Jan-u-rawr.

There's a certain element of danger when pushing open the door on a public bathroom stall.

I always use extreme caution when performing this act, as if on the bomb squad team during a terrorism attack. Really, you never know what might be waiting for you on the other side of the aluminum partition. This is true of every public washroom from here to Omaha and it doesn't matter how fancy a place might be, at least one woman will have had explosive diarrhea that absolutely could not wait until she was safe at home.

Funny how it is that this same woman constantly forgets to flush it on down when she's finished rocketing last night's dinner out of her sphincter. I'm all for saving water and trees, but the lack of a wipe/flush just stands out as poor hygiene habits and an absence of courtesy and consideration for woman-kind.

There is also, of course, the unending tradition of the "pee on the seat" gals, who I imagine are some sort of barbarian tribe that stalk from gas station to gas station, refusing to use the protective sheet. They insist: "No, it's okay - I can hover perfectly centered above the toilet seat." I imagine these are the same woman who fucking flip when they realize that while their aim was true, it was not accurate enough and they now have their bladder's contents streaming down their inner thighs.

I must bring to your attention, too, the winged bandit and the tampon monster, who will intentionally aggravate fellow ladies by leaving more personal bits of themselves floating in the bowl. They are among the same species of women who, again, refuse to flush it down. Of course every other woman wants to know that you're on track with your menstrual cycle. That makes just makes sense!*

There is the rare occasion that an empty and somewhat sanitary-looking porcelain throne can be found and will be chosen to fulfill it's destiny as a toilet for you. Even then, perched pigeon-toed and demure, tinkling into the potty, does danger persist. If you're not immediately disgusted by the all-too candid stall graffiti (ex. Chelsea sucks dick for meth; Tiffany likes it in her ass and has herpes; I fucked your dad in here), you might be shocked to overhear the bodily functions of the chica next to you.
Better yet, that same chica might attempt conversation with you. For these women, the public toilet stall is like the confessional booth or a sort of anonymous advice column. I've had some of the most interesting of my life in bathrooms.

Example 1:
(at a shopping mall in Seattle)
Youngish-Sounding Girl: "Excuse me; do you think you could pass me some toilet paper? I've used all the paper in here."
Me: "Oh, that sucks. Here, no problem." (hands substantial wad)
Y-S Girl: "Yeah, thanks. Geez, I think I might have just miscarried."
Me: "Oh..wow. Are you okay?"
Y-S Girl: "Yeah, actually; I'm really happy about it."

Example 2:
(Starbucks bathroom)
Woman: "Hey, could I ask you something?"
Me: "Sure."
Woman: "What do you think of these shoes?" (puts her foot under; they're hideous)
Me: "They're pretty cute."
Woman: "You're wrong; they're sexy! Duh."

These are the same women who will leave promptly post-discussion, seldom washing their hands. Or if they do, they're the type that get grossed out by the door handle on the bathroom's door (go figure), and will touch it only with a paper towel, dropping it behind the door on their way out. I hate those bitches.

I suppose the whole truth about people is half unveiled in the stall, its entrance like the doors to a Narnia of farting enigmas. Such wondrous revelations I highly doubt are simply stumbled upon in the male-version of the public toilet - everyone already knows that men can be disgusting. I guess I am a bit biased, because other than my few experiences with co-ed facilities, I've never really been into a guy's bathroom. I think it might be time for a little investigative research, y'know? Wait, that's not like, illegal, is it?

*still indicates obvious sarcasm.

still around.

Isn't that funny how much of a build up there is to the holidays and then it's just...gone?

Okay, maybe not ha-ha funny, but whatever.

I made new year's resolutions, per usual. I figured this year I'd make resolutions that would be impossible not to stick to, like not turning into a man. That's a little too easy, though, and truthfully, it's not like I don't stick to resolutions - I sort of stick to them. Example: last year, I resolved to not eat Starbucks food and that stuck until mid-February, when we launched the Valentine's day red velvet cupcake. Can you really blame me? Mhm.

I had the utmost joy of entertaining Mr. Dreamy McBoyfriend for the past week, which involved a lot of cooking on my part and a lot of sleeping in on his. Domesticity freaks me out, but my short-lived attempt was fruitful! I successfully made 6 quality dinners and did not food poison either of us. I don't intend of making a career out of being a Martha, but playing house can be an interesting change of scenery. Veeeeery interesting.

