Yesterday, a blender fell on my head.
It fell from on top of the fridge, hit my head, then bounced off my foot and shattered all over the kitchen. My feet were bare, and to exit the kitchen, I had to walk over the broken glass. (I guess I could have put a towel down, but I think I was in a wee bit of shock.) I just walked over the glass. And there was a lot of glass.
Other than one small cut on TOP of my foot, I am unscathed.
I can’t decide if I’m lucky or stupid.
I hate to be a “sad-sack”, but today has been difficult. My Gam passed on Mother’s Day last year, and I was very close to her. Plus — without giving away too much information my family would not want me to share — my Mom’s also having a hard time. And I’m not a mother. And that’s its own thing. So, to distract myself, I went to the salon.
Let’s backtrack. I don’t have much real jewelry. I have my engagement ring, my wedding ring, and my diamond earrings. The earrings were a gift from Jason a few years ago. And I have not taken them off since.
Back to today. I got home from the salon and noticed I was missing an earring. I promptly FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. WHY ME, LORD JESUS! NOT TODAY! NOT TODAY, YOU BASTARD! It was bad and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
And then… the salon called. They found my earring. And then there was much of whatever the opposite of wailing and gnashing of teeth is.
I’m not sure what fate is trying to tell me. Or if fate even exists. All I know is that I lost something and then it was found. And life is strange and awesome. And diamonds are like boomerangs, I guess.
Happy Mother’s Day?
There’s a job at my company that I might apply for. It’s with the Marketing Department. And I know I’d be great at it.
But here’s the thing — I’m kinda scared. I have this thing with rejection, in that I’m terrible at it. And I become an awkward crazy person when I’m in an interview situation. I crumble like a chunk of feta cheese.
I job shadowed recently and I got so nervous, I walked into the men’s washroom. And I’m a woman.
So embarrassed.
But I can’t be held back by my silly fears. What’s the worst that can happen? (Lots, I suppose.) But WHATEVER. Since I don’t have a middle name, it can be “Failure”.
And I can tell my middle name to shove it.
Do assholes wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and say to themselves “I’m going to be the BEST asshole I can be today!” Make a “to do” list of all the terrible things they’re going to do to good people? Do they have asshole support groups or special asshole discounts for The Gap?
Part of me wants to cut assholes down to size, like an asshole-smiting superhero. Because I easily could with a few words and a look. But I won’t, because that would make me like them.
So I patiently wait for logic to visit me, rub a cat, and write a Tumblr post.
My husband and I were lying In bed. I was watching “The Walking Dead” and he was looking at pictures of models for an upcoming campaign.
These women were beautiful. And there I was. With unshaven legs, no makeup, and a Sesame Street t-shirt. And farting.
And all I could think was: I WIN AT LIFE.
I consider myself a relatively level-headed individual. (When sober, at least.) But I feel the need to rant about a few things that have been bugging me. I apologize in advance for my randomness.
1. Explain to me why [unnamed individual] is a “social media expert”? They make mad money doing this and I do not get it. And yes, I’m totally jealous.
2. Rick from The Walking Dead should not be the leader. He is insane and makes the wrong calls ALL THE TIME.
3. My cat bats food out of my mouth. WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM? I blame his father for his bad behavior because I’m a saint.
4. WHY AREN’T I RUNNING THE WORLD? I WOULD BE AWESOME.
So I’m at work yesterday and I decide to surf CTV.ca. (I happen to work for CTV, so this is not an unusual thing for me to do.) That’s where I happened to find a photo gallery titled Top 25 Canadian Twitter Darlings.
Sandwiched between Ryan Gosling and William Shatner? A picture of me and my husband. Drinking. On my company’s website.
So. Completely. Weird.
This week has been epic. Long story semi-short… Jason (my husband) is/was/whatever a “thing” on Twitter. But he was “discovered” because of CBC Radio. CBC is located on the corner of Blue Jays Way and Wellington Street West in Toronto.
Because of CBC Radio, he got a job at an advertising company owned by a CBC celebrity named Arlene Dickinson. Her company is located on Wellington Street West, just down the street from the CBC building where she “discovered” him.
Can you guess where our new home is located?
Wellington Street West.
Right between where Jason met his boss for the first time and where he now works for her.
None of this was planned, it just happened. Life is odd, strange, and beautiful.
This past week, we’ve been looking for a new place to live. We want to rent a condo, to see if the the whole “condo living” thing suits us.
Toronto is the condo capital of North America and there are SO MANY CONDOS! But it’s really hard to find the RIGHT ONE. We even made an offer on one, but then we withdrew the offer after discovering issues with the building. (Thank you, Google!)
But how do you know which one is “the one”? I like to think it’s like finding your true love — when you know, you know. You know?
Ugh. Dating was easier that this.
Jason and I are meeting with a rental agent tomorrow to find a new home.
I’m so excited. I enjoy evolution.
My dad called me tonight to tell me my cousin passed away this morning. He OD’d. The same day he was scheduled to enter rehab.
I didn’t know him that well, but I’m still sad. Family is family. And today there’s a man down who’s not getting back up again.
1. See “The Hobbit”.
2. Drink at a pub in Dublin.
3. Write, direct, and star in a vampires-versus-zombies B-movie
3. Teach my cat to bring momma her wine.
4. Do one of those silly dance flash mobs to “Call Me Maybe”, but it’s all pelvic thrusts and boob touching. (But not my pelvis or boobs.)
5. Change my avatar.
Not necessarily in that order.
I was in a parade once. It was the annual Christmas parade. As I’ve mentioned before, I was “blessed” to play the baritone tuba. Since I was the height and weight of a Smurf, it being really cold, and it being a long parade route, I didn’t cross the finish line. My tuba’s valves froze (due to my excessive spit) and I started to cry. The CBC Television van felt sorry for me and picked me up. I spent the rest of the parade in the back of the CBC van waving and pretending to be important.
Upon further reflection of my high school years, I realize a lot of my adult quirks stem from playing that stupid tuba. I ask you — what would possess any band leader to look at young, tiny me and think: “She looks like a tuba player!”
No wonder I have an odd sense of humour.
And drink.
I lost my security pass today IN THE BATHROOM. I *may* have even flushed it down the toilet, as it was in my back pocket.
I think the bathrooms at work are trying to drive me mad.
And they’re succeeding.
I’m very easily embarrassed and always worry about doing something stupid. This probably stems from the time in high school when I fell over the bleachers during the Christmas concert, exposed my underwear, and yelled, “Oh shit!” in front of all the students, teachers, and parents.
(Did I mention that my baritone tuba landed between my legs?)
This morning, I was in the bathroom washing my hands after a pee when I noticed a TV personality was at the sink next to me washing her hands. And looking fabulous. I guess I got a little star-struck and nervous, so I quickly left the bathroom.
Apparently I left the faucet running. She turned to a workmate of mine (also in the bathroom) and asked if I was coming back. (I assume sarcastically.) Then she sighed, turned off the faucet, and left the bathroom. (The last part may not be entirely accurate, as I was not there. I imagine it was probably close to that though.)
I will be forever known to this particular starlet (who I see around the halls at work rather frequently) as the dumb girl who can’t figure out how to turn off the faucet and then runs away.
To some, this would be no big deal. She’s probably forgotten already and the logical part of my brain knows that.
But to that teenaged girl who was clumsy and awkward and always embarrassed, it’s worse than the heat of a thousand suns.
