A Peace of my Mind.

I hope there's no tide coming in... Also, GROOVY, BABY!

While driving like a madwoman back to work from a meeting with my academic advisor (damn thesis. Making me eligible for higher-paying jobs through further education. I SHAKE MY FIST AT YOU.), a Mini Cooper drove by with both the driver and passanger flashing me a peace sign. I am so cool.

I also texted Andrew immediately to tell him how cool I was. Which probably canceled out my freshly-acknowledged coolness.

Getting Lucy - (Or, What's in a Psychedelic Name?)

Chapter 1

During springtime this year, my mothering instincts kicked in full force. I needed something to care of and Andrew just wasn't cutting it.

I went on kijiji.ca, also know as the Canadian Craiglist (minus the personal ads that are solely created for one night stands and people who collect dirty underwear) to find a dog. That's when I found her.



"Are you my new mommy?" "YES, YES I AM!"

She was four months old and absolutely adorable. I emailed the woman and said we would take her. The woman said we could pick her up next weekend. I then notified Andrew that we were going to be parents to a furry child. (I probably should have done it the other way around, but I'm a non-traditional kind of girl.)

Woof.

Lucy's name was originally Jasmine, but since I had already had a dog with that name when I was a kid (named after the Alladin princess), and Andrew grew up living with a girl with that name, we had to change it. Andrew was a little (read: extremely) apprehensive about getting a dog. Mostly because we were getting her the day we were moving into our house (and especially because technically, we didn't even legally own the house when we moved in. So we were basically squatters in our own home.). This is is how he displayed his uncertainty.

Andrew: We shouldn't be getting a dog.

Me: But it's cute and you love dogs!

Andrew: We shouldn't be getting a dog.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Imagine rage in her eyes. Way more rage.

Me: I have an idea! Why don't we dress up the kitties for Christmas?! They can be little elves!! And you can dress up as Santa and Lucy will be a reindeer! Like Rudolf or something! And I'll be Ms. Claus!

Andrew: Then we would all hate you.

In Other News.

Today is Old-Men-Hit-on-Christine Day. I don't know where they posted the memo, but everyone else seems to have gotten it.

Yep, I'll leave it at that.

-----------
P.S. I seem to have mediocre post-vomit. The posts just won't stop. And they're mediocre. See, even my attempts at elaboration are mediocre.

Invoice Mystery (Or, Purolator is being Difficult. Like a 4 year old.)

Annnnnnnnnnnd we're back to talking about Russia.

So I'm at work, trying to find more information about a Purolator bill from months ago so that I can know which budget to pay it from. Except I have no idea who sent it. I tried to scare information out of workers by becoming an invoice nazi, but no one seems to know anything about this package we received.

So I went online. And the interweb said my invoice did not exist. Stupid, interweb, OF COURSE it exists! I'm holding it in my hand! YOU mailed it to us! It replied by telling me to call them.

Stereotyping makes me
picture him looking like this.

I called. And talked to a machine, who wanted me to talk back to it. I am anti-robot, so I just punched a bunch of numbers until it would send me to a real person. This person just happened to live in Russia. Or Ukraine or Kazakhstan or something. There was a Slavic sounding accent, I'm not an expert. The point was, he seemed very angry to be receiving my call. For my shortened version of the convo, I'll be calling him Maxim. (Remember, use a strong accent when picturing this conversation.)

Maxin: Purolator. I need your PIN.

Me: Okay, it's 622RF...

Maxim: No no no no no. A PIN has no letters. Just digits.

Me: My Package Identification Number?

Maxim: Yes.

Me: It has letters in it.

Maxim: It cannot have letters. Just digits. You sure this is Purolator? Because you are not giving PIN.

Me: But that is the PIN! It is a Purolator invoice, it says Purolator on the top, it was mailed to us from Purolator. Can I give you any other information to find the invoice?

Maxim: No no no, you are giving wrong information. I send you to supervisor person. You are not giving PIN. I cannot help you with wrong information. You need to give PIN.

The sound of on hold elevator music cut off my reply. (Thank God, cause after that, he wouldn't have helped me for sure.) The supervisor took my information, said he would call me back and never did. So I'm hovering over the phone waiting for his call. I feel like a desperate rejected woman after a bad date. Maybe he's adhering to the three day rule?

-----------------------

Yes, I realize this post is boring. That's because my life is boring.

Sad Sunday. Better than Maladjusted Monday but definitely not as fun as Ferocious Friday.

Ever had one of those days when you're so bored, that you want to punch someone, just to make life a little more exciting? Yeah, that was my day yesterday.

