I Was a Directionally Challenged Pirate Named Kevin in Ma Previous Life. True Story.

Bestie’s on tap to redo ma ‘do tomorrow night which is a good thing.  I haven’t seen so much grey since dude at the Halloween party dressed as Fifty Shades of Grey.  Lame costume, BTW dude.  I can paste a bunch of paint swatches to myself and proclaim it a costume too… in fact I do that almost on a daily basis.  It makes for a fun and interesting conversation piece.  You should try it. They love me at work.  “What’s that colour  you’re wearing today, KJ?  Ecru?  What’s that?”  and then I have to explain the colour palette and the colour wheel and what colours go with others…it’s all very artistic and shit.  Totally worth the hour it spends duct-taping those swatches to ma pants.  What?  OH, you thought I would tape those to ma shirt?  Most people look at the asses of others.  True stat.  Look it up.  So, I tape the swatches to ma ass.  There’s more space… It’s like the size of Quebec down there, so pahlenty of swatch taping room….

Not only is he wearing the costume...he's showing attitude. Work it!

Not only is he wearing the costume…he’s showing attitude. Work it!

Christmas is coming!  Only 28 more days, in case you were all wondering and didn’t have a calendar handy and can’t count.  I’ve done all the work for you.  Consider it your Christmas present.  Merry Christmas!  You. Are. Welcome.

I know there are those who walk among us who loathe Christmas and all it stands for, but I am not one of those people.  I fucking love it.  I love the music, I love the lights, I love the decorations and I love the excitement and shit.  I’m not down with the whole ‘Christmas Magic’ b.s.  That’s not me, but Christmas day is the BEST day.  I guess because the kids are older and we all just hang out in our jammies and put the fire on, play Christmas music, down all the chocolate one can eat in an hour and then eat turkey and pie and drink wine. Well, I drink the wine while I cook the turkey.  It’s amazing we have a dinner on the table at all. 

It’s awesome.

 Now that D1 is over the legal age for consuming alcohol, I don’t feel so awkward handing her a glass of white wine to toast at dinner.  Not that I’ve let that stop me. A couple of years ago, her bestie’s mom had a hissy fit with the news that I ‘allowed’ my daughter to have a glass of wine at Christmas dinner.  No shit.  She went Bat shit crazy.  She must have had some issues around alcohol to have a fit about ma kid having a bit of wine at a family dinner that she was not a part of and had no business commenting on.  Maybe she was drunk when she said that. Or had some bad crack. Some people can’t handle their liquor. Or their drugs.  Maybe she took the drugs BECAUSE  she was drunk…apparently that’s all the rage now.  AND, making ranty videos WHILE you’re drunk.  I think I should so do that.  It could make me a more famous drunkard that what I already am.   Either way, we kinda don’t talk…it’s a good thing.

I’ve been having conversations with myself all day, and it’s pretty freakin’ scary.  Most of the discussions have been religious based (not sure what that’s about) and I tuned in to watch Long Island Medium last night just to see the whole scam at work, when she was going to do a ‘past life regression’ session with her ‘spirit guide’.  I think I want to do that.  I wanna see what awesome past life I can reconnect with to freak people out at parties.  Maybe I was a saloon girl in the Wild West and helped Billy the Kid shoot up a couple of towns. Or maybe I was a business tycoon on Wall Street and was murdered because of my totally bad ass money making skills that resulted in the downfall of the Russian mob. Or maybe I was a spy that got turfed into the ocean when divulging secrets to the Americans and got caught by the mean Italian mafia who decided instead of shooting me, they would see if ma swimming skills were up to par.  Probs not.  Or, maybe I was a pirate.  Yeah!  That would be way more exciting and more accurate given my penchant for eye patches and alcohol.  Hmmm….

Yeah…maybe I was a directionally challenged pirate named Kevin and got lost out at sea and floated aimlessly for months, dying from starvation, scurvy and yukky sea gulls pelting at me, while I was searching for the lost treasure of Red Beard and his Angry Band of Asshats.  Excellent. 

Totally worth it if there’s a treasure map involved…I’ll let you know if I regress far enough to remember the map.  Of course I’ll get lost trying to follow the damn thing….

BEST PIRATE EVAH! Maybe me and Captain Jack taking on the high seas and Read Beard. AWESOME

BEST PIRATE EVAH!  Me and Captain Jack taking on the high seas and Read Beard. AWESOME

I Have No Business Watching the Osmonds or Reading King…Apparently

Please tell me why I just spent ninety minutes watching the Osmonds’ life story? Ugh… I shit you not, that’s exactly what I did for NINETY INANE MINUTES.  How is that even legal?

