definitely" incorrectly such as; definately, deffinatly, definatly, and ESPECIALLY defiantly, which makes it a different word all together

One of my co-workers perpetually writes "defiantly" instead of "definitely", and I've been trying for months to find a gentle way of saying AHHH STOP WRITING 'DEFIANTLY' WHEN YOU MEAN 'DEFINITELY' BECAUSE EVERY TIME YOU DO A SMALL PIECE OF ME DIES! Just remember; every time you write "defiantly" instead of "definitely", the terrorists have won.

My friend did mention that one of the only times it pleases him to see things spelt incorrectly is in a tattoo, and he sent me a link to this picture, which really just made my day:

I'm actually not incredibly surprised that someone who would want "I'm Awesome" tattooed on their back would spell it incorrectly.

Cards For Coworkers

This email from Nikki, my fellow stuck-behind-a-desk-all-day friend, totally made my Friday afternoon:

K, so get this! I just got a card thrown at me to sign, and I assumed it was a birthday card because we celebrate EVERYONE'S birthday. Anyway, I signed it saying "Happy Birthday” and it turns out it was a Going Away card.

“You’ll be missed!”
“Good luck!”
“Happy Birthday!”

Oops.

I know I'm going to hell for saying this, but the only thing that could have possibly made this funnier was if it was a bereavement card:

"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"You're in our thoughts and prayers."
"Happy Birthday!"

Trouble In Technological Paradise

My cell phone and I haven't been on good terms lately. There's been some bickering, some emotional manipulation, and even threats of violence. And while we generally try not to go to bed angry with each other, it's kind-of been inevitable lately. Patience and forgiveness are wearing thin. Naturally, I fully blame my cell phone for all of our issues. If it would just BE NICE and RELIABLE we wouldn't have anything to argue about.

I originally got the phone around a year and a half ago. I was home for Christmas in Ontario, on a tight budget, and willing to sign a three year contract if it meant I didn't have to pay a cent for the phone. I got my wish, and came home with the LG Wave. Which I bought mainly because it starts out red at the top and transitions to black, and gosh darn it, it looked pretty. (See picture). It also didn't seem strewn with unnecessary bells and whistles, which I honestly hate about cell phones these days. If I could buy a cell phone without a camera installed in it, I would, but I don't think they even exist anymore. What happened to single function devices? Everything has to be multi-functional, and yet all the functions it incorporates are not nearly as high quality as individual functioning devices. For example, there's no way a tiny little camera built into a cell phone is going to have anything close to the quality of my 10.0 megapixel 20x optical/digital zoom camera. So until they make that possible, I will stick to my single function devices. Such as my ipod. Which has 80 gigs. Which an iphone would not have. My point continues.

As far as I can remember, my cell phone and I generally got along pretty well. I can't remember exactly when it started - as I suppose most people in troubled relationships can't - but gradually my cell phone began to act...well...different. These actions included, but were not limited to:

• Lying when it said it was making a phone call. It would TELL me it was "calling", except there was no ringing, and then after about 30 seconds of waiting, I would finally get the cold, hard truth: "Call failed".
• Not giving me my text messages until eight hours after they were sent. (It chose 4:30 a.m. to deliver them.)
• Not letting me send out texts (possibly out of jealousy, as there WERE some male recipients.) It would tell me it's "Connecting" for five minutes before informing me "Message is not sent. General problems." GENERAL PROBLEMS? If you're going to screw up my texting, at least think up a worthwhile excuse! You stupid, stupid phone!
• Mood swings: one minute having a full signal, and the next having no signal at all. (While remaining in exactly the same location.)
• Closing itself on me in the middle of sending texts because I made the mistake of holding it vertically and apparently it just took too much effort to stay open in that position.
• Only staying charged for one or two days max. (Burnt out from all the arguing, I assume.)
• General brattiness: the T9 word function always changes "it?" into "i8.", I SWEAR just to annoy me. Also, when I type "chiropractor" it first gives me "chipossabuns". THEN I have to hit "next" to get to "chiropractor." Which is completely logical. I'm always texting about chipossabuns. (Is that even a word?)

Lately it's new way to irritate me has been to send the wrong "reply to" number when I text, so when someone tries to reply to me, they end up talking to some random person in Alberta, or, as occurred on one occasion, B.C. Either that or I receive replies asking "who is this?" because the text appears to be coming from a number that is not mine, and, let's face it, receiving a text that says "I just narrowly missed walking into a firetruck" may sound pretty bizarre to someone who doesn't know me or my texting ways.

