Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Don't judge me... judging is my job!

So... shameful admission... Iwent to see the new Twilight movie.

I know. You don't have to tell me. I've already been making fun of myself for a good week.

But here's my excuse; I went as the chaperone to a 10 year old child. Therefore, I am not as pathetic as the 40 year old woman who sat beside me. And nowhere NEAR as pathetic as her attending husband, whom, it would seems, lost his testicles and had them replaced with tween girl parts.

The movie was bad. Like, real bad. How that stupid bitch got two guys to fall in love with her while she drones along in her monotone voice and single stupid facial expression... I just don't know.

The woman beside me seemed to enjoy herself, however. Every time one of the (teenaged) boys would take off their shirts, she'd loudly exclaim "WELL NOW!... oh... WELL NOW!!", excitedly shaking her husband's arm while he tried to hide his emergent boner.

Really, old woman? Really? That kid is like 17. Even I felt like a perv watching him run half naked in the rain. Also, that main guy (who was only cool in the Harry Potter movies because Harry Potter is fucking awesome) is a creepy creeper. He took his shirt off at one point (there was a lot of taking off of shirts) and I threw up a little in my mouth. And no, it wasn't due to all of the junk food I had consumed. It was because Robert Pattinson looks like a neanderthal strung the fuck out on heroin.

Tweens have no taste.

Neither, it appears, do middle aged women. One lady at work was telling everyone how GREAT the movie was, how much she JUST LOVED it. I decided to tell her the story of "WELL NOW" woman, only to get cut off half way through as she exclaimed "Oh I KNOW! I was totally the SAME WAY! That man is so CUTE!"

I refrained from telling her that to be a "man" you had to actually have COMPLETED puberty. But hey, who am I to judge (besides a super awesome person that knows everything better than everyone).

But this I vow:

1. I shall never be a creepy cougar, getting hot and bothered over teenaged heart throbs
2. When my future children hit the age of 12 (ie the most annoying age ever) I am shipping them off to a boarding school and they can't come back until they have developed better taste in movies, men, music, books... until, basically, they can recognize that Twilight is the biggest piece of shit movie ever. Period.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

More idiots. Big idiots.

I'm not going to catch up on what I've been doing. If you know me, you know. If you don't, it's not important.
But here's what is important....
I find myself once again the only sparkling gem in a sea of inanity.
Perhaps you think me harsh. But here are some written instructions I was just given to pass on to a patient. If you can make any sense of it, feel free to enlighten me...
"Pls let patient aware of more moisture will contacts + more visitint. Fees is over and under are fine." Visitint isn't even a word! What does that even mean?! Fuck.
I said to the patient "Here are your contact lenses... um.. they go in your eyes... you know, as usual."
Not my fault if her eyes fall out.
Not my fault at all.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Home Again Home Again Jiggedy Jig!

Yesterday Jonathan and I packed up the moving van and drove off into the sunrise... then onto a ferry... then north to Courtenay.
Happy as I am to be home, I felt sadder than I thought I would on Friday night. Many of our friends came over to help us move, then stayed to have drinks and say goodbye.
At one point we were out on the porch when Kenny G walked past... or at least, I think it was Kenny G... I yelled "KENNY G" at him, to which he replied "HEY! That's not very nice." Which was a weird thing for Kenny G to say, but who really knows with those quasi-famous types. They say a lot of weird shit.
Later, we noticed a man in the house across the street seemed to be receiving some sort of ... ahem... "oral" expression of love from his girlfriend. We could see her blonde head moving up and down on his lap. Not wanting to be accused of being un-encouraging, we all stared yelling all sorts of inspirational remarks, such as "SUCK IT, BITCH!" and "BLOW JOB, YEAH!". Only after about 5 minutes of this sort of behavior did we realize that his "girlfriend" was actually a dog.
Like, a real dog, not just an ugly lady.
Never one to let circumstances get me down, I continued to yell "DOG JOB!!" until the canine in question stared me down and I was forced to retreat back inside.
It was a most excellent evening, and a wonderful sendoff from some people I will miss very much.
Fortunately, I don't have to miss them for too long, because I am getting married in 27 days! HOLY DOG JOB!

Friday, June 26, 2009

Have blog, must be nerd.

Oh no... I am enough of a nerd that I find this video hilar.

I'm "lol"!

I'm "rotfl"!

I'm not really doing any of those things!

But if you don't think this video is funny, you are gay... yeah, I said it! PWNED!



Thursday, June 25, 2009

Ground Rules

If you pronounce "reconciled" like this:

re-KHAN-siled... (re as in re-do, Khan as in Wrath Of, siled as in.. um... siled)

...then I don't have to feel bad about saying "your teeth are rotten and make me spew" on my blog.

Ditto with "Orientated" and "E-mails".

It's oriented and e-mail. Mail is already plural you Fool-ass-motherfucker.

Alright? Alright.


8 "International Delights" creamers in one coffee = caffeine/sugar high = afternoon bowel explosion.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

On The Phone

"I'm sure the cat will adjust fine. I'm more worried about Jonathan."

"Why? He's excited."

"What if I offend him somehow? What if I say something crude, what will he say?"

"Yesterday I stuck my whole tounge in his ear, pinned him down, and bit his nipple. Then I called him my little bitch. I think this will be a refreshing change of pace for him."

"Oh, alright then."


If anyone wanted to make me really really happy, THIS would probably do it.

I need it to live. It's no different than if I asked you for a kidney, and I hope you'd give me that, too.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

This post gets personal... prepare yourself.

There are a lot of things I feel guilty for putting my mother through when I was growing up, things I can't imagine having to go through with my own child one day.

I could never accept any advice she gave me, always having to try things on my own, which never worked out for me. I don't think it gave her any pleasure to have me slink home with my tail between my legs (didn't know about the tail, did you?) muttering a sullen "you were right". I'm sure she wished I had just listened to her in the first place.

I have many memories I like to keep shut up in a box in my brain labelled "Too Embarassing To Think of EVER AGAIN". It's a pretty big box. And I don't mean embarassing like getting your skirt tucked in your panties or farting during silent reading time. I LIKE to remember those things.

No. I mean embarssing like letting life turn you into someone you never wanted to be. I moved away from home for the first time at 17. I was all on my own, in a strange town, and turned to a man for company, a man who ended up raping me. I didn't tell anyone for over a year because I was sure it was my fault... sure I'd led him on somehow. After that, I had such a skewed view of men that that I wasted two years of my life on a manic-depressive, physically abusive jerk. I totally lost myself in that relationship; lost my mental health, my ability to find the good in any situation, lost the core of who I was and what was important to me. I became a very sad shell of a person, and when he eventually broke up with me (that's right, HE broke up with ME) I went even crazier, turning into this drunken, promiscuous... thing.

I don't like to remember some of the things I did, but I did them and will never be able to take them back. The worst part of it all is that my mum, my beautiful, wonderful mother, had to watch it all go down with much crying and hand wringing and wondering why she couldn't help me, why I couldn't help myself.

It was a rough few years (to say the least) and if I could go back and do it all differently... well... I'm actually not sure I would. Which sounds crazy, right? Absolutely batshit-fucking-nuts, I know. I would definitely try to shield my family and friends from all the absurdity, all the pain and worry that I know I caused. But I think I needed those hard times. I needed to know how absolutely shit life can get, how heart-breakingly terrible the world can be, and just how badly people can treat you. I needed to sink that low so that when I reached this place, this wonderful place I am now, I would know how very lucky I am.

Maybe I would have known it anyway, even if nothing bad had ever happened to me, but I don't know that I could have appreciated it as I do now. I wanted to write about this, to write about my past and all those bad years because maybe someone out there is going through the same thing. And I want them to know that it can, it does, it will get better. You can take what has happened to you and let it keep you down, or you can look at it, learn from it, and grow. My life now is so different from what I let it become.

It is amazing, overwhelmingly wonderful to wake up every morning with someone who respects you, loves you, and wants nothing more than to see you smile.

It lights my heart knowing what I have to go home to.

And every bad day, every hard experience is lightened because of that person holding my hand, helping me through it. I am a better person today because of what I've been through and what I've found. And if all of those bad things needed to happen to bring me here today, then I would have endured twice as much, three times as much, any amount more.

So I guess, what I'm trying to say is thank you, Jonathan, for helping me turn my life around. You'll never realise how thoroughly you saved me, but trust me, my mother is eternally grateful... and so am I.

Monday, June 22, 2009

The Weekend

Saturday night we hosted a goodbye party for ourselves as we are soon to leave town.

In preparation for this evening, I decided to go to the salon and get my hair straightened. I would do this on my own but since my hair is currently the length and texture of a horse's tail, I thought I would spare myself the trouble.

The salon apprentice led me to sink where she washed my hair and massaged my head with a vigorous sensuality that left me both enjoyably relaxed and confusingly aroused. Having whipped me into such a state, she then abandoned me to the care of a more senior stylist.