I did a little painting this morning for a family portrait due by Christmastime, but needed a break from it after painting for approximately five hours straight. So then I took Lucy for a walk, helped Andrew insulate her pen for the winter, cleaned up the shed a little, brought in the Christmas decorations, did some laundry and read part of a book.

Then, my streak of productivity came to a screeching halt. My brain decided to develop a sudden and crippling addiction to computer games. And I went full-out nuts for absolutely no reason. I NEEDED to play a game. And I had no computer games. So I desperately began searching online.

My avatar was so much
hotter than this chick.

Long story short: I ended up on this site. A site for tweens to collect and take care of virtual pets. I made an online account (SillySprite343. Hey, they suggested the name, not me.), dressed up my little avatar and rode around on a virtual scooter, collecting virtual eggs that hatch into tigers and stufff (which  probably explains the increase in teenage pregnancies, if this is where they're getting their sex ed info.)

So, after collecting about 37 eggs and getting angry at my virtual scooter for it's lack of coordination, it dawned on me that I was playing a game for 11 year old kids. And I almost cried.

So I decided to do something a little more age appropriate. I folded clothes. And I almost cried.

It was one of those days that I questioned Andrew why he was with me. He said it was because I made him look stable in comparison. 

In other news: I'm shedding like a MoFo. It's like my scalp got confused and decided it was summertime. In Africa. Which is a continent.

Squeakity, Squeakin-Squeak!

So, I was shopping at PetSmart last night with my parents when I started checking out the dog toys. There I found the squeaky toys, which I love to give as gifts to dog owners because they drive them nuts. I took one, and as soon as I squeaked it, another one squeaked across the store. All excited, I automatically semi-yelled:


This photo adds no comedic value to this post.
But it will make you go "AWWWWWWWWW!"

"We're communicating!"

Turns out, the squeak was not across the store,  but only behind me, where a worker was putting away toys. Flustered, he apologized to me. Which only turned my elation into confusion. I thought we were connecting, man.

------------------------------

Did anyone think of Kronk from The Emperor's New Groove when they saw the title of this post? Yeah, me neither...

I am Angry at Smart Set

Earlier this month, I realized that working a "Grown-up" job would require a wardrobe that doesn't involve just wearing over-sized shirts and leggings. It involves over-sized t-shirts, leggings and accessories. So I went shopping. (Andrew thought I was simply using this as an excuse for spending more money. He was right.)

So off I went to our local mall, where I bought from multiple stores, including Smart Set. That is where I spotted a little waist belt, seen here. You know, to prove that underneath the giant shirts, there is a hint of a figure.

It was cute. It was boho-chic. It was on sale.

I bought it. Obviously.

I wore it for the first time today. With a long grey long-sleeve shirt, full black leggings (which are actually ninja long-johns. Yes, I am serious.), wodden beads string necklaces and wooden and multi-metal bangles. It looked fabulous. It said "I'm working on contract, so I act like I don't care about my job, but I'm actually so amazing that you want to keep me permanently anyways."

So as I'm sitting at my desk, I feel like I'm rapidly losing weight. Knowing that the opposite has a much bigger chance of happening, I try to figure out what's going on. My belt was getting looser. Because it was detaching itself on one side. The awesome leather/pleather/I-don't-know-what front was no longer stuck to the elastic back. I was unraveled, literally. Here is a figure to better summarize.

It turns out, on that side, the elastic wasn't even properly sewn in, explaining why they put them all on sale. Shody, simply shody. I don't know what to do now. Do I boycott all Smart Set items? Do I demand a new one? Do I write a letter to the company with clothes manufacturing tips included? I am just so lost.

I am now walking around with seemingly uncoordinated accessories and no waist. In an over-sized shirt and leggings. Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd back to square one.

Update: Duck-taping the back of the belt together is not effective. And yes, I know it's spelled "duct".

Welcome to Canada!

It snowed all day yesterday.

Yep, that's all I've got so far.

Bitch, please.

Okay, I am going crazy over here.

As I have previously mentioned, I work in Marteking as an Administrative Assistant, or Ass. However, I was recently given an additional task, which is to help the media team to scan articles featuring our work and then add them to the website to help promote our success. This task was added to my workload to help lighten the load of the media team.

However, this has led one person to give me EVERY SINGLE ARTICLE EVER WRITTEN IN THE HISTORY OF CANADA. Why? Because these articles and magazines used to fill their office, while they now occupy every single part of my desk (cause I don't have an office, since I am reception). It's like they decided to play "pick-up 52" but couldn't find a deck of cards and so used every paper they could find. 

