I’ll try being nicer if you try being smarter!

Archive for August, 2008

Almost!

Please don’t give up on me guys!! I haven’t forgotten about you!

I STILL do not have the internet at my house. It’s terrible. Truly awful. But once I do, I shall spend hours and hours catching up on your blogs and responding to your comments here.

Oh GOD…..WHY did I wait until I moved to tell them I needed internet? Whyyyyyyyy????

Apparently I’m getting it soon. Ha. They said 7-10 days, and I could swear it’s been like, 38 days at this point. Sigh.

Let this be a lesson!

Dudes,

I’m sitting in the library right now writing this.

I have moved into my new apartment, and am loving it for the most part. The problem is, I was too lazy to order internet/cable before I moved, so I am now completely fucking bored ALL NIGHT LONG.

So I stopped in at the library (oh my god, I loooooove libraries) to pick up some fresh reading material and realized, ‘OH MY GOD! THE INTERNET!!!!’ I mean, I have the internet at work, but they monitor what I do, so that’s no fun.

I’ve caught up on some of your blogs, but not as many as I’d like. I have 8 minutes left to be online and I have an ambrosia of other sites to hit up for my fix before scary librarian people start descending on me and giving me the cut-eye through their eyeglasses held on by beaded chains. Yeah. You know the look.

I have learned many interesting things from moving into my apartment, which is circa 1930 something. I shall share my stories with you when I have the intermanets in my house. Which CANNOT happen soon enough.

This has made me realize I am a slave to blogs and google. I care not. I need them. I love them and they love me.

Folks….trust me, take what I have experienced and learn from it….if you are moving, pre-arrange your setting up of the services!

I have no tv and no internet. I essentially go home and stare at the wall. Don’t let that be you.

Update on my grandma

So I was quite surprised by the amount of comments my grandma post got. The one where she screamed, ‘Did you hear that Toady?? SHAVED PUSSY!’ and then proceeded to laugh her fool head off.

I was tooling around facebook today and found this pic of them and I. I don’t know if I posted this pic before, but here it is………my grandma and grandpa and I. Nobody has any memory of them ever fighting and they still joke around with each other like mad. Truly something to model yourself after.

We’re at the farm here, about 3ish years ago:

I adore this photo, I’m so glad I got this. I don’t have many pictures with them, it’s hard to peg them down long enough to snap one!

There you have it folks, this is where I come from. And that’s the sweet little lady that screamed genitalia inspired jokes into my ear last week.

Sigh.

I am NOT the Energizer Bunny.

I move on Monday. Finally, I have a date set.

Monday is one and a half days away. I should be in full-out moving mode. Instead, here is how my day has broken down:

1:18 PM: Get out of bed. Not because I wanted to, but because the dog won’t leave me alone.
1:30 PM: Take dog outside, throw a ball around, pick up her poop, throw ball some more, get pulled home by dog.
1:55 PM: Come back home. Eat leftover supper that I bought for boyfriend last night which wasn’t eaten cuz he went out instead for a farewell with one of his friends.
2:15 PM: Look around. Decide I should wash all dishes so that I can pack them.
2:16 PM: Realize I am far outnumbered by dishes and will never win the war. Go back to bed instead of washing dishes.
3:15 PM: Get phone call from boyfriend, who is currently in city that he is moving to in a week, describing the house he has just rented himself. Try very hard not to sound like I have just woken up, cuz that would totally out me as the lazy sloth that I am.
3:21 PM: Get off phone with boyfriend. Avoid guilt-inducing stares from dog. Remember that sloth is a sin. Consider getting up to avoid damnation. Roll over and go back to bed. I mean really, I’ve already committed sloth if I’m in bed for the second time at 3:21 PM.
3:45 PM: Get text message from boyfriend, which wakes me up. Realize I have to take friend’s dog out, cuz he’s not home today for a long time and we’ve volunteered to babysit.
3:48 PM: After 3 exhausting minutes of trying to get up, give up. Go to sleep. Again.
4:25 PM: Finally get up and go get friend’s dog. Take dog out for pee. Realize that sadly, day has been consumed by sleep and dog’s bodily functions.
4:40 PM: Stop into convenience store with friend’s dog to buy Rockstar, in a lame attempt to wake my fucking ass up.
4:45 PM: Settle in for some nice internet browsing. Catch occasional glimpse of pesky dirty dishes. Wonder where the hell the dirty-dish-fairy is. Make mental note that she deserves a stern talking to.
5:35 PM: Start this here blog post. Wonder if I shouldn’t be more embarassed by posting my disgusting lack of motivation for all the world to see. Decide no, no I shouldn’t be. I embrace me. And my bed. Definitely embrace my bed.