"Straighten this bitch out" I demanded (or words to that effect) and she got to it, pausing now and then to let me know everything that was wrong with my hair and my life in general.

Your hair is very dry... like straw. Do you use conditioner AT ALL?

I noticed your hair style when you came in. You're doing that wrong. If you did it like THIS you wouldn't look so... cheap.

This colour makes you look washed out. Did you do this yourself... yeah, I thought so... too bad.

You're leaving your hair DOWN for your wedding? How... eighties.

Etc. Etc.

Since when did hairdressers become life coaches? Just straighten my motherfucking hair, bitch! If I need anything else, I'll ask for it.

The whole ordeal left me a little morose which is probably why I ended up drinking enough vodka that night to poison a small army. Consequently I remember very little of the evening, and more than likely made a fool of myself. If you must make a fool of yourself in front of a number of people, however, these were the people to do it in front of; people who can discuss, for over an hour, which movie titles sound most like descriptions of vaginas (A Thin Red Line and Fern Gully being my contributions).

The tools of my downfall.
My friend Jamie V. and I. I have drunk eyes, but he has no excuse for making that face.

The next morning was particularly unpleasant, and my hangover lasted well into dinner with Jonathan's parents. Father's Day dinner, where my contributions to the conversation were "uhhhhhh" and "urrrgh".

Better that than what I was thinking, mainly "fuuuuuuuuck" and "don't hurl... do NOT hurl!"

Friday Night

Friday night we went to see the play Les Miserables with Jonathan's parents.

I am aware that Les Mis is said to be one of the most moving plays ever written. I myself performed in a rendition of it in my younger days. I played anonymous whore #3.

And I was moved... to laughter! HA! I haven't been to a play in some years and forgot how stupidly hilarious they are. I mean, they sing EVERYTHING. Not just when they are in love, or happy (and who doesn't feel like bursting into song from time to time?) but even when overcome with despair do these people sing.

"Sweet Jesus, my best friends have all been killed in a bloody massacre... Hi diddle de dee!"

It's off-putting to me.

At one point a small child took 6 bullets, and still this kid had a song in his heart. I was stifling my laughter in an exagerated fit of throat clearing.

When the lights came up at the end of the play, I looked around trying to catch the eye of anyone else who found the whole play as gut-bustingly hilarious as I did, but was confronted with only teary-eyed enthusiasts, my fiancee included.

When discussing the play in bed later that evening, I commented that it was perhaps a tad unrealistic for people to fall in love after locking eyes for 15 seconds on a crowded street. And maybe, just maybe, that one guy is a little obsessed with asking "who am I", then yelling "I'm JEAN VAL JEAN!" We get it; you have identity issues.

These opinions were met with a brief silence, then, out of the darkness beside me a small voice started singing "There is a castle on a cloud... I like to go there in my sleep" and I knew I was barking up the wrong tree on this one.

Friday, June 19, 2009

I just like to talk about poo... what's the problem?

I fear this blog is becoming a sounding board for all my most childish thoughts and revelations. But then, what is a blog for if you can't be yourself, and I am nothing if not childish.

So today I will talk a little bit about poop.

My poop.

But feel free to tell me about your poop. Fair is fair, after all.

For the past week, Jonathan has made me salads for lunch. Prior to this, I had been quite backed up, a problem I have which occaisonally lasts for multiple days in a row.
So, taking matters into his own hands, Jonathan decreed that I should have roughage, and he roughaged me to within an inch of my life; salad for lunch, broccoli and brown rice for dinner... all sorts of foods to facilitate bowel evacuation.

And it worked.

Too well.

All day I have been pooping totally un-digested salad, vegetables, and various other substances I don't remember consuming within the last week/month. Furthermore, the urge to excrete has been coming on suddenly, violently, and with no warning. It's all I can do to rush pell mell to the ladies room, pushing over the elderly and drop-kicking small children that get in my way. The ensuing noises will probably be giving my co-workers nightmares for weeks to come.

Oh yes, that's the best part; I'm at work. And we all know how much I love to stink up the bathroom at work.

If this continues I am going to start experimenting with the undigestion phenomenon... who wants to see me eat a pie whole... and who wants to see it come out the back end of me? I think I'll probably sell tickets for this.

10 secrets

Some of these aren't really secrets, because I'm not really the secret having type, but here it is.

1. I hate it when people call me "Chels". I don't like my name being abbreviated, but I never know how to tell people that without sounding like a bitch.

2. I lost my virginity in a room with no door, with someone's little sister in the next room and my mum coming to pick me up in 10 minutes. I only did it because a lot of my friends had done it and I felt left out.

3. The longest I have gone without pooping is 13 days. The after effects were not pretty.

4. The first 2 times I got my period I had no idea what was happening. I was like "oh shit, my butt is bleeding" even though we learned all that shit in school. I just somehow never figured it would happen to ME.

5. I once found a trap door in the book-closet of my old elementary school that led to tunnels winding beneath the whole school. A friend and I would sneak down there during recess and sit by the grates that led outside. Whenever kindergartners would pass, we would make horrible monster-like noises at them (Grrarrrwe-are-coming-to-eat-your-familywrrarrg). I think I'm responsible for a lot of child psycho-therapy.

6. One time my sister told me she thought I might be a lesbian and I should just come out already. I cried and ran away for a day. I was 10.

7. I'm actually pretty proud of my boobs. I think they're great.

8. There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold and she's buying a stairway to heaven.

9. I just farted... at work!

10. Now I'm going to poo... at work! Yessss!

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Award? ME?

My friend Kristen (who's writing prowess puts me to shame) has given me a blog award! My first blog award! Wowza! It's appropriate that she bequeaths this honor upon me as it was Kristen who got me blogging in the first place. I'd never really got blog before reading hers (I mean, who wants to read someone's sappy diary... just 'cause it's online?!) but after reading "Kage", I thought, oh yes, that's for me!

So here is my award...
and I couldn't be any more proud of my little blog that no one reads.

Apparently I am supposed to post 10 embarssing truths about myself, but that will have to wait until next post because it's time for me to go home!

That Girl

I know this girl, who shall remain nameless, who likes to touch me, and hug me, and pretend we're friends, and talk about our boobs, and flirt with my (and everyone else's) boyfriend, and generally be an annoying bitch with a creepy face who takes way too many pictures.

All I am wondering is this; if she comes to my wedding, since it IS my special day and all, is it ok to punch her in the face THEN?


X rated

In the not quite 2 years that Jonathan and I have been together, we have completely broken 2 beds which, while inconvenient, I have to say I'm a little proud of.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Lemme know, for Pete's sake

Why don't people ever tell me when I have large green things stuck in my teeth?

Would you, should you ever have full leaves of lettuce stuck in your teeth, not want someone to let you know?

Do people think that if they say "psst, there is something green lodged prominently between your front carnassials" that I would yell "YOU MOTHERFUCKER! HOW DARE YOU!" and proceed to violent beatings of their tender flesh?

I mean, I guess I can see how you might think that of me, but honestly, I'd just like to know. I'm more likely to beat your tender flesh (oooh DIRTY!) if I find out you've let me wander around like a fool all day, scaring the living shit out of small children every time I smile.

So let me know, Goddamnit, or suffer my wrath!

Another Story

For Toblerusse, because I think you have kids, and you liked the last one :)

This is the story of old Mr. Mees
The greatest grower of tasty veggies
His carrots were sweetest
His beets were the beetest
And they sold at the lowest of fees.

In the town where Mr. Mees resides
(and where, consequently, his farm abides)
The people were harmonious
But rather parsimonious
Making money their greatest of prides

So Mr. Mees sold his veggies for less
And was rather poor, I must confess
But as long as his buddies
Enjoyed his potuddies
He was fine with his modest success.

You’re probably asking “why’d his veggies taste better?”
The sun wasn’t warmer, the ground wasn’t wetter
Well I’ll tell you all why
With no word of a lie
And it has nothing to do with the weather.

When Mr. Mees plants his tomato,
His pea pod, his pepper, and his potato
He’ll sing them this song
“Grow up big and strong
Hi diddle dee datty hi dayto!”

And when the sun begins to set
He’ll cover them up with a warm blanket
Then read them a story
Of vegetable glory
And that’s why they’re better, I bet!

One morning when Mees was out on his farm
A rumbling roar caused him some alarm
He looked ‘cross the field
In which he had kneeled
To inspect some vegetable harm.

The acreage across from his own
(Which had recently been overgrown)
Was full of machines
Planting yams, peas, and beans
Much more than he could grow alone.

Turns out a new farm had moved in
With a crashing of steel against tin
They were planting so quick
Mr. Mees felt quite sick
And went in to escape from the din

Mr. Mees was a little bit worried
For his gardening style was unhurried
“If this farm’s a success
and they quickly progress
All my profits will likely be buried!”