Imagine the cat is my desk

While their office is now skeaky clean, my desks keeps getting looks and comments from other people as if I was a mother giving a cigarette to a baby. Seriously, I feel like I now need to take blood pressure medication, I am so stressed out from this mess. I'm amazed I can even reach my keyboard.

THIS IS SPARTAAAAAAA!

And everytime I move my mouse it makes a sound that's a cross between a rodent, a skeaky toy and a bad impression of a monkey. It is driving me FUCKING CRAZY! Seriously, every damn day I have to listen to this mouse. I swear I will one day chuck it across the room out of pure rage.

I need a Xanax or a Valium. Cause shit is gonna get ugly.

Update: I have cleaned up my desk; I now have two skycraper piles while the rest of my desk is clear. I am now passive agressively bringing the articles back in the person's office one at a time.

Second Update: I just realized that they blacked out the naughty bits of the Deskcat. This makes me happier.

Pregnancy Mystery Partially Solved

So, last night, my friend Miss Love starts texting me.

Miss Love:  What's up?!

Me: Finishing work.

Miss Love: What are you up to tonight?

Me: Working on my thesis. :(

Miss Love: Are u prego?

What. The. Ruck. How the hell did we get back at this?! Seriously. I thought we were over this shit. At this point, I am extremely peeved. Okay, I'm hella pissed off. While I feel like going apeshit on my friend, I calm myself down and write to her in a more friendly manner.

Me: WHAT? No! Where the hell did you get that?

Miss Love: Nanny and Grampy said that.   

AH HA! So it is Andrew's grandparents that are spreading the rumor. Not only did they tell her that, but they also told her twin, and Lord knows who else in the family. I would say really nasty things right now if they weren't so old and cute (really, they are so adorable). And they give us ah-mazing homemade bread and butter. And they sometimes let me name their cows.



So Andrew and I actuallty had to call some of the family to do damage control, assuring people that we did not want baby clothes for Christmas. And I got so pissed that Andrew let me know that he'll talk to them to let them know that "no, I am not carrying developing offspring within my body" (thesaurus.com defined the word "pregnant" that way, so I will too).

I need to develop a six-pack and walk around in a bikini all the time.
-----------------------
Say the word "manner" a bunch of times. Think about it, really think about it.  What a weird word. I almost didn't use it because I got really confused and started doubting whether it actually is a word or not. Man-ner. Ma-nner. Mann-er. ManER.

My Life Will Soon be Complete

Beauty and the Beast will be in theaters in January.

IN 3D!

All is right and beautiful in the world. I have never been so excited at the thought of putting on those ridiculous 3D glasses over my real glasses. I already feel sorry for Andrew, and the other people in the theater that will have to listen to my sing-a-long.

Maybe I'll dress up for the premiere.

I Could Have been a Great Stalker

In High School, I was unapologetically weird. Not the I-wear-black-and-dream-about-blood weird, nor the staple-my-arm-for-fun weird (which we had at my school), but more the I-love-singing-Disney-in-the-hallways-and-want-to-be-a-bobblehead-doll-when-I-grow-up weird. In essense, I had no shame, a quality that hasn't changed. Luckily, I had a small group of friends that embraced my inner weirdness and who joined in.

Being in a graduate class of 64 in a K-12 school, everyone knew each other and many had even started daycare together (which makes boyfriend selection quite difficult, as you've most likely seen every single boy eat a worm at least once, a memory that doesn't incite attraction). Another effect from bring raised together was that we all seemed to turn slightly gay (gay as in "awesome!"). I don't know why, but everyone liked to hold hands and be more affectionate than what is socially accepted. Digression ended.

One of my many projects created out of sheer boredom at school was to create the creepiest stalker letters possible. To up the personal touch, the letters were composed of an acronym poem usign the target's name. They usually looked something like this.

S-T-E-P-H-A-N-I-E

Sometimes, I dream of what life would be like if everyone in the world but you and me died.
Then, I could watch you without anyone ever getting in my way
Everytime I see you, I just want to put you in a cage, so I can watch you all day.
Please keep your blinds up are at all times, so I can watch you when you sleep.
Have you noticed how I start heavy breathing when I think of you?
After I watch you shower, I record in my journal everything you did, and how it made me feel.
Never wash your sheets.
I smell them as soon as you leave the room.
Even though I have to go to class once in a while, I installed cameras in your room, so I never have to miss what you do.