 My life has reached a point of stagnation that a movie about the Osmonds manages to hold my attention FOR NINEY MINUTES.  I just kept watching and watching.  It was like I couldn’t tear my eyes away and when the Donny and Marie show spirals out of control it was like I was reliving the tragedy “I’m a little bit country” all over again…then they lose 80 million dollars (yeah, 80 million) and then they start a tour again, then Merril faints (oh noooo)  and then suddenly, they’re all grown up and singing on some wanton stage dressed in black, “He’s ma Brother”   The End.  There.

 I just saved you from having to watch that movie. 

You. Are. Welcome.

RUN KIDS, RUN!!

RUN KIDS, RUN!!

In other relevant news, I just finished reading Under the Dome by Mr. King and it was fabulous.  A tad long, but great.  Wonderful.  You all should read it…just kinda flip through some of the non-essential boring stuff…you’ll see what I mean if you get the epic book that could double as the manual for orchestrating world domination with nothing more than a few arm bands and lighter fluid.  AND, written in Japanese…It’s huge and heavy so if you plan on carrying it around with you, don’t.  You’ll end up in the emergency room with back spasms or shoulder issues. They (meaning Steve) should have affixed a warning label on the cover stating the weight of the book may cause damage to your central nervous system if carried long distances.  Or brain issues if you read incessantly for periods of time that you get confused if there’s a dome surrounding your house or if that’s just your cat blocking the windows with her giant fur-clad body. Or when the next case of radiation may spontaneously invade your space that you think you need to run to Walmart to see if they have wayward lead rolls in stock to cover the windows of your car should you choose to drive up to the nearest cliff to see the strange purple flashing light….it’s a King book, remember?

Bigger than the dome

Bigger than the dome

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  It’s a two-man lift, …or two-woman lift…or one-man/one-woman lift.  An epic saga in that I-wanna-read-it-all-in-one-sitting-but-I’m-slowly-going-crosseyed-and-what’s-that-strange-idiotic-cat-doing-since-I-don’t-own-a-fucking-cat kinda book.  You get what I’m saying here…IT’S FUCKING HEAVY.   Just to be clear. 

‘Cause that was totally comprehensible…

It’s been a long day.  I need wine.   I could possibly be checking in with you all later this evening if I’m not drunk…or it may be more fun if I am.  Either way. 

Wine.

 

 

 

 

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

An Unnatural Nature Scene

I bring you a moment from the wild one may never see again.  First, let’s set the stage.  Watch the intro to Wild Kingdom…

Are you ready?

The Newfoundland Hubby in His natural habitat doing something unnatural.

The Newfoundland Hubby in his natural habitat doing something unnatural.

I know that you are all as amazed as I am about this…I was lucky enough to capture the scene on my phone so you can all marvel in this bizarre and captivating experience.

HUBBY COOKING!!!

For those of you needing the details he is cooking fish n’ brewis.  (salt fish and soaked hard bread.  He prefers his fried.)

Until next time friends, keep your cameras at the ready and watch out for those wild animals.  You never know WHAT they’ll do next!

How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up?

My lack of significant eye sight is becoming a challenge.  For all of us.   For instance, I misinterpret things I’ve read, I can’t quite make out a face in the distance and far too often I’m left squinting like Mr. Magoo.  I guess Father Time has decided to make me blind as a bat as well as physically uncoordinated and awkward in social situations.  Thanks for that.  That’s almost as awesome as having an allergic reaction to your allergy medication.   I’m thinking pretty soon I’m going to need a cane.  And a seeing eye-dog.   I walked out of Tim Hortons’ one day and I thought a sign on the door read Free WTF!  I LOVED THAT SIGN!!  I remember asking my husband if the Tim Horton’s company can legally put WTF!  on their doors without anybody complaining.  He looked at me a little weird until son spoke up and said, “No, mom.  IT SAYS FREE WiFi!!”  Ohhhhh….But I still wanted to try out the WTF sign on our front door, but Hubby wouldn’t go for it. I know, right?  Genius.  It would have been like, “WTF_________” fill in the blank, like “WTF are you here for?”; or “WTF is that shit on your head?”; or “WTF were you thinking knocking on my door without any bottles of wine in your hand?”  Yeah, all the missed opportunities are keeping me awake at night.  Or, when I thought D’s email wished Nurse Betty would ‘get some soon’ really she wished she would ‘be home soon’, or the time I thought my daughter’s text read ‘my ass is too boring’ when really it said ‘my dress is too long’ …I know.  Why would you think you have a boring ass?  Who told you that?  What are the qualifications of an exciting ass?  Is there a pass/fail grade curve the highschool put out on asses that I somehow missed?  I NEED THE WTF SIGN!!!