Sure enough, the machines kept on going
And the townspeople could be heard crowing
“this farm’s a keeper
It’s prices are cheaper!”
And Mr. Mees veggies stopped growing

Mr. Mees had no choice but to quit
And his veggies were all left to sit
His friends had been swayed by
The cheaper potati
Though they tasted worse by a bit

But children, you must be aware
A fair deal has become rather rare
The new farm was seedy
It’s owners were greedy
And they filled all their veggies with air!!

When the townspeople tasted their peas
Or chomped down on their fresh broccolis
There was nothing to swallow
The inside was hollow!
And oh! How they missed Mr. Mees!

Their futures appeared to be black;
Though they begged Mr. Mees to come back
He was moving away
on the very next day
And had already started to pack.

“I’m afraid there’s no way to compete
With a farm so fast and so fleet.
Though my veggies are nicest
They have the best prices
And more workers to harvest each beet.”

So Mr. Mees went back indoors
To pack all the clothes in his drawers
Then he sat down to grieve
For the farm he must leave
‘till his sniffles had turned into snores.

He awoke to a sound in the night
Drifting up through the moonlight
He opened his door
To investigate more
And saw the most wonderful sight

For standing out there on his farm
The townspeople stood arm in arm
They held a great quilt
That the ladies had built
To keep all the vegetables warm.

As they covered up every potato
And kissed each tiny tomato
They sang out a song
“grow up big and strong
High diddle dee datty hi dayto!”

The townspeople came every day
And so Mr. Mees chose to stay
They helped with the growing
The planting and sowing
And the other farm soon went away

So if things get so bad you can’t cope
Or you’ve reached the end of your rope
Remember old Mees
And all his friendies
And don’t you dare give up hope!

blove the blog

Alright, I've opened this blog back up to the genereal public.

I promise not to write mean things (or anything) about work because work is pretty cool (as far as work places go, at least).

For a general apology concerning work shizzle and my failure to be a mature and functioning adult, please see this post.

For an entertaining read about mothers and carpet munching, please look elsewhere, we don't deal in that sort of filth.

Glee!!... wait, I take that back.

Last night I snuggled with my cat, and she didn't scratch me or bite me (well... not very hard) or track poo on the carpet!!

It was everything I ever dreamed owning a cat would be, and it's only taken a year to get to this point. I lurve her.

Also, when Nora really gets purring, she starts doing some sort of snortily-snog noises that half make me sick, half make me want to chew her little ears off.

But not really.

I wouldn't actually eat that cat, because she smells like a litter box and licks her butt hole.

And yesterday, when I stuck my tongue out at Jonathan, he poked it. With his FINGER... that had been PETTING THE ANUS LICKING POO COVERED CAT!

It was gross and I spent 20 minutes brushing my teeth and raving about getting worms.

And sometimes when she coughs up hairballs she sounds like a human baby involved in some sort of hideous exorcism.

On second thought, scratch the "I'm feeling better about owning a cat" idea... cat's are fucking gross.

Oh Mother.

I think one of the most disconcerting things that can happen to anyone is for their mother to ring them up and tell them a little story about the lesbian at work who's fallen in love with them, casually tossing in the term "carpet muncher".
It's no wonder I've turned out this way.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

A Conversation

Jonathan: What day is it today?

Chelsea: The 15th...

Jonathan/Chelsea: 40 DAYS! / ONE MONTH!!

Chelsea: What are you talking about...40 days? It's only one month!

Jonathan: What are you talking about? It's on the 25th, not the 15th!

Chelsea: Wait... oh... you're talking about the wedding?

Jonathan: Yeah. What are you talking about?

Chelsea: ... nothing... um, yeah... the wedding too... obviously.

Jonathan: You were talking about the new Harry Potter movie weren't you.

Chelsea: ... ... ... yes.

Friday, June 12, 2009

... I guess you really SHOULD'NT blog about work...

Because someone will read it, and they won't be happy.

And really, reading over my older posts, I've said some pretty cruel things.

I have to clear some things up, because I want this blog to be public, and I don't REALLY want to hurt anyone's feelings.

I've been using this blog as a place to vent when I'm cranky, which is fine... that's what most blogs are, right? But the thing is, I've a pretty fanciful imagination, and writing wild and outrageous stories about real people (even if I don't use their names) probably isn't the best way to cheer myself up.

The thing is (and I'm about to get real here, people) I've some pretty big problems with depression. It comes and it goes... and sometimes it comes pretty hard. I've been struggling with it for the past month or so, trying to overcome this bout without turning to drugs (which won't let me sleep and saps my... ahem... libido). One thing that really seems to help me is writing. When I'm writing, I feel like I can turn less than perfect situations into something funny, something good. And if people get a laugh out of it, even better; my bad days become your hilarious reading material.

But being deliberately cruel to generally good people will only make me feel guilty in the long run.

Over the past week I sank into a fairly deep depression that happened to land me in the hospital. I debated whether I should write about this on here, but I've been reading another blog lately ( which has given me courage to be open about this.

I didn't hurt myself, but I was at the point of feeling like I could. Not because I wanted to die (I DON'T) but because... I just felt guilty being alive. Like I was a drain on everyone close to me. I really felt that people would be better off without me, whether that meant running off to live alone in the woods (currently on fire... not a great option) or, well, "doing away" with myself.

Thank whatever Gods are looking out for me that I've got Jonathan. He took me to the hospital where some nice people said some nice things and gave me some nice pills. Then he continued being nice to me day in and day out for the last 5 days. And I'm feeling a whole lot better now. I'm going to try to keep getting better without drugs; I really don't like that low libido aspect... I'm a NEWLY WED, God Damnit (or I will be soon...) what kind of sick joke is that?!?

And I'm going to keep writing. I'm going to keep this blog, because it really does help. I'll just cut back on the whole "I hate work" aspect, because I don't. I actually have a really good job, with really nice people, and I'm super fucking lucky. It'll suck to leave here in two weeks.

HOWEVER! I will continue to be deliberately cruel and scathingly sarcastic to those who deserve it (Boberino, Wanna-be-Gangsta-Fool, etc), and if you don't work with me, you're fair game suckas.

So, read on, readers (all 3 of you) and I'll try not to unburden my emotional woes on you again, I promise.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Typical Phone Conversation Between Any Caller and Myself

Me: Good Afternoon, Chelsea speaking

Caller: Hello?

Me: Hello?

Caller: Who am I speaking to?

Me: This is Chelsea

Caller: Well, I'm looking for George Tabernacle

Me: Ok I'll transfer...

Caller: Or, who would I speak to about (boring form A).

Me: That would be George Tabernacle. I'll just transfer y...

Caller: I just have a question concerning sections 3 - 6. Does it matter if I fill that out with a hot pink gel pen/sign my name with an X/spilled jam on it/mistook it for toilet paper?

Me: Well, I'm not too sure, but George Tabernacle can answer all your questions so I'll just trans...

Caller: Who is this?

Me: It's still Chelsea

Caller: What's your job title? Why am I speaking to you?

Me: I'm the receptionist. I answer the phones. You called me, I answered, now I am transfering you to George Taberna...

Caller: What? Why did you make me explain all of this to you, if you aren't even going to answer me?

Me: .... I didn't.

Caller: YES YOU DID!

Me: Fine. It was a cruel prank I've played on you to ruin your fucking day. Now if you'll excuse me for ONE MINUTE, I am going to tranfer you to George Tabernacle


(Head explodes as I realise I have just hung up on this person... and the phone starts to ring agian)

Me: Hello, Chelsea speaki....


Me: Yes! Ok! Stop screaming for Christ's sake!

Caller: GEORGE!

(Quiet weeping and pulling out of hair)


In 50 days, I will be a married woman.

In 50 days, I no longer have to worry about my weight. I will eat only chocolate, cakes, and french fries... wait... make that poutine. I will have to be wheeled to the local Scrub n' Shine for my weekly washing.

In 50 days I can stop wearing makeup... or doing my hair... or even getting dressed in the morning. I could live in pyjamas, and in fact I might.

In 50 days I can stop shaving or plucking all hair on my body. My eyebrows will be twin caterpillers of neglect. My legs shall be a tribute to the rainforests of B.C., thick and lush. My armpits may cause scientists to believe they've found the missing link.

In 50 days, all bets are off buddy, and you're stuck with me.