LOVE FOREVER,
Your # 1 Fan,
Me

Clearly, I had amazing potential as a stalker.

I started out giving out the poems to my friends (it's how I show my love), but word spread about my talents. Were people creeped out? Was I shunned? Hell no! My school was full of freaks. I started getting commisions and special requests for stalker poems. I must have made at least 25 of these in one year.

...Yeah. That's it.
First person to comment gets their very own innappropriate stalker poem!

I Should not Shop at Costco

Why should you not shop there anymore Christine, you ask? Is it because you spend too much every God damn time? Because you visit the sample ladies so much that they start giving you the stink eye? Because you always get lost and have to call Andrew so he can find you?

No. But yes.

Today, Andrew and I went to Costco in an attempt to finish our Christmas shopping. Instead, we bumped into my parents there and I ended up getting angry. But not at my parents, cause they're cool.

It all started in the toy aisle, where I spotted this:

WHAAAAAAAAAAA!

Pardon the following language.

Who the FUCK is this pony? Belle isn't a little Bitch, she rides Phillippe, the big ass work horse!

Big Ass Workhorse

Weak Ass Pony

Seriously though, Belle is way too much of a bad ass to ride on this little wimp of a horse. She has shit to do and that anorexic My Little Pony won't cut it. I was pissed. So pissed, that I said all of these things out loud in the middle of the store, waving around the box like I could shake it into being awesome. But that was just the beginning, because I then spotted this:

 And this.

 And this.

 GAH!

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON??!?! At least Belle actually had her dad's workhorse in the movie, but the rest of these princesses didn't have any horses. Sure, the Princes had horses, but the only time any of these girls sat on them is when they were being led by their handsome Princes into the Sunset, where they would each have seven children and then die in childbirth. Brutal, but probably true.

So let's go through them quickly.

• Ariel. IS A MERMAID. The only thing she would be riding is a seahorse, and those are fucking small. Yes, she gets legs, but they're damn weak. She could barely walk, so how in the hell is she going to grip the horse with her legs? And Eric doesn't look like he'd let her ride around the countryside alone. Asshole Eric.
• Jasmine. She's an Arabian Princess. She doesn't need to ride a horse. She probably has a fricken elephant to carry her around. Or thirty war slaves.
• Aurora. Is a little bitch. Riding a horse is too scary. Seriously, she's scared of everything. Strange man awesomely singing along with you. Scary. Actually, now that I think about it, Aurora doesn't do anything the entire movie. She sings in the woods, runs away, gets sent to her parents, pricks the damn spindle, sleeps, gets kissed, marries and dances. What a passive little bitch. I'm done talking about that wimp.
• Snow White. Same deal, total wimp. She was scared of the woods, do you think she'll ride her own damn horse? Nuh-uh. She is made for singing, cleaning and looking pretty. And eventually popping out babies.

I know you want to make money, but what the fuck is up with this, Disney??? What's next, Disney Princess dolls with colour coordinated Range Rovers?? Or Disney Princesses, Biker Chicks?

And let's not even talk about the ridiculously long-ass manes the ponies all have.

At this point, my mom got embarrassed, because I had actually started to yell these things, and people were staring. And I was in the middle of the kids aisle. So she ripped the Barbie box from my hand and dragged me away from them. I was still ranting by the time we got to the cheese section.

Yes, I am a grown woman getting pissed about Disney merchandise. Deal with it.

Slow Clap for Me

Someone left a bunch of chocolate mints on my desk in a little tray. I reached to grab one and managed to not only knock down the tray itself, but also my mouse, my water bottle and my PC.

I'm surprised it doesn't look like this.

At that point, I had invested so much for a mint, so I had to pick one off the floor and eat it anyways. Turns out, I hate the combination of chocolate and mint and I have been spitting it out into my garbage can. At least two people came up to me during my SpitFest. I am always keeping it classy.

Chicken Bones: 1, Common Sense: 0

I just ate another Ganong Chicken Bone. Which I am allergic to.

My tongue is now super tingly. I will have Andrew update you all if I end up in the hospital.

Damn, I really want a girl cheese again. 

Work is slowly sucking away my soul today.

Kinda like a Dementor.

We are the Ghosts of Marketing, Sales, and Web Editing.

Crap, wrong movie...

I don't know what's up with work today. We are all really sick of being here. It feels like 7pm. But it's not even 3 yet OH GOD I HAVE ANOTHER 2 HOURS OF THIS.

What the hell is up with the work environment?! We have a really bad air exchange system, so maybe we've just breathed in all the oxygen and are currently living on old Co2. Usually, that thought would send me into a hypochondriactic (it's a word, because I have decided) fit, but I don't even care.

