Tagged: rants

Don’t move or make a sound or I will shoot you in the face.

Friday, September 21, 2012 -- 1:37 am

The puppy is sleeping.  More importantly, she is not barking.

This has been the first evening in almost a week that I've put her in her crate and left the room without her screaming like someone's torturing her with a knife or blunt object.

Wait!  Back this train the fuck up!  So yeah, we have a little miniature schnauzer puppy now: Ezreal (the Prodigal Explorer.)  We've had her for over a month, and she's adorable.

 

She's grown quite a lot since these pictures -- practically double in size, and her hair has grown somewhat long and bedraggled-looking like a hobo (we're going for our first grooming appointment tomorrow.)  I should really take some more photos of her, but it never occurs to me to keep the camera on hand until after the perfect Kodak moment has already passed.  *Staples camera to her forehead*  (My head, not the puppy's.  Pft, what kind of twisted monster do you take me for?)

But yes, we are absolutely in love with 99.9% of the puppy, the lacking 0.1% on account of the tiny matter of her barking a wee bit quite often all the fracking time.  Okay, no, that's not fair.  When she's in the same room as you she actually hardly barks at all and is quite pleasant.  It's when you take a step out of the room for even just a minute and she can't follow you that she stops everything she's doing and is all "WTF WHERE ARE YOU GOING DON'T LEAVE ME I LOVE YOU OH SWEET GOD WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME?" and then proceeds to go a little apeshit.  I used to think one of the most annoying sounds on the planet was the agonizingly annoying wails of a human baby crying, but I've now developed a healthy respect for the ear-splitting and mind numbing screech of a distressed three month old puppy.

We've tried all the tricks from the dog forums: putting music on when we're not at home, saving special treats and toys specifically for when we leave the house, gradually moving further and further out of the room; they all work brilliantly the first half dozen times we try them and then she adapts to our sneaky ploys like the Borg and proceeds to shatter our eardrums with her high-pitched, shrill little puppy barks and howls for the next forty-five straight minutes.

D:}

Don't read into this blog post the wrong way.  We adore Ezreal, seriously.  I feel bad that I procrastinated so long to finally write this introductory puppy post, and now it's coming off very puppy-rant-filled instead of full of gushy puppy-owning love, but we've had her long enough now that almost everyone who reads this blog has already met her anyway and knows how sweet she is and how impossible it is to not explode with rainbows and sunshine when you see her, so give me a break when I say that despite how much I love her, there are times through out the day when I sometimes want to stuff a sock in her mouth and wrap her muzzle in duct tape.  (Because if MythBusters has taught me anything, it's that duct tape is FUCKING MAGICAL.)  But obviously I don't do this, because I love our puppy, and I fear a giant strapping Humane Society officer named Bertha knocking on our door one morning and serving me a court order.

And so in lieu of socks and duct tape we will be good puppy parents and continue to do the only thing left to us, which seems to be crossing our fingers and praying that this is just a "puppy thing" and that eventually she'll grow out of it, or maybe bark so much that her voice box will finally shrivel up and collapse from overuse.

But until then, if anyone wakes the puppy up right now and destroys this rare moment of blissful peace and quiet, don't take it the wrong way when I go and stab you in the face with something sharp.

A plague of weeds upon your house!

Wednesday, July 11, 2012 -- 7:01 pm

I kind of have this thing where sometimes my skin goes all green, I rip off my clothes, and I'm overwhelmed with a sudden irrational urge to smash my fist into something.

As sexy as that sounds (and it doesn't, unless you're a giant nerd with some particularly strange fetishes) I am actually referring to the state I find myself in when after dedicating two long, gruelling hours with Husband to digging up all of the rocks from our front flower bed, pulling out all of the weeds, drenching the entire area with extra strength weed killer, laying out and pegging down a double layer of specialized weed cloth, covering that back up with rocks, and flooding the whole thing over a second time with even more weed killer -- we walk out our front door a few weeks later to once again find freaking weeds in our mother freaking flower bed again.

Y U NO DIE LIKE NICE HOME DEPOT GARDEN CENTER MAN SAY?!  D:{

SMASH!  SMASH SMASH SMASH!

 

Seriously.  Someone tell us what we're doing wrong here.  =_=

Obligatory first blog post of the new year.

Monday, January 23, 2012 -- 7:30 pm

Well, we survived our first bout of classic Alberta winter last week.  Given, it was much later than usual and didn't last very long (thankfully,) but it's nice to know we can always depend on at least one agonizing stretch of skin-biting frigidness that even gives Antarctica a run for its money.

