Can I count this as my workout?

Today I rearranged the furniture. Like, ALL of the furniture. I brought pieces down from upstairs, I took pieces from downstairs and put them upstairs, I turned the whole living room setup 90 degrees... You know what I learned? I have some heavy-ass furniture. Also, when you move stuff around in a room you THOUGHT was clean, you will learn that it is not clean, and you will now have to clean that room all over again. Le sigh. But I like the change of perspective. I like being able to look out my front window without having to climb over the couch to do it. I like that my TV is now in a corner instead of the center of the known universe. I like that it no longer looks like my living room is a centerfuge that is pressing my furniture against every inch of wall space. I also like that you no longer have to walk between the TV and the couch to go between rooms.

I especially like that I uncovered the two huge floor grates, and Finn is totally freaked out by them. Hehehehe.

I'll try to post pics once I've cleaned all the newly-discovered crayon drawings off the walls. (walls = plural)

Randomosity

Could Brad Pitt be any cuter in the movie "Ocean's 11"? I could just spread him on a cracker.

I got squeegeed

I've heard before about these so-called "Squeegee Kids", kids who lurk at the sides of roads at intersections, wait until you get stuck at a red and then give your windshield a once-over with a squeegee like the one at the gas station (undoubtedly stolen from same) in the hopes of guilting you into ponying up a couple bucks. For a service you never asked for. I'd never seen one in real life though.

Until today.

Today I got squeegeed. Well not *me*, but my windshield. The squeegee-er had dredlocks and cord bracelets, and was wearing one of those weird pullovers that looks like a poncho and a doormat had a bastard baby with arms. I thought it was a boy, but then she spoke. I guess it was the layer of grime that gave the illusion of a 5 o'clock shadow.

They don't even ask, or signal, or give you time to protest, they just leap out in front of your car and start CLEANING it! Except... My windshield was cleaner before she assaulted my car. Which made me feel a little irritated. I didn't ask her to do it, or look at her even, or give her any kind of sign I required her services. So she squeegee's me with dirty water and then stands there looking to see if I'm digging in my purse? Am I supposed to be paying for the distraction of staring at the little red light in the sky?

I did not feel bad at all about not having any cash whatsoever on my person. Or Car-son. Unless she works for petrified french fries or the fuzzy little mints from the bottom of my purse, she's SOL. Meh, I'm not losing any sleep.

How much do squeegee kids really expect to make, though? A big ol' jug of windshield wash is like $2.00, and you get about 100 uses, right? So, if my car can wash my windshield for about two pennies and the push of a button, what's the cost of a wash with questionable water and no labour (on my behalf)? One penny? Less than that? I don't really like fractions. The way I figure, I had to push my little button and have my car wash a now-dirty windshield that had been perfectly FINE before she stepped in. That cost me two cents, PLUS the one cent for her to do it. I WANT MY THREE CENTS BACK! Squeegee weirdos should be paying US for their services!

Maybe they are the evil hench-people of the Big Winshield Wash Company, sent forth to bully us all into using more and more and MORE washer fluid all the time! Tsk, tsk. That stuff kills cats, you know.

Hear that Squeegie Girl? Every time you squeegie someone, God kills a kitten. Shame on you. Get a real job.

Next time I'm gonna run the red and make you into a road pancake. Then your similarly dirty and dreadlocked buddy over than can use HIS squeegee to clean you off the asphalt.

No.

Touchie.

My.

Car!

Springtime, and all that goes with it

It is springtime at The Mommy's house. This means a few things.

1. Clothes go out on the line! Because who doesn't love a crunchy towel when they get out of the shower? But for the 40cents it will save us on the power bill, they can all get over it. That, or learn to drip dry.
2. Allergies. Namely, mine. I don't recall having allergies for the first 24 or so years of my life, aside from the standard pet-hair-up-your-nose type. However, since moving to this side of the country, I am apparently now allergic to EVERYTHING. My eyes are dry, my skin is dry, even my nails are all dried out. I'm itchy and sneezy and leaking from every orifice on my head... I have a killer sore throat from all the mucous, and I can feel how swollen one ear canal is. In short, I am miserable. The kids are unaffected. Of course.
3. Baby Fever. Yes, I said it. I have the baby fever. Babies are everywhere, and I want one too! Finn is getting so big, he's learning more and more words and we're talking about potty training... I want another baby! I love being pregnant, I love newborns, I love baby things. *sniff* Hurry home, husband, Finn wants to be a big brother!