One Day At A Time

So, today I woke up in a good mood! Finally!
Maybe it had something to do with the family sized bar of chocolate I consumed before bed last night. Maybe it was the fact that I went to bed at 9:30 and slept for 9 hours. Maybe it was not waking up to find my brand new shoes clawed to death.
Whatever the reason, I made a vow to myself upon waking that today I would turn over a new leaf. No more mood swings, violence, sarcastic remarks, etc.
Then I got to work.
And I'm sorry people, but I just can't do it.
If I can't be sarcastic, I have NO DEFENSE against these lunatics. And so, the cruelty and disdain must and shall continue.
I've never claimed to be a good person.
Deal with it.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

A Lying, Babbling Loon

Today I had to call the marraige commissioner that Jonathan and I had originially hired to perform our ceremony.
I had to call him because he's a Big Fucking Jerk and there is no way I am letting a Big Fucking Jerk perform my wedding ceremonials.
But I didn't want to SAY that to him.
No, even though he is a Big Fucking Jerk, I was having panic attacks at the thought of hurting his Big Fucking Feelings (always assuming he even has any).
The problem with this guy is that he doesn't care about weddings. And that's fine, really, not everyone does. Hell, I don't even care about weddings most of the time. But see, this is MY wedding, and therefore VERY important. And really, if you don't care about weddings, or happy couples, or giving happy couples the best wedding, then WHY are you a marriage commissioner?!?
So I had to call him to tell him that... well, that we're "letting him go", and believe me, I was scared shitless. I hate confrontation. That's why I have this passive agressive blog, so I can vent all of my agressive feelings while remaining outwardly passive to the general public.
But call him I must, and I picked up the phone not 10 minutes ago to do just that.




Answering Machine: We're not home, lah-dee-dah, bullshit bullshit bullshit, leave us a message!

(I was so not prepared for the answering machine!! Answering machines freak me out... what, you just want me to talk? And no one will answer back? That's just giving me liscence to ramble on unchecked, and THAT is liscence for disaster).

Me: Oh. Hello.... hello I am looking for Anthony Lowe... but, er, he's not in, I guess... so, I'll just tell you what I called to tell you... and that is this... My name is Chelsea Logue and you were supposed to perform my wedding ceremony on July 25 at 3 pm but now I don't need you anymore because.... because... we don't need you. And... and the wedding is off! YEAH! THAT'S why we don't need you. It's off, and, well, so are you, I guess. So, I mean, this is really a good thing. For you I mean. Not me. I guess it's pretty awful for me. Yes... I AM really sad, but you get to have some extra time off, so won't that be nice for you? ...... uh...... um..... well, I'm at work, and this is a long distance call, so I guess I should go... but, no hard feelings? And, um... if I ever get married again, you are totally invited! Well, like, I mean... you can perform the ceremony. Not like invited invited, but... I mean... I WOULD invite you, but I don't know you... Um... um....

Answering Machine: BEEEEEEEEEEP

So there it is. It's done. And I'm thinking that at this point, Big Fucking Jerk is probably just really happy he never has to hear my voice again.


But you knew that already. I'm the only person foolish enough to think "hmmm, too early for babies, let's just get a cat!!"
I HATE cats.
It all started when Jonathan found an injured kitten and brought it home.
I awoke in the middle on the night to hear Jonathan drunkenly saying "David! David no! Come here David. Sit on my lap David."
And I am thinking who the fuck is David and why is he sitting on my fiancee's lap??"
So I stumble out of bed to find out what's going on only to find Jonathan lying on the futon with a 3 month old grey kitten on his chest.
"This is Little David Bowie. I found him on the street, and he's hurt his paw, and I love him so much, and we have to keep him, please can we keep him, say we can keep him!!"
And I said "sure, we can keep him" and we all lay down on the futon to sleep and be a family.
Now, my response then was natural. It was late, I was groggy and a tiny kitten seemed like the best way to get a drunken Jonathan to shut up and let me get back to sleep already.
However, what happened next can only be described as flat out, embarassing baby lust.
Little David Bowie had real owners who eventually came to pick him up and we were left without a cat.
Jonathan was philisophical about this; sad to lose David, but feeling that two Guinea Pigs and a kitten in a one bedroom apartment probably wouldn't have been the best idea anyway.
I disagreed.
I NEEDED a kitten. I had so much LOVE to give and I needed a damn kitten to give it to.
"But you have the Guinea Pigs" he reasoned.
"The Guinea Pigs HATE ME" I countered tearfully (which is true enough... they hate everyone).
So off we went to the SPCA to find me a kitten to be my temporary baby until such a time in the future as we could have a real one.
Only here's the thing... cats live FOREVER!
And babys don't have claws... and they don't claw your BRAND NEW SHOES in the middle of the night in a fit of revenge because you won't let them sleep curled around your face.
No, cats are NOT babies, and now I am stuck with a mistake for 20 years who likes to bite me and give me allergy attacks and track poo on the rug.
But that is what my life is; one big pooey rug.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Get me what I want or I will cut you

A phone conversation between Great Aunt Laurel and me:

Me: Hello?

GAL: It's Laurel.

Me: (affecting oscar-worthy enthusiasm) Hi Auntie Laurel, how are you?

GAL: I was just wondering if you were registered anywhere BESIDES the Bay.

Me: Um, well, we are registered with a travel agent. We're hoping to get our honeymoon paid for.

GAL: I'm not doing that.

Me: Oh. Well, just the Bay then.

GAL: *sighs* Don't you want anything else besides crap from the Bay?

Me: A car would be nice! Or a baby grand piano...

(GAL has a baby grand sitting in her living room that she never plays, as she doesn't know how)

GAL: Yeah, RIGHT. I'll just get you whatever I can find that I think you might like.

Me: Oh... but... we have the regist....


And so, in advance, I have written a thank you letter to spare myself the trouble when I am writing thank you letters to nice people who got me nice things.

Dear Great Aunt and Uncle,

Thank you for the (insert name of useless piece of shit here). It's just what we wanted, but were too afraid to ask for, as people generally view (useless pieces of shit) as being tacky/useless/pieces of shit. You knew better though.
You are truly geniuses disguised as fat wealthy assholes who drive a hummer.
God Bless You Both.

Mild affection,
Jonathan and Chelsea Lee

I'll try harder, really I will.

I realise that my posts have been fraught with foul language lately, and I'm sorry. I'm better than that. Especially after berating that Wanna-Be-Gangsta-Fool on the bus a few weeks ago.
However, I am not on a bus, nor am I surrounded by children (praise the lord) so I'm not THAT much of a hypocrite.

But I do think I can pull off a hilarious post without resorting to cursing, so here is something from the other end of the scale; a children's story I wrote that I think is pretty great.
Don't try to rip it off, because not only is it on my blog, I've also mailed it to myself and have multiple copies dates and stashed all over the place.


Little Maddy MacC
Was a girl unlike you or me.
In the dead of the night
She had crime to fight
Wish her brother, whom she loved… mostly.

Little Quinn MacC
Was a boy of about age 3
With his sis at his side
On an elephant they’d ride
To stop the latest crime spree.

One night in early December
They learned of a boy named Dismember
He’d steal the heads
Off of dolls and teds
For reasons that no one could remember

When they learned of this awful disgrace
The MacCs had a villain to chase
They jumped on their steed
And rode with great speed
To find the poor souls who’d “lost face”

Though the victims were questioned all day
They really had nothing to say
They just couldn’t speak
Of the villain we speak
For their mouths had been carried away

Then out of a shadowed doorway
A voice said “I’ve something to say!
I saw the whole thing
And I’m willing to sing
Just promise Dismember will pay!”

And out stepped wee Natalie
Owner of Disco Barbie
The dancing queen
Who’d lost her bean
In the midst of this awful crime spree

“I was sitting upstairs on my bed
Telling Barbie it’s time she was wed
When Dismember came in
With a big ugly grin
And relieved my poor doll of her head!”

“Well tell us, which way did he flee?”
Yelled our crime fighting heroes MacC
“He ran out that door,
But the bag he held tore
So just follow the trail that you see.”

Sure enough when they looked out the door
There was a trail they’d not seen before
It was made up of oodles
Of tiny toy’s noodles
And our heroes were stumped no more.

“To the elephant!” cried little man Quinn
“Now we surely shall win!”
So they jumped on their beast
And turned to face east
The direction the trail led in.

Onwards the elephant ran
Till they reached the heart of Japan!
Where in a dark cave
They discovered the knave
And challenged him to fight like a man.

Then out the evil one slunk
With a smell as foul as a skunk
He was holding a sword
And was out of his gourd!
And was, quite obviously, drunk.

“Oh please, I don’t want any trouble
My life has turned into such rubble.”
Then he fell on his bum
And said swigging rum
“Are there four of you, or am I seeing double?”

Our heroes knew not what to think
At the piteous state of this fink
Clearly a fight
Just wouldn’t be right
With a boy so far gone with the drink

A glance was exchanged ‘tween the two
And suddenly they knew what to do
They’d get the lad sober
If it took till October
And find out what made him so blue.

Twelve months and twelve steps later
We check in with our evil doll hater
He’s doing just fine
And he’s off of the wine
And he no longer acts like Darth Vader.

“It’s just, I was misunderstood”
Said our villain, now lately turned good.
“But these two took the time
To look in to my crime
And they treat me the way that folk should.”

So if ever you come ‘cross a thug
Who makes you feel small as a bug
Quinn and Maddy
Say he’s not such a baddy
He may just need a good hug.