While we were braving one of our infamous flash cold fronts last week, I caught an episode of What Not to Wear and couldn't help but feel a little chapped as I watched the 30-something hapless fashion victim of the day be stripped of her baggy sweaters and sweatpants and don a new wardrobe full of cute, flowery tops and adorable strappy sandals.  That's all well and fine when you live in balmy Florida, or hell, even Chicago, but where are the fashion gurus for us poor Albertans?  Where's our What Not to Wear: Freeze Your Ass Off Canadian Edition?  I'd like to see Stacy and Clinton make me look respectable in giant, clompy winter boots, a parka, and oven mitt-like ski gloves, achieving style that is both sexy but will also keep me from freezing to death in -40°C while waiting for the bus.  Good luck with that, TLC.

D:{

Also, since I'm already feeling cynical and ranty, why are mothers always so chipper and smiley in paper towel commercials?  You know what I'm talking about: a pristine white kitchen, a child sitting at the dinner table, and out of no where the little goon is splattering pasta sauce all over the place; enter mom, who gives little Bobby that little smile and shake of the head, as if saying "oh, you little scamp," and then proceeds to demonstrate how easily one sheet of Bounty can wipe up that tough spill.  High five, little man!

Ugh.  Seriously, what the hell?  It's as if there is nothing more adorable in their world than their obnoxious, bratty four-year-old smearing chocolate sauce or finger paint all over the counter top.  Fuck that.  That shit would never fly in our house.  That kid would get a sharp smack on the ass and be sent to their room without any freaking pasta, chocolate, or dinner at all to speak of.  Little hoodlum.  It's bad enough that parents already spend most of their time running around cleaning up after their kids already -- but then the brat thinks it's funny to smear their greasy little rugrat hands all over my counters?  They should make a more realistic commercial where the parent shoves a roll of Bounty in little Bobby's grubby fingers and orders him to clean up his own mess.  "And put some elbow grease into it!" as my dad used to say.

Sorry, I don't know what prompted the impulsive television ranting.  Obviously I haven't had enough homework to keep me busy this semester.  *Knock on wood*  More blogging later when I actually have something to blog about.

Beware the Creeper.

Thursday, August 25, 2011 -- 11:16 pm

(Yes, that is also the title of a Batman Animated episode, but trust me, it's especially fitting for this particular post.)

Sleaze-tastic day at The Job today, entirely due to one particularly annoying and somewhat creepy guy who comes in with the trucks and unloads them in the back of the store (termed a "swamper" apparently, I have no idea why.)

I originally met this guy a couple of weeks ago when I working out on the floor; he looks about forty or so and he just randomly walked up to me and began chatting me up.  It started out as simply a little weird and very soon became irritating as he continued to repeatedly and purposefully track me down in the store through out the day.  A co-worker in one of the departments I was working in that day had been keeping her eye on him and reported to me later in the day that he'd approached her and asked her to say "hi" to me for him.  o_O  Ick.  Just... no.

But whatever.  The day ended, he left the store, all was good.  I made sure to mention the stalker-ish actions of said Creeper to one of my managers (we shall refer to him as Manager #1, as we have an absurd amount of managers in the store at once at any given time) that day so he was aware of it, but figured that was the end of it.

Except today I was asked to help out back in the warehouse to scan in stock, and low and behold an hour or two into the morning I hear this voice and turn around and there he is.  The Creeper.  As he exclaims a surprised and happy hello as he recognizes me, I in turn walk out of the warehouse and track down Manager #1 where he's out on the store floor and poke him:

"Manager #1!  That guy that just came into the warehouse, THAT'S THE GUY."  D:

Manager #1 grimaces in sympathy, advises me to ignore him, and gives me the green light to tell Creeper to fuck off if necessary and I'm all damn straight. \o/  As we're talking though, Manager #2 comes up and is all "?" so I explain how the sleazy truck guy has a crush on me and won't leave me alone, and upon hearing this, Manager #2 squares his great big fatherly shoulders, turns on his heel and stomps off towards the warehouse purposefully. But I'm all "Nooooooooooo... *flail flail*" because while this guy is totally annoying he's yet to say or do anything actually inappropriate, and I don't necessarily want to get him in shit and feel even more uncomfortable around him for the rest of the day than I already did, so I chase him down and ask him to leave it be.  (In hindsight, I completely should have let Manager #2 rail on him.)

So I proceed to carry on with my scanning work, and all the while through out the day Creeper is working with the warehouse guys unloading the truck a dozen feet away and consistently popping his head around the makeshift wall of boxes erected between our areas to keep up a steady stream of chatter to me.

"So what are you're hobbies, Brenna?"

"What shows do you watch, Brenna?"

"What do you think of this music, Brenna?"

"They must have given you Employee of the Year award, eh Brenna?"

"Here, let me help clean up those boxes, Brenna."