I finally had it up to HERE with my phone, and decided that our relationship needed to come to an end. So I marched into Telus (a.k.a. the divorce lawyer) to investigate my options. They said they would give me $150 towards a new phone or $200 towards a "smart" phone. (Because clearly, the old phones are stupid phones. Hahahaha. Haha. Ha...ah.) However, if I don't want to incur any extra costs, I have all of two phones to choose from. One of them is an LG model that is very similar to the one I have now, and the other one is so old it's on the verge of being discontinued. SPEAKING OF DISCONTINUED; I was also informed that my phone, as well as the entire "Chocolate" line from LG, was discontinued months after it was released because they were just, so, BAD. I wish they recalled cell phones like they do cars.

The injustice of this entire cell phone situation has stirred deep within me, conjuring up some sort of Cell Phone Avenger superhero-type character who wants to right the wrongs for all those who have been screwed over by a cell phone service provider, or suffered because of the lack of quality of their cell phones. Here is my logic, and I'm really going to emphasize this, so you might want to cover your ears:

IF THE CELL PHONE IS NOT OF HIGH ENOUGH QUALITY TO LAST THE TERM OF THE CONTRACT, IT SHOULD BE REPLACED FREE OF CHARGE!

Why should the consumer have to pay for the lack of quality?! We're already getting screwed by outrageous phone plans, especially now that you have to pay to receive texting! (Don't even get me started on that.) If I buy a phone on a three year contract, I expect that phone to last the duration of the contract. And that is just how it should be! And each one of us needs to step up and fight for how it should be. Let's ban together! Riot for cell phone quality! Protect the rights of the consumer! Better cell phone service for all! *flips cape*

A New Take on "Sugar High"

Nikki: I LOVE these Rockets candies. I had them all the time when I was a kid. We used to crush them up and snort them and pretend it was coke.

*Lorraine looks dumbfounded*

Nikki: What?! I grew up in a rough town, ok??

We're All The Stars Of Our Own TV Shows

I was accosted the other day on my way to work.

I had just stumbled off of my bus ride in my usual early morning zombie-like state and made my way to the street corner across from my work. I immediately noticed a few people standing around the corner with a tv camera aimed at them. Before I turned my head in an attempt to discretely walk by, I saw that it was two people collecting for the Salvation Army with a bell and a collection ball hanging thingy. I'm sure there is a more technical term somewhere.

Turns out it was someone from Citytv breakfast television trying to help the Salvation Army rep collect donations. I made the mistake of turning around and accidentally making eye contact which she used as her opportunity to ask me if I would like to donate anything to the Salvation Army. 50 cents, a dime, ANYTHING she says. Not wanting to be the jackass that turns down a charity, especially on tv, I dug out my wallet, faced the camera, and wished I had been a little bit more attentive with my make up that day.

When I put it in, the Citytv host asked me if there was anyone I wanted to say good morning to. Knowing that A) there would be nobody I knew who was watching that

station at that time and B) well...actually just point "A)" again, I stared terrified into the camera and said something resembling "uuuuuummmgggguhh...gooooood moooorning...uhhh....Edmonton???" to which she responded "Well said!"

I was actually able to retrieve a shot of me being on tv. Here is a screen shot of the incident:

After this, I swiftly walked into work extremely flustered and hoping nobody saw my tv debut.

Nikki wasn't in yet, so I went up and left a note on her desk saying "I was accosted this morning." but left it unsigned. She called me about 15 minutes later. Our conversation went like this:

Nikki: How were you accosted?

Lorraine: How did you know it was me?!

Nikki: Honestly Lorraine...you're the only person I know who would use the word "accosted."

She knows me too well.

Premonition

Driving home on Saturday night:

Thought process in Lorraine's head:

Why are these freakin' cars driving so slow?! Why do people drive EXACTLY the limit here? Get out of my way. Yeesh. Finally, I can accelerate. Okay, I'm only going 70k/h in a 60 zone. That's not bad, I can live with this. Hey, it's weird, I keep hearing about how they have photo radar here, but in the year I've lived here, I've never gotten caught. Which I'm pretty lucky for, because I speed a lot. Although now that I'm thinking about how I've never been caught, I'm probably going to get caught. Ha, wouldn't that be a crappy coincidence. That would suck. *Looks around nervously*

*FLASH*

Me: Nikki. Did you see that.

Nikki: Yes. You just got caught on photo radar.

Desperate for a drink

Nikki and I are waiting to get drinks at the bar at the bowling alley. The server is checking ID for some people ahead of us.