Yup, I wrote it. It's about my cousins, and is pretty much an unembellished re-telling of their actual lives.


Feeling like you're going to puke at work is worse than feeling like you're going to puke anywhere else. Not only am I naseous, I am surrounded by mother fucking morons.

Also, the last, the VERY LAST thing a girl wants to hear when she has an icky tum tum is "maybe you're pregnant!"


... nobody answer that.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

If I write in my blog enough, it sounds like I'm typing a HUGE report.

Won't someone find out, sooner or later, that I do NOTHING here, literally NOTHING? Oh sure, I answer the phone every once in a while, and yes, I have been known to send a fax or two... but why does everyone always say "Thanks Chelsea, you've really been working hard"? And they aren't being sarcastic or anything.
It's weird, and I will be very sad to enter the real world of working once again when I move away to the Merv.
Are there government jobs in Courtenay? I wonder...


Who in God's name invented Peanut Butter Cups and why do they want me to be fat?

Added to my Enemies For Life list

Whoever the fuck just flung open my cubicle door, bits of half masticated apple flying from their patulous jaws, only to say "Oh, wrong person" and shlump offp;
You left the door open, you dimwitted milksop!


I don't know if you noticed, but I was in a bit of a Mood yesterday.

Over the weekend, Jonathan and I decided to visit Wreck Beach (the nude beach) and I guess God was punishing me for being a pervert, because after hiking up and down the beach stairs, my legs seized up like an old person's bowels when they've run out of Metemucil. I mean, REALLY seized up. I could hardly walk and was hobbling to and fro like some sad hobbling thing.

So, that wasn't helping the Mood.

I'm also getting to that point at work where the people you didn't really know and therefore didn't pay much attention to start to become more than aquaintances... and you realize you hate them. My "Enemies For Life" list has expanded to include:

Fucking FSO...who can't remember my name and frequently insults my fashion choices.

The Potbellied CA...who's nervous tics include whistling Turkey in the Straw incessently and compulsive farting.

Old named because she is A: old and B: afraid of heights. She insists, for reasons known only to her, on a cubicle beside the window. Every time she catches a glimpse of the 13 story drop (every 10 fucking minutes since she sits beside a WINDOW) she shrieks dramatically and has to go "take a break" (see: go for a stroll outside and get a coffee)

Big Fat D... who's job is not to answer the phones, but who is SO CONCERNED about the bloody phones that she spends half her day popping out of her cubicle shrieking "who's answering the phone? Who's answering the phone?!?" I will answer the phone in one Goddamn minute, you old harpy, but give it more than HALF A FUCKING RING!

Redneck Reba... who's down-home happy goodness makes me want to hurl.

These people all contrived to get on my last nerve yesterday, leaving me in a state of painful quivering rage by the time Jonathan had the good fortune to get ahold of me.

THEN, oh THEN the real fun began.

We'd tried to go see Adventureland twice before; First, we got the time wrong and showed up half an hour late. It wasn't a big deal, we thought we'd just come back another day. Easy peasy.
The NEXT time, we double checked the time on the website only to get to the theatre and find out the website hadn't been updated and we were half an hour late... again. Ok, kind of funny this time. Twice in a row? What bad luck! We'd just go back the very next day and finally we'd be on time. In fact, we'd show up half an hour early (6:30) just in case.

So yesterday I was thinking to myself, "sure, this day was balls, but I've got a movie to look forward to!"

All I can say is WHAT KIND OF TIME IS 6:00 TO START A MOVIE?!? We were half an hour late AGAIN. That's fucking bullshit. And it so did NOT improve my Mood.

Anyway... I'm over it now, I think. Mostly anyway. And I'm endeavouring to be light hearted and jovial today.


Monday, June 1, 2009


That was a very rude word, and I'm sorry for it.

But seriously... don't turn your back on that banana.

Ways To Annoy Me

Whistle Turkey in the Straw one more fucking time.

Tell me another Down-Home-Albertan-Rodeo story.

Play a bloody banjo outside my window all fucking night long, whilst chugging beer and yelling surly comments to passers by.

Don't tell me there is something in my teeth so I walk around smiling red pepper all day.

Tell me to stop walking like an old lady. I'll stop walking like an old lady when you stop looking like God took a crap on your face.

Inform me that instead of taking me to dinner and a movie, as planned, we are now going to a bbq / moving party with your friends. If I've been up since 6 am working with a socially retarded group of cock-suckers all day, the last fucking thing I want to do is sit around listening to That Guy spew drivel from his fool fucking mouth.
I don't give a FUCK about Derrida... WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT?!?


Feeling Mean...

Because Redneck-Reba has to listen to me pass wind and blow my nose all day, and probably never complains on her blog.

Feeling meaner because that makes me hate her more.

Getting Very Annoyed...

Listening to Redneck Reba in the cubicle beside me talk about... anything. If I wanted to listen to down-home-Albertan Country-listening Cow-wrangling opinions all day long, I'd go talk to The Aging Hippy's boyfriend that lives next door to me.
But I hear enough of that at 2 in the morning.

Boberino McPervstar

Friday evening was my friend Cary's birthday par-tay.

Jonathan and I got dolled up and headed out to the far reaches of Oak street, there to celebrate and be merry... or so we thought (cue ominous music).

We met at Cary's where the usual cast of characters was assembled, drinking their way through litres of alcohol, and perfuming the air with clouds of herbal smoke.

After knocking back a drink or two we headed over to the local pub in the hopes of playing a few games of pool, and of course, drinking until our eyes (or whatever we'd had for dinner) fell out.

Seeing the pool table empty, we converged upon it, nabbing the surrounding 4 or 5 tables. This would prove to be a mistake... a very bad mistake.

Just as the men-folk were to begin their first game of pool, I felt an uneasy stirring, a lifting of the small hairs on my neck. An unnatural scent stung my nostrils, causing my eyes to water. Suddenly, from a shadowed doorway, out leapt a man (if one could call him that) crying out "Stop, whoa, sorry guys, this is my table. My game. You wait your turns, eh? Heh heh heh."

He was dressed in the garb one would usually associate with lower class pimps. The best word I could use to describe him is "shiny". His shirt was a shiny silver, pinstriped with shiny black. This was tucked into a pair of very tight black pants, which tapered down to a pair of shiny black pointy toed shoes. A gold chain flashed around his neck, and his hair was slicked back with so much gel I could practically see my reflection in it.

The boys shuffled back in horror as he approached the table.

"I'm set up to play a game here fellas heh heh heh, but maybe one of yous can play the loser, eh? Heh heh heh!" His bleached teeth gleamed too white in his dark, slimy face.

We all nodded, mesmerized, and he proceeded to play a very bad game of pool against an elderly Asian gentleman. As they were finishing, the shiny pimp invited Cary to play a game of doubles against him and his elderly Asian friend. Being very drunk at this point, and always a little too friendly for his own good, Cary volubly agreed to this, dragging an unwilling party-goer to his side.

What proceeded was an awkward 15 minutes of awkward pool which Cary awkwardly lost when it became apparent that Shiny-pimp and Elderly-Asian were pool sharks. Throughout this display, Shiny-pimp was constantly strutting past the row of seats where I and a couple of girlfriends had perched to view the proceedings. Every time he made a shot he would laugh his rehearsed "heh heh heh" whilst parading his shiny glory to and fro in front of us, winking at each lady in turn and "glancing" (see staring) at our chests.

The game finished, he presented himself to each male party-goer in turn, shaking their hand with an obnoxious "Justin? Boberino, good to meetcha. Jonathan? Boberino, howya doin?"

My lady friends and I waited in abject horror as he got closer and closer to our cowering bevy.

He reached me first.

"Hello, my lovely, and who might you be?" he slimed down at me, hand extended.

Now, I don't know about you, but there were certain rules drilled into me as a child; always say please, when asking for something. Always say thank you, when you've received it. Always hold doors open for the elderly... always shake hands, when a hand is offered.

So it was an automatic reaction that lifted my hand and placed it firmly into "Boberino's".

"I'm... urgh!... ah!... um, Chelsea, I'm Chelsea!" I stammered, whipping my hand away as though scorched.

Feeling violated, I watched him repeat this sleaze-fest down the row of women, watching as their faces registered first trepidation, then terror as he did to them what he'd done to me; with my hand firmly trapped in his, he'd sexually fondled the sensitive skin of my wrist with his slimy fingers.

This may not sound all THAT bad to you, but believe me, it was enough to send all of us shuddering off to the washroom to scrub ourselves clean of his iniquitous touch.

One girl voiced the thought that he had done with his finger what he'd like to do with his... well, we were thoroughly disgusted.

But what I wonder is, has that ever worked? Does he use that move because at one point, some sad, sad woman met Boberino, was mesmerised by his shiny shell, and upon feeling his groping finger molesting the inside of her wrist, was thoroughly swept off her feet?