The boyfriend should be back any minute. In fact, he has just walked in (seriously, we have ESP after being together this long, I can sense his movements).

I sincerely hope his energy will motivate me. To do all the things I need to do before I move. Or you know, to do anything, really.

Dammit, I HATE moving. It is not at all conducive to my very nap-laden lifestyle.

That’s my grandma….

This is the kind of family half of my genes come from.

My grandma called me tonight just to make sure I hadn’t gone up in flames with the huge explosion in Toronto this weekend. I’m too lazy to link to it, a big propane storage facility exploded overnight on Saturday I think.

So after I confirmed that I was not a charred pile of ashes, she started talking about what’s going on with her.

She tells me that she shaved her cat, cuz it was too matted to comb out.

In the background, I hear my uncle scream: “Shaved pussy!!!”

And my grandma goes, “Did you hear that Toady (I dont know, she calls us all Toady)? Shaved PUSSY! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!”

Me: “Yes Grandma. I heard it. Oh my god.”

The woman is in her 70’s and has 7 kids and 11 grandchildren and still cracks pussy jokes. She also taught us all to say shithead when we were little and encouraged us to torment each other. Her and my grandpa still flirt with each other and call each other idiots. It’s hilarious. My dad says he doesn’t ever remember them fighting with each other.

So they might be a bit…off colour, but they’re something to model myself after as well.

Just not the lame jokes part.

Time to make fun of the Olympics! Oh please, you saw this coming.

It’s back! Our once every fourth year friend who drops in like that annoying person that you know from high school who thinks you mean it when you say ‘call me if you’re in town’ and then they do and you really don’t want to see them, but what the hell it’s only once every four years and goddammit you need caffeine so badly you’re willing to go and get it in their company? Yep…the Olympics!

Well, maybe that description of annoying high school friend doesn’t make any sense. But regardless, the summer olympics are upon us yet again, in Beijing, China.

They seem to share the same theme as Athens. Though both cities didn’t go with the theme outwardly, it’s been the overriding topic of conversation for both sets of games: Smog. It’s kind of a funny joke, really. Take the most pristine athletes in the world, dangle their dreams in front of them and them suffocate them en masse! And we, the lazies of the world, get to watch and laugh, in our air conditioned, smogless apartments, only an arms length away from our wine.

Regardless of the themes that they choose, all the games are the same. We get to hear little bio’s of how this random kayaker made it to the games after running over a mentally retarded goose in the rurals of Peru, which launched her into an incredible depression, leading her to eat over twice her body weight in chocolate every month. After her massive obesity threatened her life, she started therapy and picked up kayaking in the vain hopes that while on the water, she could see a goose and knock the dumb thing with her paddle. Then bam, she got good and here she is, supported by her fellow Peruvians. Or some such thing.

So they pull at our heart strings and then we watch them. We watch them jump over long pits of sand, throw themselves off of 10m platforms into a pool, chuck heavy things far away, skimp around in bikinis, shoot some hoops and do their best imitations of fish. We gasp as they tumble and flip, run and jump and complete things that we could only ever dream of forcing our bodies to do.

For most of the athletes, it’s incredible that they’ve devoted their lives to one sport. I’m sure the training involved is something I cannot even begin to comprehend, the dedication is worthy in and of itself. But then there’s some sports I just don’t get.

Like shooting. This is a sport? Really? Like, seriously? But, um, I don’t get it. So, you stand there and go ‘Pull!’ and someone does something and you shoot a skeet (?) whilst standing still. Now, I don’t deny there is skill in that. But I wouldn’t necessarily classify it as athletic skill. Drunk people can shoot things. I’m just saying.

Ping pong. Now, come on. You know that the person who fought for this to get included into the games was that nerd in high school who was also fascinated with badminton (which I won’t badmouth, I do see them running around in a modified tennis fashion, but come on…shuttlecock?) and wanted the last laugh between him and his bullies. Sure, again, ping pong is hard. I suck at it personally. It’s a skill. But it’s more of a thing to do when you’ve grown bored of the Xbox, not something you drive yourself to the arena for at 4 AM for your hardcore training.

Archery. Again, you’re standing still. This immediately disqualifies you in my books from being considered an athlete. You probably have to use your abs to stabilize yourself when you pull back the arrow, but that’s a fucking stretch.