This is some random crap I've done to try and make today go faster.

SO YUMMY

• Someone just  offered me a Ganong Chicken Bone, which I'm allergic to due to high levels of cinnamon. I ate it anyways.
• I've been wandering into other offices, pretending I have things to do.
• Made my Christmas gift list.
• Did some high-kicks in the hallway.
• Started looking at the real estate and wedding locations in the area, even though I am not moving nor getting married.
• Talked to at least 3 peopel about instating a YES LIQUOR policy at work.
• Walked over to a neighbouring craft show, realised I had no money, then came back.
• Shimmied in my seat.
• Watched random parody videos of Erato's Call your Girlfriend

Original

Random swede with mini-ponytail.

And writing this post only wasted 20 minutes of my time. Damn that Marketing Dementor!

I Am The Worst Cook Ever

I actually managed to catch something on fire in the microwave.

I will provide more details tomorrow afternoon.

---------------------------------------

IT'S TOMORROW AFTERNOON!

So, here's the dealio. Andrew always cooks. Why? Cause my famous go-to dish is microwave KD. (Which is delicious, by the way) I pretty much cook everything in the microwave because it is magical and easy. I am a Microwave pro. Or so I thought.

It all started with a major craving for grill cheeses, which I call girl cheeses (CRAVINGS DO NOT MEAN PREGNANCY!).Usually, I won't make them cause they involve a thing called the stove.

But then I saw THIS!

This is not my toaster. Although I wish it was.
That is a kick-ass toaster.

How rucking genius is that?! (I meant to write the F-word, but it typoed into that. I like rucking better anyways.) So I was like "Don't worry Andrew, I'LL make the girl cheese!". Then I popped the toaster on the side. He was like "Christine, that's not a good idea." I did it anyways.

Then the cheese starting sticking to the toaster and it all started to smoke, so I thought it was better to pop them out prematurely. It was basically warm bread with sticky cheese, but I stuck them together and ate it anyways. But I had to do the others some other way. Andrew agreed.

So I decided to put them in the toaster oven, since a toaster over is basically a prehistoric mircowave.

I ASKED FOR A SANDWICH, NOT A PORK ROAST! AND
STOP BEING SO HAPPY ABOUT IT!

This is when the really bad idea started. Our butter was pretty much frozen, since our kitchen is so cold. And I needed to spread it on the bread. Solution? MICROWAVE! This happened.

Me: I'm going to put this butter in the microwave. Do you think I can put it in still in the wrapper?

Andrew: I don't think so.

Me: Well, the wrapper is shiny looking, but it couldn't actually be made of metal, right? I mean, who wraps shit in metal?

Andrew: Just put a chunk in a bowl, then put it in the mircowave.

Me: Nah, I'll just put the whole thing in. It's only going to be for 15 seconds.

After TWO seconds, shit starting blowing up like Canada Day fireworks.

Me: IT'S MADE OF METAL! IT'S MADE OF METAL! OH MY GOD!

I panicked, then quickly turned the power off after only 5 second. I opened the door. There was a flame on the wrapper. It was getting bigger.

Me: THE BUTTER IS ON FIRE ANDREW! IT'S GETTING BIGGER!

Andrew ran over and attempted to blow out the flame. Which made it bigger.

Me: IT'S GETTING BIGGER!

Finally, Andrew blew hard enough (twss) to put it out. What was left was a disgusting-smelling charred mess of a wrapper and some funny-looking butter. I laughed hysterically as Andrew vowed to never let me cook again.

I still used the butter though.

Overheard at Work II

"All you need to do is slap the bitch's face and put it in a drawer." - 60 year old woman on the phone.

I Work with Awesome People

Well, at least the ones that can see me.


This JUST happened.

From: Christine
Sent: Tuesday, November 15, 2011 3:20 PM
To:  Bob
Subject: RE: Website

I just wanted to let you know that when your email popped up, I thought it said Bob Dumbledore.

_____________________________________________
From: Bob

Sent: Tuesday, November 15, 2011 3:29 PM
To: Christine

Subject: RE: Website

 I will never fuck with Bob. Ever.

Further Pseudo-Proof of Pregnancy

That was an alliteration! :)


Everyone's imaginary feotus in my womb.



Anyways, yesterday Andrew and I hung out with his brofriend Jason. He asked if we were having a kid. Andrew also informed me that his uncle asked if we were having kids when we went over for supper on Sunday.