I hope not. But if that woman exists, know this...

We're not angry, we're just very disapointed.

Friday, May 29, 2009


I absolutely HATE it when you go into a bathroom, and the person in the stall next to you goes eerily silent.
EVERYBODY POOPS! I'm not going to run out of the washroom screaming. Go about your business and I'll go about mine.
But OH NO!
You had to go all hush hush over there, until I flushed the toilet at which time you allowed yourself a gutteral "huuungh", to be promptly cut off when the toilet silenced itself.
I couldn't care less if you are shitting.
But I DO care that you make me feel like a pervert for my love of public shittery.
Yeah, that's right, I crap in public.
I like it.
Better in a public stall than my own home where I (or poor Jonathan) have to clean up the mess.
And yes, maybe it DOES give me a sick sense of pride when I create an ungoldy stink, knowing the next person to use the facilities will receive quite the shock.
So what if I think that's hilarious?!?
But you, you sneaky son of a bitch, you have to make a big deal about it.
But I saw your shoes.
And as if I didn't have anything better to do, now I have to traipse around the office looking at ladies shoes, find out who you are, then leave an anonymous note on your desk when you leave saying "Jeez, way to stink up the bathroom today Lorraine!"
That's so unthoughtful of you.

Anjelica, Anjelica, I love you!

I am in love with Anjelica Huston.

I admit this freely and without shame.

If I could be anybody else in the world instead of myself it would, without a doubt, be Anjelica Huston. Or more specifically, Anjelica Huston in the Life Aquatic.

I want to be smart and beautiful, with long straight hair, a great tan, and those matching linen outfits.

Oh God... I'm having a moment over here. Excuse me....

I just LOVE being a lackey!!

Good things about working in a position that is un-defined and useless:

I get to go on my blog and play crosswords all day!

Bad things about working in a position that is un-defined and useless:

People can make me do pretty much anything that they don't have the time to do. And I mean anything.

Today I was asked to "pop over to Grand and Toy and pick up a little order."

Bees Knees, I thought. I get to go frolic in the sunshine! So off I set, on what I expected to be a pleasant jaunt in the sun. How mistaken, how foolish I was.

First, a word of advice; if someone asks you to go somewhere, and you have only the vaguest clue where that somewhere is... look it up on a map. Don't just set off in the hopes of finding it "sometime".

I got to what I thought was the Grand and Toy I was looking for, only to discover it was closed... and it was a Staples.

Not worried yet, I trotted back to the office, secretly congratulating myself on getting to go on yet ANOTHER excursion, further ignoring the inconsequential work waiting back at my desk.

After looking up "Grand and Toy Vancouver" in Google, I headed out again, certain in my destination. I leisurely strolled the 6 blocks, shedding my sweater and soakingup the rays. It was quite warm... in fact... it was hot. I was mildly displeased when I noticed an acrid scent and realised it was my own sweat. Eurgh!

The cashier, upon hearing my errand, shook her head in bewilderment and said "Um.. we don't have an order for you... are you sure it was this Grand and Toy?"

"Uhhh... no? How many Grand and Toys are there in downtown Vancouver?"

"We have 6 locations in Vancouver, ma'am."


SIX locations? And did she just call me MA'AM? What the bloody fuck?

"Oookay, well which one is closest to here?" I asked.

"Hm, I suppose you could try the one in Bental Centre? Or maybe the one on Pender? Or what about Yaletown? Those are the closest ones to here, ma'am."

"Okey dokes, matron, thanks for the info!" I called over my shoulder as I ran off to find the next G&T. Spinning this outing into a 15 minute relax-a-thon is one thing... being lost for over half an hour is another.

After being turned away at yet another G&T, I finally found the store I was looking for.

"You got a car?" asked flamboyantly gay youth behind the counter.

"No... not with me." I replied, alarm bells clanging higgeldy piggeldy in my brain. And with good reason, it turned out.

"Ooo, girl, you got your work cut OUT for you!" squealed the youth, dragging a box around the counter roughly the size of a small refrigerator.

Shit. And might I add, Fuck.

The box was every bit as heavy as it looked, and I staggered the 4 blocks back to my office building, panting and sweating and generally cursing the government and all it's employees.

I can assure you, I never want to see a G&T again, unless it's in my hand, on the rocks, with a twist of lime.

Like a 75 year old woman

Last night I insisted that Jonathan have my dinner ready by 5:30.

Then I fell asleep around 7:45.

I was awake before 6 am and I felt great!

I am becoming my 80+ year old grannie... and I'm not even that concerned about it.

Now, here's a shiny penny. Don't go spending that all in one place, mister!

Thursday, May 28, 2009


I think I might be, like, really really strong... you know, encephalon-wise.

Or possibly my brain just doesn't function as other people's brains do. It's more powerful... bigger and ...brainier... than any other brain out there.

I've come to this conclusion for 3 reasons.

1. Drugs don't affect me like they do other people. Neither does caffeine. Not once, ever, have I had some coffee and thought "wow, now I'm pepped. hot jazz, I'll be awake for hours." I've NEVER thought that. Seriously, I could drink coffee until the cows came home (where are those damn cows, anyway?) and still want to go to bed at 9 pm. Drugs too. I inhale pot like it's air and yet my eyes are never red and I've never once felt paranoid. In fact, it's nearly ceased to effect me. Ditto with any other drug I've been stupid enough to try. Mushrooms? Not a problem. Never EVER have I had a "bad trip" and I've done those suckers A LOT. Coke? Yes, I was stupid enought to try it. And it sucked. Not in a "bad-trip" kind of way, just in a "ew, I've just sucked something up my nostrils and I feel exactly the same" kind of way. Even E. Oh sure, I'm happy, I suppose. But I'm usually happy when I'm surrounded by my friends on a dance floor and I don't have to work the next day.

2. I have such strange and vivid dreams... and some of them come true. Not often, but 4 or 5 times. And that's kind of freaky. What if I am programmed to receive information from the future, but I just haven't realised it fully yet, and I am letting all my powers go to WASTE?!?! I mean sure, I've been watching original Star Trek lately, but I've been thinking this for a while now. One time I had a dream in which my cousin (who has long long hair... who has ALWAYS had long long hair as long as I've lived) was dragged over a cliff by some birds who pecked all of her hair off. Ok, fine, in real life there was no cliff, and no birds, but THE NEXT DAY she cut off all of her hair. That's weird, right?! I think so.

3. I am very easily hypnotized. You might think that's all a joke. "Hogwash!" you say (which is stupid... who says that anymore). But seriously, I have been "put under" 3 or 4 times in my life. I have absolutely no recollection of what happened, but there is video footage of me performing a highland fling perfectly. I have no idea how to do the highland fling in real life. I quit highland dancing lessons when I was 7 years old. You might be thinking "doesn't that mean that your brain is weak to be so easily influenced?"
You're an asshole for saying that, really. That was pretty mean.
But for reals, I don't think so. I think my brain is more open to things that other people have blocked out as impossible. That's why I believe in zombies, amongst other things. And that is why I am more than likely psychic.

My brain is better than your brain and my brain could beat your brain up. So try me, bitches!

Horn Death

Last night, a car horn started honking.

And kept honking

For 2 hours.

Knowing that it wasn't, I nevertheless went out to check that it wasn't my car causing the racket.

As I got outside, I noticed the crazy woman that lives down the hall from us. I often come across her standing just inside the door of the building, staring out the window. Hours later, she will still be there. Jonathan think she is waiting for a lover that jilted her years ago.

I think she's just bored of staring at the wall in her own apartment. I've seen the inside... there are no chairs or furniture. Just boxes... and garbage.

Anyway, I got outside, and there she was, just standing... staring. I smiled at her and said "Just making sure that wasn't my car causing all the racket!"

She looked at me.

"I think is body slumped on wheel. Dead."

"Um... oh? That's... no good"

"Someone kill. Now honking not stop 'til body rot."

....."Ok then! I'll just... go back inside... and.." away...!!

That was a weird and more than likely unfounded thing to say. But still, I couldn't help thinking about it, so I called the police non-emergency number to report it.

They never did send anyone to look into it, but eventually the owner (some blonde slut-factory) came skipping back from wherever, hopped in, and drove away.

Later I saw Old Crazy slink out of the community gardens across the street and steal back inside. She was wearing white gym socks and no shoes.

If I wasn't sure before, I'm sure now... that bitch is NUTS, brotha.

Hos: the same in every area code

Tuesday night Jonathan and I went to see the Chromeo DJ set. Which was rad.

As we sat through the opening act (a dj with no idea how to dj) we played one of our favorite games... People Watching.

We had a prime seat close to the washrooms; a high traffic area in any nightclub as everyone visits the washroom, be it to actually GO to the washroom, or just to snort coke/check makeup/have dirty bathroom sex.