Server: Can I see some ID?

Young girl: *hands a piece of paper that looks like an official government document*

Server: *pause* I'm sorry, I can't accept this.

Young girl: Why not??

Server: Well...the picture is taped on.

Further Evidence That I Should Not Procreate

It's getting harder to laugh at the stupid things I do when they occur so often.

Some backlogged items:

3. A month or two ago I told Nikki that the drain in one of our double sinks was clogged. The water was murkey and I couldn't see the bottom. Turns out I just completely forgot that I put the plug in. I discovered this two days later. (Thankfully before I contacted our landlord)

2. A month ago I was working late and realized I had to move my car as my parking had expired. Got my car, moved it into the company parkade, then tried to use my keycard to get up to the lobby. Didn't work. Had to wait for someone to come out the door and then snuck in. Got to the lobby, couldn't scan in the elevator. Got security to scan me in. Got to my floor. Couldn't scan into my floor. Went back down to the lobby. Security calls our company rep. Gets permission to scan me onto my floor. I leave a message for Facilities to fix my dang card. I grab my stuff and leave. I go to scan into the elevator on the off chance it will work. I hold up my key card and realize...yes. I have been using my apartment keycard instead of my work keycard. Yes, they look identical. But are on separate keychains.

That brings us to today's incident.

1. I tried baking a carrot cake last night for our United Way bake sale today. I got as far as getting the batter ready in a bowl before taking a break and subsequently crashing. Tonight I attempted to finish, which I thought I had done successfully until I realized I had forgotten one vital item; the carrots.

I'm getting kinda scared. Hold me.

Note to self: don't...do...anything.

Nikki: You're a disaster today.
Lorraine: You tell me that every day.
Nikki: No, I usually say you are a mess. Today you're a disaster!

I'm not sure if this is the way I have always been and I just never really took note of it, or if this is something new. The last time I felt this clumsy was probably around puberty, when my body started growing rapidly but had apparently left my hand-eye coordination behind.

Lately I've been doing things like walking into walls, coffee tables, various other inanimate objects, and just getting hurt in very strange ways. (Moreso than usual, is my point.)


I guess they aren't only strange but also stupid. For example, I can't keep a drink from spilling to save my life. I also keep perpetually walking into the corner posts of my bed. On closer inspection, it looks like someone specifically designed the posts for this purpose. Despite the obvious lack of esthetics, I am still considering buying foam or some type of padding and using duct tape to securely fasten to each post. *brief moment of affection for duct tape*


Then there was the incident a few days ago where I seared my finger on a broken part of a mixer that belonged to a movie-theater style popcorn maker. How did this happen, you ask? Well, first of all, I'm an idiot and immediately grabbed it when it fell out of the popcorn pot without it even occurring to me that it would be ridiculously hot, and secondly, it was part of my volunteering duties for our United Way campaign at work. Since it did occur on work time, I briefly considered filing for workman's comp, but discarded this idea due to the consequence of having more people find out about my stupidity, and subsequently creating a safety incident report which would soon be circulated to the entire company.


Unfortunately, this was not the only incident with the popcorn maker...oh no. I also had a burning hot kernel fly out of the pot and target the gap between the collar of my shirt and my chest like a fat kid on a smartie. Fearing I would accidentally bare my breasts in front of my coworkers during my mad attempt to remove it, I ran away clutching my chest. (You can imagine how graceful and sophisticated this looked.) Two days later, I have three very red and very large blisters from where it first fell beneath my breast, stubbornly moved to a second spot under my breast, and firmly planted itself in the center of my bra, the part which provides the most pressure against the skin. If I could put up a tactful picture of this, I would.


I can't help but wonder how this particular kernel found it's way three feet away from where it was sitting and into the tiniest crevice of my shirt. Really...the angles must have been so precise and exact, along with the amount of velocity it took to shoot out of the pot. AND it knew to do it when somebody I had just met on the United Way committee was talking to me. Which makes me hope I haven't developed a reputation as "girl who burns herself by accident a lot." Yes, there is no doubt...this kernel was out to get me. This kernel HUNTED ME DOWN. (Kudos to anybody who got the Dane Cook reference.)


I've been trying to come up with a good reason that these things keep happening, and after ruling out brain tumor (mostly because that is clearly a child of my paranoia), I have yet to come up with a good explanation. So for now, let's go with a second puberty, and I will heartily await to grow another few inches taller.

Best Friend Conversations

Having a conversation with Nikki about work using extremely advanced technical IT jargon:

Nikki: You don't need to do a computer account request form, just an equipment move request form. All you need is your asset number on your...box...thingy.