(Actually, I'm not sure that the "Finn wants" argument is the way to go, here. He's currently taking all my clean underwear out of the laundry bin and putting them over his head and down around his neck like a necklace. I really don't know what to think about that.)

Oh, and Finn learned how to say "Ray" for Rachel, and can't say any word for Lily. You can guess how well that went over. Feelings were hurt, babies were shunned. You know what though? I think I'm going to put Lily in baseball. Because when she whipped that toy car at Rachel, her aim was dead on, and she managed to leave a welt from clear across the room.

100 Days of WHAT???

First of all, go see AFRo, she'll explain it better than I can. Don't worry, I'll wait.
~~~~~
Did you go?
~~~~~
Good. Ok.
Basically, it's 100 days of SEX. With your SPOUSE.
I know, that was my reaction too. Wait, what? 100 days? Like, in a row? Yes. That's the idea. You commit to having sex with your partner at least once a day for 100 consecutive days. It's supposed to bring you (pardon the pun) "closer together". Something about putting your spouse higher on your priority list where they're supposed to be. You now, ABOVE loading the dishwasher and watching TV. Sex breeds intimacy, which in turn brings about all those tender warm and fuzzy feelings, and those supposedly make you actually want to spend time with that person and diffuses all kinds of tension (on so many levels).

The phenomenon of actually sleeping with your own significant other is sweeping Blogland. AFRo is doing it (no pun intended), Bad Mommy is giving it a go (again with the puns!), their readers are jumping on board (seriously now!), and they're all saying it's not as hard as it sounds (ok, that one was bad - heeheehee). Even the Big O (that would be Oprah, you pigs) did a show on it. THIS woman had to do us all (lol) one better and sleep with her husband every night for an entire year. Show off.

The Mommy has a built-in excuse. The Daddy is $100 worth of gas-and-ferry away. The Hundered Day project would quickly become the $10, 000 project. Not to mention the cost of all the alcohol that would be required... Post move I will have to be more creative in my avoidance.

But hey, the cold weather is coming right? Go on, get yours. Lower the thermostat and git yer fires lit from within.

I wonder if this will lead to a blogger baby boom?

Someone in Maryland GREW A BRAIN!!!

THIS is a great idea. Whomever is responsible for this is my Halloween Hero for 2008!

BEWARE THE SIGN. No, really. FINALLY we're labelling the sickos that prey on children. Next step: Forehead tattoos.

TACT:

Telling people where to go so nicely that they actually look forward to the trip.
:)

My lurvely Yankee readers:

Happy 4th, y'all! I thought of you all day today while I slaved away at my desk. Now if only you could be come "independent" of George Dubya.

Logdrivers Waltz

(Thank you nicham!)

Was anyone else forced to watch this every. single. year. in public school? No? Just us Canucks?

For he goes birling down a-down the white water
That's where the log driver learns to step lightly
It's birling down, a-down white water
A log driver's waltz pleases girls completely.

Things that keep me up at night:

The word "adjective" is a noun. The word "noun" is a noun. The word "verb" is also a noun.




The word "noun" has now lost all meaning...

Just WOW

Laws Against Drunk Driving in Other Countries:

Australia: The names of the drivers are sent to local newspapers and areprinted under the heading "He's Drunk and in Jail."*

Malaya: The driver is jailed; if he's married, his wife is jailed too.

South Africa: A 10-year prison sentence and/or the equivalent of a $10,000 fine.

Turkey: Drunk drivers are taken ten miles from town by the police and forced to walk back under escort.*

Norway: Three weeks in jail doing hard labor, and a one-year loss of license. Second offense and license is revoked for life.