The usual parade of girls, all dressed alike in their miniscule outfits and too high heels, flounced past us in small clusters and we began to notice a strange phenomenon.

Apparently, it is IMPOSSIBLE for a group of girls to leave the washroom and rejoin the dancefloor without performing the ritual Ho salute. It goes something like this...

1. Form a long line when exiting the bathroom, holding the hand of the girls both in front of and behind you (a la grade 1). No ho left behind!

2. Shuffle your feet whilst walking in said line and utter a piercing "woooooooooooo!" swaying your hips back and forth (not neccessarilly in time to the music, more to attract the attentions of the male of the species).

3. (And this is VERY important) As soon as you come close to the dance floor, throw one hand in the air, prefferably in some sort of gun shape, and wave in up in down. Meld into other dancers, hopefully pushing your posterior against the crotch of an attractive (or whatever) man in passing.

Should the hand-in-the-air-waving-like-you-don't-care move prove difficult, see any rap video for further instructions.

I must say, I felt QUITE the fool, exiting the washroom on my own, and you can be sure I slinked foolishly back to my seat fervently wishing I was one of a group of hos, just like EVERY OTHER girl there. But alas, I had to be an individual. How common.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Weepy weddings

This weekend, Jonathan and I made the journey out to Merville, the delightfully rural community where I was lucky enough to pass my youth. This was not just another quick trip to see the family; we were there to celebrate and be merry, as my cousin Marissa tied the knot to her radical now-husband Steve.
We left Friday afternoon (early, despite the cantankerous rumblings from the elderly receptionist I am unfortunate enough to work with) and gained the peaceful solitude of my parent's house around 8 p.m. that evening.
My mum was busy decorating the wedding cake that would be served the next day. She's never taken any courses, but somehow manages to make the most beautiful cakes I've ever seen. However, the night before any event she has been hired to bake for, she can unfailingly be found in her kitchen swearing up a blue streak and generally having a bit of a nervous breakdown. Friday night was no exception, and we arrived just in time to calm her down, have some tea, and convince her that going to bed and finishing in the morning would help in preserving everyone's sanity, not least her own.
The next morning dawned clear and sunny, the first really hot day of the year. Jonathan and I were employed in ferrying this and that back and forth between my house and my aunt's house down the road (where the wedding was to be held). I came back from one such excersion to find my mum fuming as she put the finishing touches on the wedding cake.
Apparently my sister had called to ask if her husband could wear shorts to the wedding. When my mum voiced the opinion that shorts were perhaps not the most appropriate of wedding wear, my sister called her persnikity and they hung up on each other in snit.
I called my sister back in the hopes of peacekeeping (something I often feel called upon to do in my family) and told her that while everyone appeared to be wearing rather nice clothes, perhaps they could bring shorts to change into later.
Everyone thus appeased, I zipped upstairs to change into my own clothes and do something acceptable to my hair.
With half an hour to spare, we made our way down to the wedding site, where the wine was already flowing and the bride (not one to stand on tradition) was casually mingling with guests waiting for the ceremony to start.
It did, shortly thereafter. The bride, looking like a 40s movie star, walked across the lawn toward her intended, and I felt a tightening in my chest watching, not her, but him, smiling in anticipation as his soon-to-be wife glided towards him.
I cried.
Then I sobbed.
I was doing alright, really, until I made the mistake of looking at Jonathan in the middle of the ceremony. He was looking right back at me, smiling like a loon as he mouthed "
2 months".
I cried like it was going out of style.
The ceremony over, the guests then proceeded to drink far to much wine in the sweltering sun, an activity I gamely participated in, until falling asleep at the embarssing hour of 9 pm.
The whole day sharply threw into focus the reality of my own fast approaching nuptials. I am becoming increasingly nervous and excited in turns.
After this wedding, though, my thoughts have turned to fervent prayers that I don't have panda eyes in every picture, and that I am able to stay up later than 9 pm. I am doubtful of either prayer being answered.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Sooo... sleeepy...

For the past two days, I have fallen asleep at work.

The first time was not so bad. I was only doing a
sudoku at the time, and I awoke immediately when my head crashed onto my desk. I then brilliantly covered the loud bang with some paper rustling and chair squeakings. Pretty slick.

Yesterday I was not so lucky.

I fell asleep for 1/2 an hour.

I don't even know how it happened. One minute I was typing an important email (to my mum... about wedding favors...) the next, I was waking up with the phone ringing and a thin stream of saliva dribbling down my chin.

I bounded out of my cubicle and snatched the phone up, realizing the receptionist had been on her lunch break nearly as long as I (her back-up) had been passed out. I blurted a groggy "hello?... er... I mean, good afternoon, Chelsea speaking!" belatedly realising the caller had already given up hope and hung up.

I could hazard a guess at why I've been so sleepy... the cat jumping repeatedly on my head the other night probably didn't help.

The point is, what am I to do about it? I can already tell that today will be a sleepy day; Jonathan coming home at 3:30 in the morning, tripping over my discarded clothes on the floor, and landing heavily upon my legs hasn't improved my soporific state.

I can only hope that, when I AM eventually dragged into the arms of Morpheus once again, no one notices.

But hey, this is the government... I can't be the ONLY one sleeping, right?

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Music, my son... music.

Here is some music you should listen to if you know what's good for you...

Passion Pit : their new album Manners is somewhere between MGMT and that feeling you get when you're really full and you got that way solely from eating chocolate. It's that good.

Suckers : they don't have a full length album out, but oh man, what they've got is gonna rock your socks off!

Harlem Shakes : Quite groovy, and they'd better be, 'cause they're on tour with Passion Pit as we speak... or write... or read. Whatever.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs : You know them. You like them. I gotta say, I wasn't totally sold on these guys, but their new album (It's Blitz)... oh man. It's good. That's all I can say.

Golden Boots : No one has every heard of these guys. Except me. They are new, and they are groovy. Mellow melodies, man.

There you have it. Go forth and listen.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Four jobs I've had
1.Chamber Maid - Out in Tofino, all aloney on my owney. Pretty disgusting, cleaning up after rich snobs and messy honeymooners. The stains on the sheets were bad enough, I won't even go into all the other weird crap I had to deal with.
2. Server - I will never, EVER do this again. I worked in the food industry for 2 1/2 soul crushing years. I hate people, I hate hungry people even more, and I REALLY hate hungry people who haven't a clue how to tip.
3. Reception (Totem Travel) - This job was pretty sweet actually. I just sat at a desk for 4 hours every night after everyone else had gone home and read my book or went on the computer. If anyone came in, I was actually SUPPOSED to tell them to come back during the day. I have no idea why I was there, but I wasn't about to ask, either.
4. Reception (Salman Partners) - Yuck. And might I add, Gross. Terrence Salman can suck my BALLS (if I had them). Ditto to Anne, Julina (Cuntroller extrordinaire), Bill, (dia) Ria, and everyone in research. I hope the stock market crashes even further and you all lose your jobs. Except Kristen, who by that time will be some sort of writing whiz.

Four movies I can watch over and over
The Life Aquatic
Pride and Prejudice (the one with Colin Firth)
Waynes World
Any Harry Potter movie

Four places I have lived
1. Victoria, first when I was a leetle girl, later when I was a leetle lady. Didn't dig it, either time.
2. Courtenay, or more specifically
Merville. I love this place, and am moving back VERY SOON!
3. Tofino, for a few months after highschool. In staff accom. Bad experience all around :(
4. Here in Vancouver with the love of my life, Jonathan. I don't really dig this place either, but anywhere that he is, I want to be too.

Four TV shows I love
30 Rock
Flight of the Conchords
Arrested Development
It's Always sunny in Philidelphia

Four places I've vacationed
1. Kenya and Egypt, when I was 12-ish
2. Barra de Navidad, Mexico, when I was 13-ish
3. Dominican Republic, when I was 21-ish
4. Hong Kong, this time last year, with Jonny-pants.

Four sites I visit daily

4. facebook... alas.

Four Places I would rather be right now

1. At home, with Jonathan, possible snuggled up in bed, maybe getting a massage
2. Somewhere warm, with cool, alcoholic beverages and white sand beaches
3. In Merville with my parents (and Jonathan) out in the garden
4. Pretty much anywhere but here

Four People I am tagging
1. No one, because Kristen has done this already and I have no other blogging friends.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Fighting people all over the city

Should you be unfortunate enough to know me, you probably know that I am not the type to lose my temper. I may get worked into a minor tizz sometime, but it's always short lived and mild.
You will also know that I am one of the least likely people to get into a shouting match with a complete stranger on the bus... yet this is exactly what I found myself doing last night.

I'd just spent a lovely afternoon with my friend Nilly, having my final wedding dress fitting, and was feeling happy, beautiful... and STRONG. You know that empowered feeling you get when you know you are looking good? You feel smart, confident, ready to take on the world... or, should the world be unavailable, at least some little piss-ant on the bus.