Lorraine: ...you mean your hard drive?

Nikki: ....yes, that.

Lorraine: You DO realize you work in IT, right?

Nikki: Shutup!

Innovative Car Repairs

I don't know why it is people keep hitting my car when they are backing out of parking spaces. Is my car invisible? Because it looks silver to me. If I have been driving around with an invisible car, I would hope that someone would have told me by now. The idea that I have had an invisible car this entire time and not taken advantage of it is upsetting to me. I wish Impark personnel couldn't see my car the way these people that keep driving into me don't.

What makes me the most angry is knowing a simple glance in the rear view mirror or side view mirror would quickly indicate to them that yes, there IS indeed a car behind them and maybe, just maybe, they should attempt to avoid hitting it. Who ARE these people that slam on the gas pedal and think "Look out, I'm coming back, if you get hit, it's your fault!" Perhaps they are the same people that ride their bikes into parked cars. By the same logic, would you walk backwards without looking? No...so why would you operate a huge device made of steel worth thousands of dollars with you in it without watching where you are going? WHY!?

The inspiration for this rant came from a recent incident in the Best Buy parking lot. Here I was, driving very slowly, making my way over to an empty parking stall. I see a car backing out to my left. I see the car isn't stopping. I'm too far along to brake and avoid a collision, and cannot accelerate fast enough to get out of the way. So I slam on my horn and hold it down. The car still comes. I look around me trying to think of what other possible signal I can give to indicate "HEY YOU ARE ABOUT TO DRIVE RIGHT INTO ME YOU MORON". After a good three seconds of horn blasting, the car backs into me anyway, crunching my driver's side door. The wonderfully ironic part of the story is that the weather conditions were atrocious as it was the second day of our April blizzard. So one would think that car accidents would be more likely to happen. But this accident had nothing to do with the weather! She didn't slide...she didn't even try to brake. It had to do with stupidity instead.

She gets out of her car all distraught and apologizing. I say it's ok, these things happen, once I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. After all, it could be a lot worse. After going inside her van to get a pen, and me hearing her teenage son in the passenger side say "I TOLD you to stop!" and her replying with a polite screaming "SHUTUP!!!" she advises me she wants to pay for it herself instead of going through insurance. I'm fine with this. But upon consultation of my witness, he says I might be able to just take an ordinary hardware store plunger and pull the dent right out. Apparently this is a secret weapon to many a body shop repair man. The paint isn't scratched at all, and I figure if I can do this, I can save both of us some trouble.


There is no way you can plunger your car without having someone take pictures of it. (Thanks goes out to Nikki. Ma homegirl slice. Word.)





First, I had to try to sterilize the plunger a bit. My car is dirty enough without feces on it. This is me soaping it up and doing my best to avoid touching it. Gross.

This is me doing my very best to get the best suction against the car door as possible.



This is me losing my plunging mojo. As you probably would have guessed, it didn't work.

So...anyone know a good auto body shop in Edmonton?

Hospital Humour

Yesterday Nikki and I had the pleasant experience of spending essentially the whole day at the hospital. It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't of been doubling over in pain and I wasn't weathered down with what I had just discovered was strep throat, a nasty sinus infection, and a nose bleed that was on the verge of needing to be cauterized. (Dry Alberta weather + sinus infection = Lorraine thinking she must be hemorrhaging from the brain.) But no, we could not be free to enjoy the multitudes of sick (and strange) people, rude receptionists and doctors, and the maze that is finding radiology. Something was wrong with Nikki, and we had to find out what.

After being guided from hallway to hallway, wrong room to wrong room, we finally found where we were supposed to be only to be told to go to the front of the hospital and go through patient registration. Back through the maze we went and got in line.

There was a sign posted at the front of reception:

MATERNITY VISITING HOURS

Friends and extended family: 4 - 8

Siblings and grandparents: 11 - 9

Father: Anytime

Nikki made a seemingly logical observation: "What about the mother?"

Lorraine: "Well...it's 'maternity' visiting hours, so...I'm pretty sure she'd already be there."

Nikki: "Oh yeah. Ha. I'm an idiot."

No Nikki, you are not. You do, however, have blonde hair...

Pack Rat: 1) A person who collects, saves, or hoards useless small items. 2) Lorraine

I should be in bed, but I had to write something about this.

I just spent the last four hours going through my old bedroom. Last summer I moved into my new bedroom next door which is a heck of a lot bigger and therefore a heck of a lot awesomer. (Yes, I said awesomer.) As such, there were many items in my old bedroom that didn't get transferred over, and hadn't been sorted through in years.

