There’s Calories in Air, I’m Sure Of It!

D2 suggested I try My Fitness Pal to help me with tracking my calories and hopefully shedding some pounds.  She set it up on my phone and set a goal for me.  The calorie counting at the top tells you how much you have to spend and how much you have used with every documented morsel you decide to tell it you have eaten.  I thought it was a great idea, since she has been using it for a week now and really is getting the hang of it.  I thought it would be a great mother-daughter bonding thing.

 So, I was using it today, the FIRST day, and already it’s yelling at me.  “I THOUGHT WE WERE WATCHING OUR CARBOHYDRATES?!”   “HEY, MORON, I THOUGHT WE WERE WATCHING OUR SUGAR INTAKE!”  “THERE’S SUGAR IN CHOCOLATE!”  “WE ARE VERY CLOSE TO OUR DAILY CALORIE INTAKE AND IT’S ONLY 10AM!”

I’m starting to think My Fitness Pal is really My Calorie Asshole Nazi and I’m not enjoying it.

I think I’ll put in that I ate three Big Macs and doubled down on a two litre of Coca-Cola and see if it goes into any spasms of outrage.  Maybe it will self-destruct.  Maybe it will automatically email everybody and set up a food intervention circle.

That would be great as long as somebody brings the wine…

Helpful Tips for Avoiding Douche-Like Behaviour

So, Friday was Halloween and we celebrated the day by trying desperately to look cool whilst looking like office workers wearing hats. Which is what we were. Until some guy walked in and we had a difficult time deciding if he was wearing a costume or if he actually looked like that. He had a mustache, hat and glasses…so does one always wear mustache, hat and glasses or was it a Halloween costume? Was he trying to confound and confuse us into thinking he didn’t normally look like that, but since Friday was Halloween and everybody looked unusual anyway, ( I mean we were wearing hats) he fit right in? That’s what I’m going with. I wish I had had a mustache, hat and glasses so that I could have made him feel even more at home…next year I’ll be more prepared.
While I am attempting to squash my asshole-like tendencies by being pleasant and over-the-top-helpful-bordering-on-strange-creepy-and-sorta-awkward, I have amassed a list of tips to avoid asshole-like behaviours so you too, can be over-the-top-helpful and borderline strange and creepy.
You. Are. Welcome.
1. People tend to not enjoy negative comments like “you suck” and “stop being so annoying”. I realize this may be a news flash for some, but try to employ a bit of tact when telling somebody you’d rather have a mouthful of wasps than be in their company. Phrases like “I realize you probably suffered some childhood trauma that makes you such an asshole, but please try to be more cooperative” are pretty good. Also, labelling the behavior is a good way to tell someone what they are doing is not so appropriate. “You are yelling and your opinion is not important enough to me to matter” is a great way to be specific. Go You!

grumpy cat

2. When Grumpy McGrumperston arrives at your door to bring all kinds of negative shit your way, I find being the total opposite is a wondrous adventure in both movie trivia and ‘how crazy can I become for the sake of making a point’. For example, when a certain someone decided that I was being totally unreasonable in my expectations to at least attempt at cleaning a room, and became a version of Grumpy Cat 2.0, I went all Mary Poppins on her ass and had a grand time! Singing “Spoon Full of Sugar” with a British accent whilst twirling around with the dog in my arms proved to be an alarming yet effective means of avoiding any kind of conversation whatsoever. It also proves that kids nowadays have no sense of old Disney movies and who in the hell Julie Andrews is, OR the value of a good British accent.

3. Remember, employing the ‘obviously’ word in a snide Snape-like tone tends to be a real turn-off for members of the opposite sex when they’ve made an observation that you made a few days ago. It’s often better to nod and smile…then laugh hysterically behind their backs after they leave the room. That way they won’t see how much more intelligent you are. It’s better to say something useful about the weather when they’ve returned and you have gotten up off the floor. See how considerate you are?!


4. Apparently, using the phrase “Fuck you” is not a constructive way to handle conflict. I know it came as a shock to me, too. When the need arises to use such filthy language, use this instead: “I have come to the realization that speaking with you any further can only lead to angry outbursts, thus I will only communicate with you in mime.” I think no further explanation of this point is necessary.