So when Nilly and I got on the 99 B Line, there to encounter just such an individual, I thought "I do NOT have to take this... OH NO! I DO NOT!"

We sat ourselves down on the back bench of the bus, I beside the window, Nilly next to me, a faceless stranger next to Nilly, and two Wanna-Be Gansta Fools (WBGFs) next to the faceless stranger. WBGF #1 had his cell phone glued to his ear (into which he was pouring a ceaseless stream of expletives) and a laptop on his lap was issuing forth music of much the same content.

You know those signs on the bus saying "You're not the only person on the bus, young man, so turn off your darn music and mind your p's and q's"? He is precisely the sort those signs are aimed at.

After a few blocks of this, his phone "conversation" (I am inclined to think he wasn't even talking to anyone... ) had degenerated into a miasma of cursing and threats so base as to make even the most hardened youth on the bus raise their pierced eyebrows in wonder. Nilly and I did the same.

A woman sitting a couple of seats away with a small child on her lap hastily covered the youngster's ears, looking worriedly at the redoubtable "thug".

I could stand it no longer.

Standing up and leaning towards him I shouted,

"Get off the phone, turn your music down, AND WATCH YOUR FILTHY LANGUAGE! There are children on the bus!"

I refrained from throwing in a couple of choice insults of my own, much as I wanted to, as this probably would have come hypocritical...

He looked at me, mouth agape, as though no one had ever taken a firm hand with him in his life, as I'm sure they hadn't. He didn't appear to like it.

Everyone else did though, and I sat down with adrenaline coursing through my veins amidst smiles of encouragement and thanks.

WBGF #1 closed his computer, scowling, and said "Hey, I AM sorry that there were kids around, didn't see them (they were sitting directly in front of him) but you don't have to yell at me like a C-U-N-*! Kids can't spell, but you know what I mean by that, you stupid C-U-N-*."

The child in questoin was probably 6 or 7, and if he was anything like I was at 6 or 7 could probably spell a four letter word.

I smiled blandly at WBGF as he continued his tirade at me, slipping again into foul language as my silence fanned the flames of his anger.

Finally, after telling his friend (WBGF #2) that he was going to cuss me out if we got off at the same bus stop (isn't that what he'd been doing this whole time anyway?) I laughed and said "Go for it, buddy."

His eyes bulged as he yelled "I will! I'm gonna punch you in your stupid cun* face, you stupid bitch. You just get into other peoples f---ing business 'cuz you're so sad and lonely 'cuz no one will ever stick it in you, you stupid fat ugly cun*"

I laughed gaily and replied "I'm getting married in two months. Have you ever even HAD a girlfriend?"

"I've got tons of f---ing girlfriends you stupid cun* (his favorite word). You're just jealous, and I feel sorry for your f---ing boyfriend for having to live with such an ugly f---ing bitch his life."

"You realise you are making yourself look like a fool, don't you? No one on this bus thinks you are tough. You sound like an idiot, and you only use swear words to bolster your limited grasp on the English language."

He subsided into his seat, no doubt wondering what on earth I had just said, and mumbed more curses and threats in my general direction. Nilly clutched my arms half giggling half wanting me to shut the hell up.

"I am NOT going to leave you when we get off the bus. That guy wants to beat you up!" she hissed in my ear.

I snorted, unafraid, and highly doubting WBGF's ability to beat up a small child, let alone a woman brimming with ire.

The next stop was ours, and as luck would have it, we DID exit the bus with the Wanna-Be Gangsta Fools. Out on the street I glared at him and said "O.k. here we are, are you gonna punch me in the face?"

He turned a lovely shade of mauve and wittily countered "You've got shoulders like a f---ing quarter back, you f---ing dyke." whilst he shuffled backwards away from me.

"That's it?" I yelled.

"Stupid f---ing quarter back! Go home to your f---ing dyke boyfriend, you f---ing cun*!" he called, ceaselessly, until he turned a corner out of sight.

Nilly left me then with a hug, while the woman with the small child got off the bus to thank me.

I was left to run all the way home, the only outlet I was likely to get for the litres of adrenaline coursing through me.

Though I knew the WBGF was all talk and would never really hurt me, still, it had pumped me up, talking back to him, and had he come at me, fists flying, I would have stood my ground and given him a fist full of business right back.

I can't stand jerks like that.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Silver Lining

No matter how poorly things may be going in your life, always be thankful that you don't look like this...


Listen, Sir... I heard you fart in the elevator.

And then I smelled it.

And then I heard you do it again.

Despite the fact that you seem to have lost all sphincter control and are probably as loose as a four year old's tooth down there, still I heard an audible pffffft followed quickly (but not quickly enough) by an involuntary clenching of the buttocks.

So you didn't need to glance over at me (as I surreptitiously swaddled my nose in the neck of my sweater) and say "geez, wonder what the guys on here before us had for lunch, eh?"

For one thing, as previously stated... I HEARD YOU, you egg-scented ass. Also, I was in the elevator for 3 floors before you got on, alone, and it sure as hell didn't smell then.

As for the question of what you had for lunch, my guess is shit, because that is the only thing I can think of that when digested may conceivably smell WORSE than shit.


I thought I was going to suffocate.To make matters worse, you skipped off a floor below mine, leaving me to exit the elevator in a fog of shame as my senior coworkers were entering. Later I heard an ambulance siren and seriously wondered if one of them perished in your home made gas chamber. Doubtless I would have gotten the blame.

My only point is this; why not just own up to it? We both knew it was you. And hey, everyone farts... (though not everyone shits their pants when they do, as I am wont to think you did). But farting, that's a part of life.

So next time, Mister Colon-Blower, do your fellow elevator riders a favor and either zip off the lift when your anus starts to tingle, or tell the rest of us to.

More Bus Fun!

Yesterday on the bus a man gave me his seat.

I said "Thank you."

He whispered "I'm Superman."

He leaped out the door at the next stop, and ran pell-mell down the street.

I think, in retrospect, he might have been crazy, but at the time I was PRETTY SURE he was Superman.

On a totally unrelated topic, I've written a poem about the woman I work with.

Old crazy dame, you shave your lip

you sit on your prosthetic hip
You type as fast as a snail
you don't know how to use email
You're pretty rude, when on the phone
you asked me how to spell "cellphone"
And though you smell of a bovine
Do not fret, I like you fine.


Oh, the bus.

I must say, I never tire of the characters I meet therein.

This morning, as I sat minding my own business with my nose in a book (thus to deter any would-be chatters) a morbidly obese and highly intoxicated Aboriginal couple boarded the bus and sat down. I was separated from this charming duo by a barbie lookalike who quickly stood up and moved to the other end of the vehicle with a muttered "Ugh!"

The manlier of the sots (though both had bosoms, so this isn't saying much) chortled after her saying "Nobody smiles on the bus! Nobody smiles on the bus! Chortlechortlechortle."

He looked at me and I gave him an obliging smile, hoping that could be the end of our communication.

"What's that you're reading?" he asked, dashing my hopes cruelly against the harsh rocks of reality.

"Oh.. it's the last book in a series of historical novels" I replied politely.

At this point, his as yet silent companion piped up in a voice far too loud for a 7:30 am bus ride "WHAT DO YOU CARE? YOU CAN'T EVEN READ? STUPID ASS!"

Man-sot turned to her hissing angrily "I can read, I can read you stupid slut. Why don't you keep your mouth shut for once in your god damn life?"

He then turned back to me with a cheery smile and asked (as though he hadn't just been swearing his teeth out) "Oh, history! Do you like history? Chortle chortle."

Me: Yes I d....


Man-Sot: you-shut-your-mouth-you-dirty-bitch-or-i'll-shut-it-for-you-you-don't-know-nothin-making-a-fool-outta-me-stupid-slut.... SHE'S JUST KIDDING!! JUST JOKING AROUND, EVERYONE! Chortle chortle! I love history, know all about it! That's me, history man!

Me: Yes... well, good for y..


Man-Sot: SHUT YOUR M... Oh... Yeah, you're RIGHT! I AM HISTORY MAN! Chortle chortle chortle!

Lady-Sot: Har har har! HARHAR!

Me: Well, this is my stop... I'll just..


This was probably one of the more normal bus rides I've ever had.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

#1 Reason I'm Done Drinking

What IS my style?

I like to fancy myself a writer.

However, apart from the inane prattlings on this blog and a couple of truly excellent children's stories, I've really yet to write anything.

Also, it has been brought to my attention that perhaps I don't write in my own style... whatever that may be. To this I say "pfft" and also "tcha".

I think that the best writers take from their life what they find useful and incorporate it into something personal and all their own. For instance, though I may have a bit of the Louise Rennison voice to my writing, do I write just as she writes? Do I read just as she reads?

I think not. I think I'm pretty funny all on my ownsome.

It is all a moot point anywho because no one reads this and it's only for my own amusment to pass the time at work, really.