Some examples of things I found:

-certificate of acheivement in piano. From when I was FIVE YEARS OLD. That means it's been in there for *counting on fingers* 17 years.
-Treasure trolls. If you felt the urge to go "oh YEAH I remember those things" when reading that, it will give you an indication of how ridiculously old they are.
-The price tag from my grade 8 graduation dress. Yeah, I don't know either.
-A grade 2 illustration of different types of spiders. Apparently there is one called The Lazy Cowboy or something of that sort. I think our teacher made it up as a joke to play on us, cause really, it just sounds like an unsatisfying sexual position to me. What?
-Newsletters from ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. Why...why??
-An ultrasound. Of me. Dated November 1984. In a bag with tonnes of congrats on the new baby cards. Apparently my mom is just as much of a pack rat as I am. Although I suppose those things are more sentimental. Why she kept them in my closet all these years? I have NO idea. She likes to put things in "safe spots" and then forget where they are.
-A hospital bracelet from when I was admitted for my back years ago. (I couldn't even lie down without screaming in pain). I also found in that bag with the baby cards my mom's hospital bracelet from when she had me. It was a nice "Aw, mother and daughter both save hospital bracelets" moment.

...and there are many MANY more strange things like this that I found and have no idea why I kept.

The good thing is I've been able to detach myself a lot more from things like that so I don't feel bad throwing most of them out. After all, what am I going to do with my grade 6 school year agenda? Remember how I had a spelling test on a Thursday? Oh the memories...

Happy 100 Posts To Me

It's been awhile since I've written on here my friends. My co-workers. Random people I don't know that apparently read this. Assuming anybody reads it anymore? This I do not know. I do know that I just noticed I spelled "co-workers" as "cow-workers"; not a very flattering term to my workmates. However, you wouldn't have known about this error since I already corrected it. (You went back to check didn't you...didn't you!) You see, that's the power of being the blog author. I know more about what is being written than you. I am omniscient. (Except I couldn't remember how to spell 'omniscient'. The online spell checker is omniscient in that regard). I also possess supreme editing power. Editing power that I exercise to it's fullest extent. What am I talking about you say? I'm not sure, I'm a bit out of sorts...you see, it's been a while since I've written on here.

HOWEVER.

Looking at my little summary page before I go into my blog, it tells me this blog has 99 posts. Which, if my math skills are correct - and I hope they are since I worked for so long in accounting, but I wouldn't be surprised if that's why the company is now going bankrupt - then that makes THIS my 100th post! Yaaaaay!

100 posts is really like any other post, I gotta say. Perhaps with some more wine or champagne or jello shooters, whatever you prefer. We have it all on this blog. And as much as I would love to celebrate...it's nothing REALLY momentous. What makes 100 so different from 99? I'll tell you the difference: 1. (Math skills again). However, that is THE very same difference as 99 to 98. So why not celebrate 99 as much as we celebrate 100? What is it about triple digits that deserves celebration? "I don't know Lorraine, you are the one having this whole celebration thing" you say? Ah. Well. Touche. (with the accent that I don't know how to do.)

I DID actually have a topic for this post before I noticed that it would be my hundredth post. It was a conversation that occurred today over our delicious all day breakfast at The Sunset Grill in Toronto in reference to a scene from The Simpsons movie.

Me (singing) "Spider pig, spider pig...does whatever a spider pig can...can he swing...from a vine...no he can't, he's a pig."

Laura: "From a vine?? He swings from a web! Why would he swing from a vine?!"

Me: "...I think I was thinking of Tarzan. SHUT UP I'M HUNGOVER!"

Maybe you had to be there...and if you were Laura or Vic or Sandra or Ken or myself, you would have been. But you're not. So. Too bad for you. Way to not be us. Loser.

Spider pig...spider pig...

Office Smack Talk

I recently got Laura, one of my best friends, a job at my work. Which means the days are a little less boring. And by a little, I mean a lot. We like to spice things up by emailing each other quotes from The Office throughout the day and making hap hazard paper airplanes to throw at each other when no one's looking.

So, in our comfy little accounting department, we have these two stamps, one to fill info out to enter an invoice and one to fill out info for paying an invoice. Today after some of Laura's usual smack talk, I menacingly held up the stamps to her and said:

"I will TOTALLY enter you and pay you."

"Lorraine...think about what you just said."

*pause*

"...OH MY GAWD!!!!!"