There you have it. Four useful Tips In How Not to Be a Total Douche in Public. I should start on the manual. It could be a bestseller…

Parlez-Vous Joey?

So, Hubby sent me these attachments to read and ‘get to know’ on an intimate level regarding pensions and shit.  After the first page, I started reading this:  A pension under the…blah, blah, blah, annuation perpetuates by a 2% blah, blah, blah….fuck-it-all-and-move-to-Figiblah, blah, blah….

Yeah.  I’m not sure how much ‘getting to know’ and ‘intimacy’ myself and this pension plan has.  There will be no candle-lit dinners involved in THAT relationship…

We have booked an epic journey to New York departing Montreal following the Canada Games row-a-thon that D2 will be commandeering.  Should be a hoot.  After a week of forcibly attempting to speak ma Joey-French (to those of you who missed THE ENTIRE NINE YEARS OF FRIENDS AND IF YOU DID, I’M NOT SURE IF WE COULD STILL BE  CONSIDERED FRIENDS, Joey-French was the mysterious French- language-interpretation that Joey thought he could speak and get away with.  Unfortunately, that did not work out very well for him. HOW COULD YOU HAVE MISSED THAT ONE?  SERIOUSLY. GO WATCH IT SO WE CAN GO BACK TO BEING FRIENDS.) 

 The poor people of Quebec will be so confused at my version of the French language they’ll ask that I switch to sign language.  OR they’ll just think I’m high all the time.  OR that I have some disability that makes me speak in tongues.  So, they’ll ask son to speak on my behalf.  Thanks Montreal. 

New York is looking like a sand trap for tourists who revel in getting tragically lost at every turn or high from the exhaust fumes from all the traffic.  SOUNDS PERFECT.  Hubby is not thrilled with this choice…he wanted sand. And sun. And blue water.  SUCK IT UP, DUDE.   AND, we could be forcing him to sit through a Broadway show.  I can’t wait to see his face after an hour of singing and dancing. HE’S GONNA DIE!!!!  (This is the antagonistic asshole part of me. You. Are. Welcome.)

After scouring the internet for days on end, repeatedly pestering Bestie and D regarding our impending Journey into The Great Beyond, I have nailed down exactly NOTHING. Nada. Zilch.  Fucking zero, people.  City pass or Explorer Pass?  Museums?  They have a gagillion.  Statue of Liberty?  You gotta take a fucking boat to get there!  Jeesh, I live on a Goddamned island and I GOTTA TAKE ANOTHER FUCKING BOAT?!!  Ugh…I got the swearing down pat.  AND, I’m working on ma New York accent…FUHGEDDABOUDIT…eh?  Sort of a cross between a young DeNiro and an old Carol Channing with a Canadia twist.  I SAID I WAS WORKING ON IT. 

It’s all confusing and exciting at the same time…great.  Now I’m sounding like a Taylor Swift song. 

As for the Father’s Day gift that I bought for the father of my children, the bread winner, the all-around-great –guy.  He arrived home from work last night and saw it sitting in the living room.  His reaction: “What’s that?  Why did you get that?”  He then continued to tell me I should have spent the money on myself, to which I replied something like this:

“dlkskjieooiwj…and lsiie tet fusi- place un baiser sur mon ass maintenant fblahmuthaslsoifuskcier” 

YOU WOULD TOTALLY UNDERSTAND THAT IF YOU KNEW JOEY-FRENCH.

For all my DH ladies who made the effort to come to the blog to read something different, my apologies.  Your emails are now fodder for blog posts. 

Now get back to watching all NINE years of Friends…

The Email

The following is an actual email I JUST SENT to all of my DH ladies.  THEY’RE GOING TO BE AFTER ME SOON!!
  Enjoy…

Dear Things,

It is with a heavy heart that I must send you this email.  You have all been trusted and dear friends of mine and I realize this news may come as a shock to you, but I really must impart this most disturbing turn of events.

I don’t want you all to be dismayed by this news or have it shatter your ideal image of me (just go with it), but I feel you all must know the truth.  I have spent the better part of the afternoon rehearsing how I would say this without causing you pain or therapy for your families.  I have agonized how I would word it gently and without undue stress, however there is no easy way. 