This amounts to FIVE suspisions of pregnancy in the past 6 days.

After the baby comment from Jason, we had to go do groceries. By the 4th "Why does everyone think I'm pregnant?!?" Andrew was ready to lock himself in the walk-in cooler at the neighbouring Liquor Store.

I will name my fake baby Onus.

Insanity must be Hereditary

My mother reads my blog. Cause she's awesome and doesn't care that I swear all the fucking time. Ok, I don't swear that much. (sorry for the f-bomb, mom! Hey, that rhymed!) Anyways, she's awesome. And nuts, like me!

I email her from work.

You like my posts? J 

She answers.

FFFOOOUAAAAAAAAA

.... I don't even know how to respond to this.

I just had to step into an elevator that smelled disgusting. Someone clearly farted in it just as they were leaving, ensuring that the smell would be trapped in, ready for the elevator's next victim.

Unfortunately, I was the victim.

It was like I was stuck in M. Night Syhamalamalanaman's 2010 movie Devil and the devil came in the form of a smell, killing all my happy thoughts. Except I was alone in the elavator. And it didn't get stuck. And I had no security guards were attempting to reassure me over a speakerphone.

Ok, it wasn't like Devil at all.

----------------------

P.S. I know this probably isn't funny. I just wanted to share my pain with you all.

P.P.S. Andrew will find this post funny, because it is about farts.

You're Pregnant, 'Cause I said so.



Not me.

So.
Apparently, I should be pregnant. Not because I'm showing signs of it, or that a plus sign appeared on a little pee stick.

I had the flu last week, and when I came in to work, the other Ass said "Are you sure you're not pregnant?". I was like "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?".

Then, I went to Andrew's nephew's birthday party supper. I'm always the one at the table that gets squished in the spot with the littlest space because of my size. That evening I joked about what they would do once I got too fat for that spot. Andrew's aunt jumps in, saying: "Are you trying to tell us something?!?!? Will it be nine month's worth of fatness? ARE YOU PREGNANT?!" (To give this woman credit, she ALWAYS thinks I'm pregnant. Or wants me to be. It gets mentioned pretty much every time I see her.)

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Yesterday, we went to Andrew's grandparents for supper. As soon as I walk in the door, his nanny asks me.

Nanny: Hello! How are you feeling?

Me: I'm good! How are you?

Nanny: Very well, thank you! Are you feeling nauseous a lot?

Me: No....

Nanny: That's good. You know, I never felt nauseous.

Me: ....

Nanny: I didn't have any nausea, but I did have to have cesearions for both of them. You know, some women don't have any nausea at all when they're pregnant.

Did you see that?! She didn't even ask.

So, in an attempt to figure out what the hell is going on, there are three possibilities I can think of.

1. I'm so fat that I look like I'm showing. Even though I'm currently losing weight.
2. Someone is throwing around that I'm pregnant. I sure as hell know it isn't Andrew, because he's not ready to have the demon spawn I would inevitably create if they had his DNA. And I don't know who else would do that. 
3. Everyone REALLY wants me to be pregnant.

Through the use of reasoning, I feel like it's number 3. At this point, I feel like I could be pregnant through the sheer willing of the people around me. It's like the whole "I do believe in fairies!" thing from Peter Pan, except in this case, Tinkerbell is replaced by a foetus.

Or maybe a Tinkerbell foetus? Cause it would be
awesome if my baby could make me fly and shit.

The worse thing is, I'm actually starting to believe them. Sure, I have absolutely no symptoms and I am currently making very sure that I don't get knocked up. But pretty much every night, I ask Andrew:

"But what if I am pregnant?"

Andrew: You're not.

Me: But what if I was?

Andrew: You're not.

Me: What if it's twins?!

Andrew: YOU'RE NOT PREGNANT.

Andrew is probably counterbalancing their wishing with wishing of his own.

This Moment is Brought to you by Dental Floss

This is about the kinda-ish courtship of Andrew and I.

I met my hick boy on his grandparents' dairy farm (of course) while four-wheeling (what else would it be?) with a friend, Miss Love, from university. Andrew is Miss Love's first cousin, twice removed with a dude on the side or something like that.

Anyways, we met, and it was attraction at first sight. Both of us found any excuse to go four-wheeling. Andrew would always offer to drive me home at the end, even though he lived just 5 minutes away and I lived 40.

We were both idiots when it came to reading the "he/she is so into you" signs. (I'm not actually talking about he-shes here. Plus, that's mean, the correct term is transgenders, or drag queens ....or hermaphrodites?... I actually have no idea what a he-she is. A google image search didn't help either.)

