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

Archive for February, 2009

Talea x 25

Time for me to partake in the fad that’s sweeping the nation…and by nation, I mean facebook.

It’s 25 things about me that you never cared about, but now will find endlessly fascinating:

1) When I was in grade 3, I gave myself full blown whiplash by imitating the Valley Girl Hair Flip. I told everyone that someone hit me in the neck, and they took my collared self around to the classrooms to teach everyone about the dangers of running and flailing. I still have never told my parents that this wasn’t actually what happened.

2) When I was little, I used to lie about being left handed. I thought this made me extraordinarily special.

3) I have never been on a date. I am engaged.

4) I hate my feet. They have permanent calluses from ballet and my fourth toes aren’t straight. This irritates me every single day.

5) I used to play the trumpet in band. I loved it. I quit in grade 10, cuz band was during lunch hour and I chose lunch hour.

6) My bestest friend in the whole wide world is Emerald. If you hurt her, I will cut you. We share a brain. It’s quite scary. I think we’d make a hilarious reality TV show though. But don’t tell her, she’ll beat me up for even thinking that.

7) The first words out of my mouth when the boyfriend presented me with my engagement ring were, ‘Are you shitting me?’

8 ) I swear like a fucking sailor.

9) I will never in my life eat a falafel. I don’t know why, but I’ve taken a stand against them and now it’s become my thing.

10) Emerald and I once told a coworker that we hated that we had nicknamed her Mittenstrings (in reference to the dumb kids who have their mittens on strings, cuz they’re idiots). Her response was ‘But I like mittenstrings!’ I literally fell down laughing. We got her fired later. Bahahahahaha.

11) I am an unapologetic bitch and have no tolerance for idiots. If you are intelligent and/or treat me kindly, I will be lovely to you. However, you should seriously fear my wrath.

12) I don’t talk to my mother.

13) I have one tattoo to mark the end of an illness that made me want to take my life. I have my next one planned, as a commemoration (is that a word?) to Saskatchewan, and my Grandpa.

14) I am obsessed with knitting. I blame Maytina. Though I had wanted to learn for a long time before I found out that she could teach me, I think she has done nothing to quell my obsession.

15) I am a chronic money-worrier. I pinch pennies, even though I don’t really have to. I am convinced that tomorrow I will be forced to cough up thousands of dollars, so I’d better have them stashed away. So far? Nobody’s asked me for thousands of dollars.

16) Speaking of money, when I was finishing first year university, my piece of shit car was acting up. I took it to the garage, where they informed me that virtually everything was wrong and told me it would cost $500 big ones. I started crying right then and there (I was 18) and screamed, ‘But I don’t HAVE $500 dollars!’ They did the work for $180 and I referred anybody and everybody I could to them from that day forth, and never did I ever get an oil change anywhere else.

17) I went to the University of Waterloo, in Waterloo, Ontario. I hated it and will be glad if I never step foot in that town again.

18) I am addicted to naps.

19) Libraries are some of my favourite places in the world. I love the atmosphere, the quiet, the smell of books (hush) and the endless possibilities that are on the shelves, available to you for free!

20) I have no patience. This is becoming more and more of a problem.

21) I would rather shoot myself in the foot than vomit. I hate it more than anything in the world.

22) I am a fantastic public speaker. I credit this to being on stage since the age of 7 as a ballerina.

23) I hate the word ballerina.

24) I started this blog a long time ago, because my job was so boring and slow. I wished for excitement and business! If I could go back, I’d tell myself to be damned fucking careful what I wished for.

25) My name is Talea. It rhymes with Korea, idea and diarrhea. My name is NOT: Taline, Tally, Talia, Taleah, Taliah, Salsa, Toldeo, Tequila, Julia, Maria or Talay. I have been called all of these. I shit you not.

Dear World:

Today? I totally fucking hate you. Please go to a corner and die.
Thanks.
Luv,

Talea.

Microwave meals were invented for me.

I don’t cook. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly CAN cook, I just don’t.

I claim that I don’t have the time, but this is possibly the biggest load of crap you will ever hear. I go to work, and am home around 6 PM. After that, I have nary an obligation in the world. I live alone, and am accustomed to living in my own filth, so I don’t have to clean up. Since I don’t cook, I have no dishes to wash. I only get one channel, so it isn’t like I have a stellar evening of television lined up that will keep me from the kitchen. I don’ t even have a fucking goldfish that I need to feed.

I come home and I do nothing. I feel this is appropriate and excusable, since my job makes me want to shoot people and tricks me into thinking my head is always 3.8 seconds away from blowing up. It’s a good balance, my insane work day/doing nothing at home thing. Work tires me out, I take it easy. Makes sense.

I therefore have about 6 hours to make myself a meal each night. I have nobody else’s dietary preferences to consider, I have nothing to schedule the cooking around. I don’t have to share the kitchen with anybody, nor clean up their mess before I can start making one of my own.

The fact is, I’m a lazy fucker. LAZY.

I usually feast on spaghetti, or a lovingly prepared frozen dinner. Even then, the tray winds up on my counter, it doesn’t even make it to the garbage.

LAZY (see above).

Tonight, I decided to break from the norm. I thought I’d shake it up a bit. Rediscover my inner Nigella (that sounds dirty).

I didn’t want to go too crazy, so I chose something simple. A pre-cooked, pre-marinated, pre-packaged, perfectly proportioned chicken breast. All I had to do was plop it in a frying pan, heat, and voila. Okay. Done.

So Mr. Chicken is doing his thing on burner A, while I fire up burner B to use to make some of my gastronomic specialty……..spaghetti.