I just wrote the most awesome email to my friends detailing my week of trials and tribulations at work that at best can be described as The Eternal Fuck-Up.  Work, not the email.   It was an epic tale of good vs evil; right vs wrong; burger vs sandwich.  I wish you all could read it.  Jesus was even in there for a cameo.  Really, it was pretty damned good.  It’s a good thing they blithely look away after reading the shit with which I inundate their inboxes.  If no replies come rolling my way soon, I’ll have to send out warnings/threats of more emails to come that look more like spam and junk mail.  I’m shocked they haven’t blocked me or junked my stuff already.  Wait, maybe they have and I don’t know it yet.  Maybe they’ve all banned together like some little gangsta posse and decided to spam my ass behind my back, sorta like stabbing me in the face while I was sleeping.  Pfft….nah, they’re just waiting for a follow-up…I just know it….

Since this writing, most of my DH ladies have subsequently replied…they still love me…excuse me while I have a Sally Field moment….

My sign...notice the decorative heart and flowers...I think Hubby should rethink his position on this.  It's awesome

My sign…notice the decorative heart and flowers…I think Hubby should rethink his position on this. It’s awesome

WTF? A Question Without An Answer….

Good morning/afternoon/evening/whatever the fuck time zone you are in readers and welcome to the first installment of WTF?  A new series dedicated to the bizarre and often strange happenings of not only the universe pissing its inane sense of humor on all of us unfortunate beings, but the strange reaction we beings seem to have to this pissing match.  Let the urinating begin!

-I don’t know what the strange orange crap is that appeared on my keyboard today, but I’m hoping it will kindly disappear from whence it came. Apparently the disinfectant wipes don’t fucking work on orange crap.  Awesome.  Thank you.

-My daughter is reading Macbeth in English class…she is not impressed so I decided to text her a quote.  I think I’ll text  a whole soliloquy later just so she can be astounded and amazed by my awesomeness.  That’s how it works, right?  Quoting Shakespeare to your seventeen year old daughter?  Yeah, I’m so cool right now.

– The rattling noise in my car is still there.  I’ve wisely decided that it is intent on producing such harmonious sounds so as to extract a venomous reaction from yours truly.  I’m choosing the Penny solution.  I know it’s there, I’m hoping it will go away.  I’ll just ignore it until it falls dead on the road or it silently fades into oblivion.  There.  Problem solved.  The League of Nations should be calling me soon to solve the world peace issue.  I’ll just wait here patiently by the phone.

-Stuffing money down your bra when you’re hammered at the poker table and think you’ve just won a million dollars by beating every sober person around you, counts in real time poker too.  Where’s Bestie’s bracelet?  Vegas baby!!!

-My explanation for the downfall of my previous blog has hit all new heights since everybody now thinks I’m dead.  They think my old blog has been imploded due to my untimely and grisly demise.  Death by blogging.  A truly horrific event.  I think there’s a dedicated Facebook page in my memory.  Please sign and let me know you care…or cared…or… yeah.  I expect awesome eulogies, and sentimental anecdotes.  Father Leslie is not invited…nor should he be notified.  He might say something like “her math was terrible, but what a good housewife she was.”  Is it blasphemy to swear at a priest?   Hmmm….Should I care about that if I’m dead?  OH!  Don’t forget the bringing of flowers.  Lots o’pretty  flowers….awww….

-In other news totally unrelated to anything news-worthy or logical, a Dutch airline is holding an investigation into an alleged copilot allegedly sleeping while allegedly operating a plane.  The pilot was out of the cockpit taking a …well, leak…bathroom break…draining the main vein.  You get my drift.  He tried to get back into the cockpit but was locked out.  Seems co-pilot was too sleepy to let him back in. It’s all quite speculative right now.  I think if the co-pilot fell asleep, he no longer qualifies as ‘operating’ the plane…that means while the pilot was out relieving himself and the co-pilot was snoozing in dreamy-dreamland, then logically…THERE WAS NOBODY FLYING THE DAMNED PLANE!!  Where’s Samuel L. Jackson when you need him?  Ugh.  So, congrats to the Dutch airline for broadcasting this tiny flaw in the airline biz and the balls to come out and say that co-pilots pretty much do squat.  Awesome.  I think my next career is set.  Co-pilot for the Dutch airlines.  Do I have to speak Dutch?  Hmm….Oh, right.  I’m dead already, so I can speak whatever language I choose!  I choose the illustrious language of pig latin.  Iway ockray.

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