Anyways, this one time, we were four-wheeling alone (ooh la-la! I can say that, because I'm French) when he took me to a waterfall (Double ooh la-la!). I, being a show-off that was not about to act all ladylike and shit, decided to climb the side of the waterfall. Andrew, being a country boy, followed. He probably wanted a better view of my ass too, but meh.

We now regualarly fish here. And by "we", I mean Andrew
fishes and I take pictures the whole time.

So there we were, sitting side by side next to this gorgeous waterfall, talking. My stomach was all a-flutter, like there was a giant insect concert going on in there, butterfly mosh-pit included. He starts smiling at me and looking at my mouth all the time, which means he wants to kiss me. (I read that somewhere, so it's true.)

He leans in. Looks at me in the eyes. This is it. And says:

"You have a bug in your teeth."

We did not have our first kiss that day.

--------------------------

Also, two years later, Andrew tells me someone hung themselves there years ago. He sure knows how to romance a girl.

Russia: The Takeover

It's official. The Russians have taken over my blog. This is a screencap of my worldwide pageviews. TODAY.

What is the deal with Russia?!?!!?!?

Seriously, this is affecting me.

Yesterday. I overheard a family speaking Russian at the mall. This happened.

Me: *whispering* Oh my God, they're Russian.

Andrew: They're probably spies sent after you.

(Andrew clearly doesn't help the situation. )

Me: Holy shit, we have to go. NOW.

This is what Happens when I write Papers and Andrew gets Bored...

People with fear of feet close your eyes, cause it's about the get all PODOPHOBIALICIOUS UP IN HERE!

You've been warned.

So, the title says it all, and I'll let the pictures say the rest.

It all started with this.

Which then became this...

Woah, calm down, Abusive Toe!

This is as romantic at it gets with Andrew.

Yeah... There's nothing else to add...

The Squirrels are after me, man!

This happened way back at Andrew and I's first apartment. It was a peice of crap to most, but to us, it was OUR peice of crap. It was a one-bedroom place in the basement, with only a 30 year old worn out carpet covering the concrete. We couldn't afford a big electricity bill so we just put heat in the bathroom. Cause really, who wants to shiver while they're taking a piddle? We had a little heater in the living room that we huddled around. In our bedroom, we had about six blankets on the bed and by our first Christmas we invested in an electric blanket.

Point: Basement = Junk.

Anyways, our upstairs neighbour was an old lady who always went out on her balcony above our living room windows in a gross nightgown.

Imagine her like this, but with a grosser, dirty
 nightgown. She's also more hagard looking. And
probably didn't bathe.

But that was nothing.

She used to COVER the balcony in peanuts so the squirrels would come and eat them. Then, when the squirrels ate every single last one of those peanuts, Old Lady Nutter would come out in her nightgown with a broom and sweep the peanut shells off her deck onto the ground in front of our window, where the pigeons would chill all day.

The front of our window was the water cooler of the city wildlife.

To make it worse, any time Nutter would sweep away the shells, the broom would hit the metal guardrail, making a CLANG, CLANG, CLANG. This happened as often at 5am as it did at 11pm. So pretty much all the time. She was basically our clock for innapropriate hours to sweep.

Because of Nutter, the squirrels learned that humans were walking cafeterias. We were simply there to feed them. Or they would find us. And kill us.

So one morning, I'm running late for work. As I'm getting ready, I spot THIS in the window.

This is an actual picture from our apartment.

THIS was staring at me with big eyes. And it was freaking me the fuck out. I threw stuff at the window. Nothing. I banged at the window. Nothing. It just kept staring at me unflinchingly. Now look at the picture more closely. Look at the left hand. THIS SQUIRREL IS GIVING ME THE MIDDLE FINGER!

It looked at me like it was saying "GIVEMEFUCKINGPEANUTSORI'LLSTRANGLEYOUWITHMYTINYHANDS!"

After being sufficiently terrified and late, I got in the car. Everything was going good for the first while, until I attempted to stop. The car didn't even slow down. My breaks were completely shot. Or, should I say CUT?!?!

I immediately called Andrew.

Me: ANDREW THE SQUIRRELS CUT MY BREAK LINES!

Andrew: What?

Me: THEY'RE TRYING TO KILL ME CAUSE I DIDN'T HAVE PEANUTS!

Andrew: Oh God, what are you on?

Me: I CAN'T STOP MY CAR.

Andrew: Use your emergency break.

So I did. And I didn't die. (obviously, or I wouldn't be writing this post... Or would I?...)

