I feel down right cheated...

So apparently I've been led astray.

When the website says, "Black Eyed Peas will join Gwen on all dates except for 11/3" what they really mean is "all dates... but not those in Canada because no one really cares about or thinks about Canada." Although Gwen's tour doens't end until December 1st, the Black Eyed Peas tour ends November 10th. The Black Eyed Peas' webpage actually goes so far as to say Gwen's tour, "Kicks off October 16 in Phoenix and wraps November 10 in Houston."

Um, so why does Canada not count? I'm sorry. I'm confused. Last I heard we were paying for our tickets the same as everyone else? I feel like it's some dirty secret that someone's actually coming to *gasp* Edmonton... God forbid.

I feel cheated...

Hmpfh.

Yo Ho Ho!

Adam and I went down the river in a canoe yesterday. It was so much fun! It was sunny and warm, and I think I got a bit of a tan on my face. We started in Devon and drifted to the Whitemud Equine Centre. It took about 3.5 hours, stopping for lunch on a rock bar in the middle of the trip (and river). So good.

I have to admit, I felt a bit pirate-ish. There were some pretty bad paddlers out there. We easily could have overtaken them and scoured their boats for treasure and booty (are those the same things?) But I felt a bit bad about pillaging a boy scout troop. So we just drifted on by and talked a big game amongst ourselves.

Yar.

Dancing

As I'm sure you're all aware, courtesy of Hurr_ah's blog, I went dancing at the Roost last Saturday. And it has to be said: it was quite possibly the most fantastic dancing... Ever.

Why, you ask? It's certaintly not that the music was unbelievable (I could've handled a bit more contemporary, and a little less circa 1993). Or that the drinks were beyond tasty (you had to pay for a drink of water, for Pete's sake).

It's just that it was the first bar I've been to in awhile that I haven't felt like a "Supersize She." Unlike the usual Saturday night dance fiesta on Whyte or someplace, the room wasn't packed full of skinny, fashionably-beyond-me females and their broods of male onlookers. I felt normally sized. I felt good in my jacket and jeans, and not shamed for arriving without a halter top or pair of low rise jeans. A thong was not required at the door.

Hurrah for the Roost! Hurrah for chubby girls everywhere! Hurrah for dancing and knowing it's okay your wobbly bits are poking out the side!

Big Brother...

It's the final Big Brother tonight. A guilty pleasure. A cheesy drug I take every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. I woke up excited this morning just thinking about all the evil back stabbing, gossiping and cattiness that would be on TV tonight (a little saddened without Janelle there, I might add...)

I'm sick, aren't I?

Ooooo... 10:00 can't come fast enough.

Yarrrr!

Happy international talk like a pirate day!

Happy birthday, dearest Wmaynes.

Sink Issues

So last night I was all "gung ho" to leave work, pick up stuff for dinner, and spend the night lazing about (which really, I haven't done all that much in this house--always rushing here or there to pick up laundry, get groceries or whatever).

Anywho. I'm standing in the kitchen battering chicken (covering it in yogurt and bread crumbs, not maliciously beating it), and I hear Adam say, "Um... Yea." Side note: for those who know him, he doesn't get too worked up about much, so his "Um... Yea"'s usually mean something.

I walked into the bathroom and he's standing there covered in water, with a bucket under the sink. The sink has exploded, and I'm dripping yogurt and chicken bits everywhere.

To make a long story short, our neighbor lady has a severely clogged sink. And it's so bad, it's actually started to clog ours. The plumber told us there's nothing we can do from our end, and as it's in our lease that the landlords don't pay for clogged sinks, the only thing we can do is talk to neighbor lady and ask her to fork over the $60 to fix our sinks.

Thinking he's all "handy," Adam went out and bought "One Second Plumber." He used it. The pressure of it popped something out the back of our sink, and (hee hee hee) rammed piles of sink gunk up her pipes, into her bathroom.

The plumbers coming today to look at it.

On another note, tonight's Ernie's party. Sigh.
On yet another note, welcome back wmaynes. Where you been?

September 10, 2005

This morn the sun shone and the villagers sowed hay, gathered apples, and pulled fresh fish from the stream. I awoke to the sounds of their gaiety, plagued by fleas, trapped indoors with embroidery, sewing a new cloth for the church. Corpus bones, a prisoner to my needle!

What ho? The goat boy returns. He brings with him fresh eel for the supper pie and tales of the miller's daughter, seduced in a haystack by the king's cousin.

___________________________________

Sigh. Not really. None of this is true, obviously. I woke to the sound of the guy above me sawing (what, I'm not too sure), and there are no flees in my bed. Only crumbs. I'm not forced to sew, nor do I consider myself a indoor prisoner (although I wouldn't mind being held up for a couple day with my movies and couch). The goat boy is Adam. He bought me a pita last night and told me a story about his brother chasing down a shoplifter. No seductions.

I've just always wanted to say things like "Corpus bones!" and "what ho?" And pretend I was from the thirteenth century.

On another note, I think I'll buy cowboy boots at lunch. What ho!

Void.

I’m feeling really weird. I don’t know why. Well, actually, I guess I do. This is the first September in 21 years that I’m not either returning to school, or working on an application for school, and thus inevitably thinking about returning to school. I am done with school. Fully. Completely (to quote the Hip.)

I don’t know why I’m upset. But I am. I’m feeling really, really nostalgic.

I want to crawl back into my sweatpants and a stained white hoodie, and my Adidas and my red chicken hat I love so dearly, and sit with a coffee and a mile high pile of books at a computer, and complain about my work load, and how I hate writing pooy poo filed essays.

I want to go to bed at night knowing I can't afford to sleep in, and doing it anyway, and wake up feeling guilty; rushing to school to find you’ve done the same thing, where we’ll laugh about it, and talk and procrastinate for another 30 minutes.

I hate that I was in such a rush to finish it all. And now I feel like a dork for saying it.

So last night Hurrah, Pants and I went out for fish and chips. And maybe a pint or two... Or three... Yummers.

But the thing is, I'm really really really trying not to eat things like deep fried fish. And drink things like beer. Damn you yummy food, why must you be on the menu? Why must you force me to order you? Why must you taste like love? Why must you taste even better when I combine you with tartar sauce or ketchup? I LOVE YOU BAD-FOR-ME FOODS! I love you!

(*salivating*)

More to the point, why can't I get this way over salad. Woohoo. Salad. Look at me. I'm. Eating. Salad. Yum.

Sigh. No matter how pretty, something that looks like flowers in a bowl will never be satisfying to me.

A Big Day

So yesterday I handled my first "complaint." Someone called in, rather hotly, to rant about this or that, and they asked to speak to the manager. But alas, the manager was on vacation, and so I sucked in my breath, put my shoulders back, and asked if there was anything I could help with. My demise was imminent.

But I have to say, I was very nervous, and yet out of no where came this organized thought. What the? I sounded elequant. I sounded knowledgable. I sounded (gasp!) professional.

Ya know, I think some of this school business actually sunk in. She hung up quite satisfied and laughing, and declined my offer of the manager's email address. Who knew? Not me, I tell you [*patting my own back*]. Next step: conquring the world.