Finland and Sweden: Automatic jail for one year doing hard labor.*

Costa Rica: Police remove plates from car.*
Russia: License revoked for life.
England: One-year suspension of license, a $250 fine, and jail for one year.
France: Three-year loss of license, one year in jail, and a $1,000 fine.
Poland: Jail, fine, and forced to attend political lectures.
Bulgaria: A second conviction results in execution.*
El Salvador: This country is unique in that it has absolutely no repeat offenders: drunk driving is punishable by execution by firing squad.*

Canada: Your namby-pamby ass gets sent home to your cushy bed, and you have to go tell a judge, sometime, why you did a naughty thing. My kids get in more trouble when they chew with their mouths open at the dinner table.

*Items marked with an asterisk are the ones I especially loved. :)

Lets see where my brain goes...

I have complete writers block. I'm sitting here, staring at my blog, waiting for some pearl of wisdomosity to form that I can bestow on you, my dear readers. And I've got...

Nada.

So, I decided to just start typing, and see where my brain takes me. And, GO.

(Insert theme song from "Jeopardy")

*Waiting*

*Still waiting*

Hmmm, ok. Let's start with work. I'm due to return to work in T-minus three weeks. This was a positive thing up until a week ago, when my former supervisor informed me that he has no positions available within his department. See, this is the beauty of Canadian Maternity Leave. Your employer has to hold a position for you, but it does not necessarily have to be the one you vacated when you left. Ergo, whilst when I left I wrote training and procedural manuals, when I return I could be a file clerk. Or a mail distributer. Or a human resource manager. Or a personal assistant. Or a fabricator. Or an installer. The possibilities are endless, really. My money is on the file clerk, though. I'm CHOKED.

I wrote a very kindly worded email (with gritted teeth) to the general manager reiterating about a thousand times my STRENGTHS and PREFERENCES, even though I know that they won't make one iota of difference. It has come to my attention that companies are run solely by power-hungry egomaniacs, and the peon that dares work in anything short of management should be beaten down and condescended to at every turn. However, my intent was not to give them a piece of my mind, but to get everything down in black-and-white. My company, in particular, has a nasty little habit of saying "that never happened/was said/was sent to me/blah blah blah" and well, I'm wilier than that. Here's a bit of crucial advice to anyone surfing the interwebz who has pull in a company of ANY kind. Never try to fuck with someone who is smarter than you are. They'll realize when you're trying to blow smoke up their ass, and more than likely you'll end up eating it plus interest in the form of bad publicity/legal action. Now, I'm not smarter than all the higher-ups in my company, (I speak better english TO BE SURE) but I discovered a long time ago that it is far harder to argue with written evidence than it is to argue he-said/she-said. Ergo, a completely documented and colour-coded copy of all correspondence betwixt myself and my employers has been maintained, by me, and sent, by me, to any and all people I can think of would possibly need/want/get a kick out of one. Because I'm an ass like that. My boss, his boss, the president and CEO, the human resource guy, the general manager, and a few other buddies I have there just for fun. Argue with THAT, suckas. I can't take all credit for this though, it was all Dear Hubby's idea. Because he's an even bigger ass like that. ;)

So, Monday June 2nd at 7am, I shall either be unemployed (and seeking legal action) or doing something for a company that wouldn't know it's ass from it's elbow if handed a map. I've oh-so-politely requested that somebody, anybody, contact me to tell me which position they've "found" for me before I show back up on my first day. Because being assigned field duty would really be a bitch in my standard uniform of tight pencil skirt and icepick heels. Plus, as any fellow curly-haired gal can attest, hard-hat-hair is sooooo not sexy.

Sigh.

Please tell me your company is full of secret hidden evil agendas and run by a handful of power-tripping assholes who would sooner sell you down the river for their mistakes than aknowledge your own validity.

Or don't, because if the whole world is this pathetic I might just check out now.

Sorry for being the Bitter Betty, y'all. I'll think of something so utterly blogtastic you'll all forgive me tomorrow. That, or I'll just slip you all Xanax. That's good too.

Random Things I've Been Googling:

For those that care, these are Ptarmigans:

Popular in Ontario, they're kind of like Owls (I think). The "P" is silent.

Pfascinating.