As far as careers go, though, boyfriend and I did a fun li'l' career quiz a few days ago. Tow truck driver? Airline customer service representative? Am I not going to university right now? It's not that these aren't respectable jobs, but that's the things, friends, those are jobs. Right now? I have a job. And by job, I really mean low-wage voluntary slavery.

I'm back to school tomorrow. I bought a toaster. I have a new found love for white mocha. I attempted to cut my own bangs and made then too short. This is my tiny life.

I attempted post-Christmas sale shopping today, and it suddenly occurred to me that I have little to no fashion sense for myself.

Finally, I dropped other-half off at l'aerogare tonight, which is always an emo-roller coaster. When I got home to my empty, quiet little house, there was $1.78 sitting on top of my printer from boyfriend's pockets, because he doesn't like to have change in them when he goes through security. I had to laugh at this, because it was like he had left me a tip. $1.78 is the kind of tip I'd leave a waitress if I suspected she'd spit in my food.

Happy holidays, y'all.

A little background noise

The dirty pretty Ashley Riehl tagged my ass.

I don't mean with like...spray paint, just one of these quiz things. I'm not typically one to fill these puppies out; some things are better left unsaid. But hey, I'd might as well do it up right and blatantly self-indulge in some fan-fare. Right-o; straight to it!

1. Where is your phone? In the squatter purse.
2. Your hair? Coffee-laced ponytail.
3. Your Mom? Lawyer-type power-tripper.
4. Your Dad? Hilarious.
5. Your favorite meal? I don't eat.
6. Your last dream? I made nipple pasties out of play dough.
7. What do you like to drink? Vodka Sevens with lime.
8. Your dream? Big love in little Iceland.
9. In what room are you? The only room I've got - bachelor pad.
10. Your hobby? Nose picker.
11. What are you afraid of? Zombies.
12. Last travel? I went to Kelownafornia for Thanksgimme.
13. Where were you last night? Right here.
14. Something you are not? Super model.
15. Muffins? Blueberry buttermilk or (on the cheap side) fruit explosion!
16. Wishlist? A puppy.
17. Where did you grow up? Under a rock.
18. Last thing you did? Work.
19. What are you wearing? Super faggy turtle neck and no pants.
20. Your television? Unloved and unused.
21. Your pet(s)? See question 16.
22. Your friends? Scattered.
23. Your life? Kooky.
24. Your temper? Passive-aggressive.
25. Do you miss someone? Bump, Guppy and my super hottie man candy.
26. Your car? Mombalt Supreme!
27. Something you don't bring with you? Commonsense, apparently.
28. Your favorite shop? No pennies for candy, friends. I'm poor.
29. Your favorite color? Electric kool-aid purple.
30. Last time you laughed? 30 seconds ago.
31. Last time you cried? Sunday.
32. Your best friend? Peaced out a while back and I didn't even notice.
33. A place where you can go again and again? Starbucks, because I like...work there. Cha-ching!
34. Facebook? Only when I should be doing something else.
35. Favorite place to eat? Anywhere with yam fries.

Oh, peer now my friends, into the tiny mortal exist of yours truly and yawn - it's okay.

Tiny Dancer

Just stopping by quickly to say hi, I'm still alive despite exams in case you were wondering and also, happy December! On that note...

Today is Bump's two year escape from the wombaversary!

Can you believe it!?

Live and in Colour!

Ladies and Gents, it's a goddamn Pineapple Express! Someone get me a hammer - I'll be in the backyard building the ark.

I've been pouring over philosophy meditations and uni-illegal sparknotes trying to decipher what the hell it is the Descartes is exactly trying to tell me, and I've got to say: that man had quite a 'stache. Fitting for me to be researching him in Movember. I, too, was going to be participating in Movember this year, using other forms of body hair as my incentive. It then occurred to me two things:

1) I'm not going to raise any money by having the legs of a young Russian man.
2) It's socially unacceptable for me to cornrow that shit and treat it like a hot fashion accessory when halfway through the month I realize that I'm not raising any money and have to find an excuse as to why my legs are so disgustingly fur-lined.