I BURNED A BAG OF POPCORN. IT’S NOT JUST BURNT.  IT’S BLACK. TOTALLY INEDIBLE.  FUCKING TOTALLY BLACK. LIKE NOT EVEN REASONABLE.

There.  I’ve said it.  I’ve managed to pick out the white bits, but really it’s the goddamned microwave’s fault! 

THAT’S WHAT THE POPCORN BUTTON IS FOR. 

Seriously, if that button wasn’t there we would have to estimate the cooking time and who among us gives a shit about that? Oh, right.  Nurse Betty.  My bad.

Look it's Nurse Betty waiting for the popcorn!!

Look it’s Nurse Betty waiting for the popcorn!!

But other than Bree-Clone, who would stand at the microwave waiting for the popcorn to pop.  Watching minute after minute, interminable second after second as the popcorn slowly comes to white puffy heaven, only this time it went to black pieces of soot-like filth. I have more important shit to be at, like, HELLOOO, spider solitaire and ma wonderful stu-dents!  Ugh…

Anywho, I thought I would just let you all know this awful news before you heard it from God knows where and the RNC is called and they want all the surveillance tape from the cameras in the building to document what truly went down.

Jeesh, it’s not like I left a burned bag lying carelessly on the side of the road, or anything….

I appreciate your understanding and truly value our friendship.  I hope you all find a way to forgive me and move on from all of this undue tragedy.

Yours in popcorn-popping,

K

“Be funny. You’re not being funny. We were expecting more. You suck”

I was writing a blog post in my head this morning as I was making lunch and breakfast and smiling wanly at the dog who was looking up at me with expectant eyes like “You WILL drop something on the floor for me to eat, right?  ‘Cause that’s the only damn reason for me to be seated at your feet.  That and I feel the inexplicable need to bite your ankles every time you step away from me.”   Yeah.  The post was pretty good.  The only problem is I can’t remember it.  I didn’t have a pen and paper nor the inclination to run for one at that moment, so the post is long gone into the chasm of my memory…there must be so much shit in there that the filing system is completely fucked up.  Seriously, files marked “Shit I Need” are obviously misplaced and gone into the dark abyss of never- never land. The cabinet marked “Garbage That No Other Human on The Face of the Earth Needs or Wants to Know” seems to be correlated by date, time and the place they last washed their feet. Those files are easily accessible and ready at a moment’s notice.  Especially after several glasses of wine and someone proclaiming a trivia game would be awesome right about now.  Fucked. Up.

 So this morning’s blog post is lying somewhere between “Shit I Should Know But Don’t” and “The Most Awesome Facts About Boats”.

This weekend had me spinning wildly between a fun filled DH night with the ladies where it was demanded that I “be funny.  You’re not being funny.  Get her more wine” and D2’s grad.    I’m assuming by the previous DH statements, I wasn’t living up to my “you’re the fucking entertainment” part of my contract.  Maybe I should stop sending out my witty emails in my feeble attempts at humor and pithy attention.  It’s a well-known fact I suffer from Raj-syndrome.  I speak very little but hand me alcohol and I become a sarcastic wino who slings comebacks and insults with mega sardonic phrasing.  I hadn’t realized there were expectations around my verbal nonsense.  That’s a lot of pressure.  I need a drink…and some new material.