Now before you think I’m just lazy and bitter, I’ll qualify all my jesting with the fact that I was in ballet for 13 years. I was in the studio for 7 days a week, contorting my legs into places they just didn’t want to go and defying gravity and common sense. I stood on my toes for crying out loud. My dance career ended pretty soon after I tore both of my quads because my pointe shoes fit incorrectly and instead of my shoes doing their job and holding me up, my quads were doing that. They weren’t very fond of it, so they decided to rip themselves to pieces so I would have to stop.

And yet, you dont see dancing as a sport. It’d be very difficult to judge, granted, since so much of it is subjective, but what’s the difference between that and the floor exercise in gymnastics? I mean, dancers are far more athletic than say, left-fielders who stand there and readjust themselves while getting a tan. But left fielders get olympic medals. First place in ball-fiddling. Hoorah.

You know who the smartest ones in the Olympics are? The ones who sit at the back of the rowing boats and just scream at their teammates who are working their asses off, propelling a boat with nothing but their own bodies. THAT person has it figured out I tell ya. I think I’d be really good at that.

…and your little dog, too.

Help! Work is smothering my soul and sucking up my valuable life!!

I really don’t know how much longer I can take it. Days like these, I wish I had an anonymous blog, so I could go on and on and relay funny (aggravating) stories to you all. But alas, I do not have an anonymous blog, nor do I have a name where one could argue ‘that’s not me! There’s hundreds of Kristin’s who blog!’ That won’t fly when your name is Talea.

Le sigh.

In other news:

Dear Apartment 515:

Congratulations on your newly acquired puppy! They’re wonderful little bundles of energy, fur, tail wags and kisses. Though I’ve never met your new furball, I already know what it looks like. I’m willing to bet that it is small, white, perhaps part poodle and probably has those ugly brown stains that white dogs get around their eyes, nose and mouth.

How can I know this? Because, dear apartment 515, I was up until 3:30 AM last night, listening to your precious fucking pup bark NON. STOP.

Little Fifi barked for 4 hours last night. Consistently. Unending. Always ‘bark BARK, bark BARK…bark BARK, bark BARK’ but not really barking….more like squeaking. Like the most annoying yappy little dog squeak you can imagine. Well, dear neighbour, I’m sure you CAN imagine, I mean, it is your fucking dog and all. It yapped like those tiny white, perhaps part poodle, stained little dogs do.

https://i0.wp.com/farm3.static.flickr.com/2260/2509105313_9a1ca6cfce.jpg

Oh yeah? Bring it on, Fifi.

Though maybe you can’t imagine since you clearly weren’t home all night. How do I know? Because I dragged my pyjama clad self upstairs to kindly and humbly confront you and ask you to shove something down the dog’s throat in order to shut it up, lest I return with a shovel intended to connect with your sweet little puppy. I knocked quietly and then knocked loudly and you didn’t answer. I called security an hour later. You didn’t open the door for them either. Or the next time I called security, the next hour.

Puppies grow up fast, dear neighbour! Mine is 18 months and I can’t even believe it. So I urge you (nay, beg of you for the love of all things holy) to spend as much time as you can with the little fucker sweetie! Especially at night. Because puppies cry and yelp at night. TRUST ME. They need their responsible owners to threaten them to be quiet, or to finally give in and let them sleep in the bed with you so that they don’t whine, cry, yelp and yap all night long.

After a night like last night, I cannot promise you that I will not dropkick your 3 pound ‘dog’ down the hallway next time it pulls this amazing feat of endurance and persistence, barking for hours on end with absolutely NO reinforcement or response from anyone.

I don’t want to kick your dog. Well, not now. At 3:30 AM last night I sure as hell did. But in my more rational, caffeinated state of mind, though I still yearn to connect good and hard with its yappy mouth, I know that I shouldn’t. Mostly cuz I’ll get in a fuckton of trouble.

Though I just wrote a post about ignoring stuff, it didn’t include repetitive, high pitched, middle-of-the-night noises. Ignoring it isn’t going to work.

So help me, I will find you, you have to be home sometimes. I will relay my problem to you and I will expect a prompt resolution. Frankly, I don’t care if I make enemies with you. I’m moving in two weeks asshole! Hate me all you want!

Just please shut your dog up. Pleeeeeeeeeeease!!! I’m not above slipping a bit of scotch under the door to help your little baby relax. And pass out. Just sayin’ is all.

Luv,

Talea.

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