So I went "eeehhh" and hauled out a new Bic for quick smooth-down in the stand-up stall shower. Plus I figure that J Jenks would make a frowny face when I disrobe, because even with the lights off, he could hear my thick leg locks swaying in the breeze of the portable heater. Daaaayuuuuum.

Have I mentioned lately that the baby upstairs has taught himself how to scream like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park? Have I mentioned lately that he likes to do this at the most inconvenient times, like when I'm trying to sleep or when I'm trying to do homework or whenever his spidey senses tingle and he knows that I'm home? Now, I'm not at all into smothering babies, but I think I might be into smothering babies*.

Kthxbye.

*obvious joke**
**don't tell my landlord

Weekend Update

From this weekend, a top ten things I have discovered/experienced:

10. Leave the Thai food creation to the Thai people; whiteys like me are only meant to enjoy.

9. If it looks like John Stamos, and walks like John Stamos, it's probably just because I've forgotten to put on my glasses.

8. It's not John Stamos.

7. Starbucks people are not friendly everywhere, despite my previous assumptions.

6. Chocolate is still delicious, especially when pricey. It's like eating money.

5. Boyfriends are adorable.

4. Credit cards make life too easy.

3. Victoria weather does now and always will suck.

2. Drinks that taste like lemonade but are really booze are both delicious and dangerous.

1. Pregnancy scare is to adult me as closet monster is to five-year-old me. Both are terrifying.

Did you know that the three McDonald's that existed in Iceland are now closed due to the overwhelming severity of the recession? Apparently Icelanders don't want to pay CAD$6.80 for a Big Mac. I refuse to live in a world where every man, woman and child cannot afford to buy the American dream*. Yes, we can, Iceland. YES, WE CAN!

*nightmare.

I use cold water detergent.

Doing the weekly laundromat run never ceases to inspire ennui, albeit of a mildly entertaining quality.

I go to this place called Squeaky's; a pretty gonzo name for a laundry place because clothing cannot squeak (squeaky clean...get it?) The soundtrack of this place varies depending on the staff of the moment and the volume of dud-scrubbers. Today was a powerful medley of the Eagles and the ever-pantless Lady Gaga. Decibels louder than it should be, going to do the wash is on par with going to a local nightclub, audio-wise.

There is a high level of hatred for the ritual of going out to do the laundry, and it starts right here at h-o-m-e. I find myself doing the smell check on certain items, sizing up their re-wearability in an effort to downsize the haul. More often than not, my clothes are clean enough, but forever have the stench of espresso woven into the fibers - the trademark moniker representative of meager earnings squeezed out at the Mecca of corporate coffee. Anyways, after sniff check disapproval, the truly rotten apples get thrown into a over-sized re-usable grocery tote and are whisked away to a romantic waterlily scented getaway.

Squeaky's likes to charge top dollar for the use of their machines, which is alright considering it's basically the high-class gentleman's club of laundromats in Vic (all others are total dive lounge types). I find myself constantly, obsessively collecting change in a self-assuring effort that clean clothes will be readily available whenever called upon. It's $2.75 to wash the dirties, which I have no problem with; it's the dryer that leaves me high and not exactly dry. I pump 10 quarters worth of the Starbucks hustle fund (that's 50 minutes worth) into those fuckers, and still end up with slightly dampened duds. Crap in a hat! Of course, the very worst part of the adventure is the walk of shame to and from the car, bag o' dirty panties in tow, passing the windows of a neighboring Starbucks (where I have worked but do not call home). People gawk like the girl with the bag is some strange bird of paradise who indulges in taking her filthy clothes out into the public eye. Hardly. I cringe with embarrassment every time my leopard-print undies somehow smuggle their way from my hands during the washer to dryer trek and onto the floor (which they seemingly always do), and there's always an air of anti-exhibitionism when I dive like Michael Phelps to snatch them up before people catch the fleeting glimpse of what covers my snatch.

It's not all bad, though, y'know. There are a few choice pros to this little establishment I make weekly visits to. I mean, bitchin' soundtrack could alone hold down the fort, but with an endless display of semen stained bridal gowns sent for cleaning, a tiny dog named Berkeley who chills with this bitch and the endearing smell of industrial cleaners, it's 2 hours of my day I don't really regret. Granted, though, when J Jenks once inquired as to what my desires were for our own place together, the only words that spilled out were "in-suite laundry".

I think that's fair.