Speaking of drunkards, while at D2’s meet and greet portion of her graduation, Hubby and I were entertained by a sufficiently inebriated man who insisted on detailing a story about golfing in the United States.  The story involved an over- ended golf cart and wayward golfers. There was a few racial slurs and sexist innuendos all making that much more awesome for the eavesdroppers surrounding us.  He was going on and on about how only Baymen were the best workers and “I wouldn’t hire a townie to save me life”.   Onlookers were appalled.  Especially a lady who was all decked out in diamonds and an evening gown.  She was particularly insulted.  I was thrilled by her horrified expression and feeble attempts to move out of the way.  There was nowhere to go.  So Larry, tell me more!  We were happily obliging Larry for the next story.  Where the fuck were you last night when I was coming up short for stories for the ladies?  Hire Larry.  He’s available and we could pay him in Lamb’s.  I’ll be sure to invite the evening- gown lady…we probably aren’t going to be invited to any more meet and greets, anyways.  She’s probably on the Regatta Committee…and is disgusted by food fights…and doesn’t think possessing something as awesome as this is ‘appropriate’ for a mother of my stature.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!  A dog that sticks it’s tongue out at you on demand is unworthy of attention??!!    If that’s the way you feel, I don’t want to go to your meet and greets.  I don’t want to have dinner with you and your fancy dress.  I don’t want to be in on the secret club meetings at the boat house…okay, yeah I do, but I can let that go if you can’t see how adorable that doggie is!!  Or her tongue!  It’s like she’s giving you the finger only she doesn’t have any fingers so she’s just using her tongue instead.  It’s all incredibly remarkable and awe-inspiring.

It's like she's saying "Fuck You" but in a cute puppy way...

It’s like she’s saying “Fuck You” but in a cute puppy way…

This post actually took me two days to write since I was looking for the perfect pic to go with it.  This may be a sad statement to make, but I have over 100 pictures of my dog on my phone.  100!!! I wonder how my kids feel about that…hmmm…I should be getting my Mother of the Year Award in the mail any day now!  My kids have come to the joyful realization that the dog takes precedence.

 Kid That Lives In My House: “Oh, mom did you remember to pick up my dress?”

  Me: “No, but I got the cutest little hair bows for the dog!”

KTLIMH:  “You forgot to pick me up after my practice…again.”

Me: “Sorry, I was out back playing with the dog.  You wouldn’t want me to neglect her would you?”

 KTLIMH:” THERE’S NO HOT WATER!!”

Me:  “Sorry…I had to give the dog a bath and mini-spa day. She needed to look pretty…she was getting all tangley and mangy looking. AND, you wouldn’t want her to be rejected by the other doggies in the ‘hood, would you?!  She’s got a rep to uphold”

KTLIMH:  *sigh*

Me:  Yeah.  Get used to it kid….

Fear and Paranoia Are Now My Besties

My blogging days have dwindled since the episode-that-shall-remain-nameless.  Fear has held me tightly within its grasp and I am struggling to be free.  It ain’t easy.  I’m constantly looking over my shoulder to see who’s watching, then I’m incessantly censoring my words to make sure they’re not offensive or distorted; twisted into being malicious.  It’s a slippery slope.  It’s an uphill climb.  It’s fucking craptastic.  I hate thinking someone is misinterpreting what I’m saying as a slight against anything.  I’m simply saying what’s in my gut, people.

Maybe I should have a disclaimer clause at the beginning of each post clearly stating my wanton disregard for other’s feelings on the subjects I tend to complain about.  Or maybe I should have one of those announcers at the beginning of each post, like certain television programs, warning people of the ‘mature subject matter’ and the ‘material some may find offensive’.  I could leave out the ‘contains nudity’ part…or maybe I should include that.  Maybe more people would read on…stuff to think about.

It’s nice to think that some people actually miss me…is that weird?  Hmm…I’ve thought about re-opening the past, but that would just lead to more shit to hit the fan, so I think I’ll leave well enough alone.  If people miss me that much, they could track me down.  Or I could tell them.  Gee, that’s a swell idea.  Invite people to this one..hmmm…I think I shall prepare my formal invitations.  They’ll think it’s a party…I suppose drinks could be served.  And snacks.  Marvelous idea.

I’ll get working on the list.  In the meantime, thanks for stopping by and reading.  I shall be in touch and see what roaming around the ‘sphere I can do without getting decapitated in the process….that’s rather painful…I’d rather steer clear of that, thanks.

 

My Name Is Ishmael, But You Can Call Me Asshole

That’s kind of where I’m at today.

We love you, but you’re an asshole.

Yeah…I can kinda see how you came to that conclusion.

Is there any use in attempting to defend myself?  No?

Asshole it is!

But you love me, right?

You still think I’m pretty awesome most of the time, right?

Everybody is allowed one mistake, right?

Right?

What?

Asshole…

Oh, sorry.  I was talking to myself….