As I wait for the water to boil, I wash a few dishes that were in the sink from the fiance’s visit this weekend. I start to smell something funny. It smells like melting plastic, but not quite. I crank open a window to air it out.

I poke around the stove, making sure nothing plastic is resting on either of the burners. Please note that I don’t have a light in my kitchen (yeah…..), but I’m pretty sure that there’s nothing there. I open my fridge to use the light in there to help me see (yeah……) and it seems to be all good.

I shrug and continue doing dishes. The smell intensifies. Hmmmmm. I wash a fork. Then suddenly, I hear the unmistakable ‘POP’ of ignition.

Annnnnnnd we have fire. Oh joy, oh joy, my kitchen is on fucking fire.

I am instantly thrown into a fit of deja vu, where I was 12 and got the paper towels a little too close to the burner. Those fuckers are flammable, let me tell YOU.

After reliving that tragic childhood memory, I realize I need to do something. I freak out, then grab the pot of water and chuck it into the sink. Right. Because using the water to pour ONTO THE FIRE would have been too smart. I think I didn’t do that because I was worried it was maybe a grease fire, from the fiance cooking during the weekend.

I hesitantly turn my back on my wee bonfire to grab some flour. I will smother it! I turn back around, armed with some good old All Purpose Baking Flour only to see the last few flames flickering out. Turns out, it’s windy tonight and since I’d cracked the window, it blew out the little flamey bastards before they had a chance to take hold and destroy my life.

Shaken but hungry, I refilled the pot of water and placed it on burner C to boil the damn water. Burner C starts smoking instantly. Turn Burner C off. Transfer pot of water to Burner D, turn Burner D on. Burner D also starts billowing smoke from under the pot.

Turn off Burner A, which has been happily cooking my chicken this whole time. Swear. Dial Pizza Nova. Order medium pizza. Write blog, while waiting for pizza guy to show up. Remember to never attempt cooking again.

Edited after Josh’s comment: I have NO idea what caught on fire. I called the fiance and asked him in an accusatory manner what he had done. He feigned ignorance. I’m going with grease splatters from his chicken adventures.

I hate you, cold.

I am on Day 9 of the Worst. Cold. Ever.

I’m about to blow my own head off, if this thing doesn’t pack its bags and get the hell out of my body. I don’t get sick. I just don’t. I’m just too great and super for germs to bring me down.

But this one brought me down and I am so totally losing the battle. I went for 3 and a half days with NO voice. Now, I’m not a talker, but even for me this was stretching it. It made everything difficult. I sounded like Joan Rivers after an all night rave, and eating bunches of cigarettes, then chasing them with vodka. Yeah….I sounded THAT good.

The worst part of this cold right now is the incessent coughing. I despise the sound of coughing. If people are coughing on the streetcar or subway, I give them the stinkeye.  The dry hack, the phlegmy whork, the never ending deep-belly almost-gonna-puke cough……send shivers down my spine. Since I never get sick, I always thought, ‘GAWD! Stop it! Could you be asking for any more attention?? Shut up!’

But now I’ve turned into that person who has coughing attacks on public transit and I can’t do anything about it. I pop a Halls, but it doesn’t do anything except make me paranoid that I’m going to choke on it when I cough next time, causing me to die on the fucking streetcar. Because this is Toronto, and honestly, nobody would be helping me if I was choking to death on the streetcar. I wouldn’t be offended, cuz frankly, if it was you choking? I wouldn’t be going near you either. I’m just sayin’.

I try coughing into my elbow, into my shoulder, into my hands. I try to look all, ‘oh, it wasn’t me, I’m just fine’ immediately after I cough, so that people who are now giving me the very deserved stinkeye, won’t be able to figure out if was me or the person beside me who offended them so greatly.

I try to hold the cough in, which only makes me look like I’m afflicted with some sort of mental disorder. My eyes bulge out, I kind of spaz out while I fight with the cough……I look like I’m twitching for no reason. The spiders! The spiders! Get them off of me! Gah!

I’ve been coughing so much and pissing myself off so much in the process that I have even taken Buckley’s cough medicine THREE TIMES.

Yes, the slogan is: ‘It tastes awful, but it works’ so I don’t expect it to taste good. I’ve had it before. But whenever I’ve had it, I’ve been in a house, which had a hallway. This is necessary because when I take Buckley’s, the taste so repels me that I literally run back and forth, trying to get away from it, even though I have already ingested it. I flap my hands up and down in the universal  ‘Eweweweweewwwwwwohmygodgross’ fashion and wait for the taste to pass.

This time I’m in a teeny apartment. Nowhere to run. I downed the Buckley’s and then stared out my kitchen window, frozen with disgust and contemplating if jumping out onto the street would be worth it to end the cold-medicine misery. I decided no, it wouldn’t be. I only live on the second floor and I’d just end up hurting myself more, rather than doing any damage.

DAMMIT I hate being sick. I’m just miserable. Boo. Screw you, cold!

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In other news, dudes, can you believe I’m getting married? Retarded, right? I’ve never been a wedding kind of girl, but I always had a suspicion that the bride-gene would kick in after I got the ring.

Turns out? I was totally wrong. I’m so anti-bride it isn’t even funny. I’m the one begging the boyfriend to just go down to city hall and skip all this wedding mumbo jumbo. Apparently, I’m not allowed to do that. Pft. Whatevs.

I’ll fill you guys in on my impending nuptials at a later time. I’m concocting a list of shiznat that you will NOT find at my wedding, because most of the stuff that people do at weddings makes me want to hurl.

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