We moved out a month later. Coincidence? Hell no.

------------------------------

P.S. I think the squirrels still haven't given up. They're way too determined. It's one of the reasons why I now live in the country, home of the red squirrels and chipmunks.

I WUV YOU

I'LLGETYOUONEDAY,MOTHAFOCKA!

Texting: Life's New Method of Rejection

This just happened.

Andrew: :)

Me: :D I think I love you <3

Andrew: This is way to fast for me back down woman
(Translation: This is way too fast for me. Back down, woman!)

It's nice to know how much he cares.

News from Christineland

I'm super busy and sick right now, so my brain has decided there's no room left for my sense of humour. Which means, like Elvis, it has temporarily left the building. Cause you know Elvis is living in Yugoslavia or something.

So, just as a warning, there will be fewer posts this week. And they will probably suck.

And by probably, I mean definitely.

Andrew and Lucy: A Love Story

He's officially gone in the deep end.

Andrew is currently sitting on the couch with Lucy, singing "Like my Dog" by Billy Currington to her and continuously yelling "It's our song, Lucy!"

Me, Paranoid?

Ok, I'm not gonna lie, but I'm kinda getting crazy curious over here. Everyday, I check my pageview stats in the hopes that I suddenly went viral. I smile at how many people read my blog, while silently demanding that more people start reading it. Am I a complex person, or just schizophrenic? I think it's the former. Well, I hope it is... Nah, I'm just complicated, that's all J

Anyways, every day that I check, there are more and more Russians that seem to read my site. It started out with 1 pageview, but just yesterday I had 12 daily pageviews from Russia. They're starting to outnumber every country other than Canada (my home and native lannnnnnnnnd, truuuuuue Partiot loooooove, in all our sons command).

I guess the people at the bottom are about to make love???

Yeah, so what's up with the Russians? Are they actually fans of my blog? Or do they google the word Russia and I pop up because of Friday being International Christine-likes-Russians Day? Do they like it? Or do they hate me and want to cut me up and stuff me in a bunch of little Russian Matryoshka dolls? (Woah! Got a little violent there!)

Oh sure, they look cute. Until you see what's inside....

AND WHY WON'T THEY COMMENT?! Come on Russians, I need to know! I am going nuts over here!

So Russia, let me know! I love you guys and your agressive, yet sexy language and your super cool magical looking churches of awesomeness. I love that you down vodka like it's apple juice and your impossible traditional dancing. I'm not a fan of how a lot of you girls get stuck in the sex trade and the whole eating horses thing, but hey, it's all good.

Seriously, all I need is one comment from you Russians, just so I know you're not plotting my death.

P.S. Please respond in English, cause I don't even understand your alphabet.

Andrew - Hick Techie

Andrew, who bought an Acer Tablet last week, just hooked it up to our 42" TV. With so many possibilities, what does he do?

He is currently sitting in his lazy-boy, watching Toby Keith music videos full screen and drinking a beer.

Badass of the Month

Look at this nice older woman.

French article here.

She's a nun. Surprised? I'm not. She looks like a typical Quebec nun.

I overheard a french couple talking about her while eating lunch at a local Vietnamese restaurant. This place was the tackiest looking restaurant ever, with light blue lace curtains, random big boxes in the windows, each wrapped in shiny Christmas paper and a giant buddha statue in this pose.

Minus the disco ball.

There was also random cheery Caribbean elevator-music style covers, such as Grease's Hopelessly Devoted to You. At least you got free tea in a cute little teapot.

Woah, back to the inital subject. That lady. Marie-Paul Ross the Canadian Nun from the Missionary Sisters of the Immaculate Conception. She's a badass nun.

She's a SEXOLOGIST.

Let's talk about erections.

Damn straight! (Oops, probably shouldn't swear in this post)

But yeah, she totally has a Ph. D in clinical sexology. And has written numerous books, including her new book Je voudrais vous parler d'amour... et de sexe ("I would like to talk to you about love...and sex") that came out in September.

And she doesn't hold back.

This article about her new book says her book talks about "eyewitness accounts of sexual activity between priests and nuns and instances she has learned through her practice of nuns who have been raped by priests." She also estimates that about 80% of Catholic priests have broken their vows of celibacy and states that priests should be given the choice to marry.

I don't even know what more to say about this chick. This woman has not only studied balls, but she also seems to have enormous ones. Can you imagine getting sexual counseling from a nun?!?!

Dr. Ross, you have my sexy thumbs up and the title Badass of the Month.