I'm reaching a point where I'd very much like to tell him to shut the hell up, but because I am far too polite for my own good at times, I ignore him for the most part and try to appease him with my taciturn contributions to this one-sided conversation he's carrying on.  He actually goes as far as to ask me if I'd like to go to McDonalds with him when he leaves for lunch.  (Needless to say I favored the sandwich waiting for me upstairs in our dingy work breakroom to his invitation.  I also purposely timed my half-hour lunch to directly coincide when he returned from his lunch to make an entire blissful hour of No Creeper Time.)

During the afternoon though he apparently decided to raise his creepy flirtation bar though.

"So are you a student, Brenna?  Are you going to school?"

"Yes."

"What are you taking?"

"Library Technology."

"Ooh, librarian, eh?  I don't really see you as a librarian --" (Wait for it... the line crossing officially... starts...) "You're face, maybe, with the glasses; but your body is too smoking hot to be a librarian."  (... NOW.)

I can't tell you why I didn't speak up at that point, I know I should have.  A part of it, I think, was that I was a little nervous what would happen if I did tell him to shut his mouth.  Let's face it, I don't know this guy from Joe Bob Dandy and I didn't want to have to feel like I had to ask for an escort out to my car at the end of the day.  To be honest I think I was mostly too embarrassed and angry to even speak.  There was a definite skin crawling sensation and I remember very clearly thinking at that moment that I wish I'd taken Mason up on his offer of getting a bunch of his tradesmen buddies together to kick this asshole's teeth in.  But in any event, I did nothing, just turned away very pointedly and continued on with my work as he stood there grinning moronically at me overtop the (not high enough!) wall of boxes, mostly likely waiting for a reaction I wasn't giving him.

A bit later Creeper is back to try again and returns to a line of topic conversation he'd pried out of me earlier in the day when he'd asked if I lived in the city and I'd replied yes and with a very emphasized "WE" thrown in with my answer to hopefully imply to him that I was not single and not looking and he was welcome to bugger the hell off any time now -- he puts on that stupid, obnoxious smirk and is all:

"So that 'we' that you mentioned earlier, you're with someone?"

"Yes. I'm married."

"Oh and does he know about me? Did you tell him all about me?"

"Yes, I told him there was some guy at work who keeps --"

"Oggling you?"  *Eyebrow waggle now accompanies motherfucking stupid grin WANT TO PUNCH HIM IN HIS STUPID SMIRKING FACE*

That is the point something snapped in my so far previously impassive front and I basically dropped the box of merchandise I was holding and looked him right in the face and wanted to scream at him "FUCK THE FUCK OFF, YOU MOTHERFUCKING FUCKER" -- but really I could never say that because unfortunately I'm a giant wimp -- but I did instead say "Can you GO AWAY?" which admittedly lacks the extra oomph that the string of expletives would have delivered, but still, bully for me I think and in any event it seemed to do the trick.  He looked startled and sort of backed away and that was the last I heard from him for the remainder of the afternoon.

I passed Manager #1 as I was heading upstairs to clock out at the end of my shift and told him how I'd had to finally tell the guy to screw off and Manager in question promised that he'd be making a phone call to Creeper McCreepinstein's employer tomorrow morning.

This is the first time I've experienced any sort of male harassment like this.  In my time I've gotten the odd catcall aimed towards me a couple of times as I walk down the street, but if I have to be perfectly honest those have never bothered me at all.  This was different.  This guy made me uncomfortable, and more over he made me angry.  I hate that he was so thick he couldn't take a hint from my stony reception towards him that he should back off.  I hate that he for some reason felt it was acceptable to say those sorts of inappropriate -- and frankly douchebaggery -- remarks to me, especially while present in front of other co-workers.  I hate that the two warehouse guys in question who were there knew that I didn't like the guy, because I had told them I didn't like him, and yet they never bothered to step in and quietly pull him aside to tell him to lay off.  I hate that this guy made me wish that a manager was present hovering over my shoulder all the time to chaperone for me.  I hate how, even despite how he finally backed off after I'd yelled at him, I still kept looking over my shoulder as I walked across the parking lot to go home.

Mostly I hate that I didn't stand up for myself and tell him to stop sooner.

And mostly I hate that I didn't kick him right in the balls, because he deserved it.  Talk about empowering.

Here’s to the old and the new, and everything to come.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011 -- 12:04 am

As much as I loved the ol' Boston Legal design, the beige-on-brown text and background color scheme has always been rough on my eyes for some reason and routinely gave me headaches if I was reading for any extent of time.  :P  So what better excuse to spruce up the site and usher in a new pretty blog theme?  And what better theme to center this one around than my obsession of reading!  \o/

(Excuse me while I go all web developer geek on you all now.)

This layout was an interesting lesson in incorporating all sorts of fun new behind-the-scenes tricks that made it a bit of a horror to code.  For example, it was my first time dabbling in both CSS rounded corners and drop shadows!  How could I have never used these two things before?!  Very cool.  No transparent PNG's to mess with for layout this time around, folks.  What made it a small nightmare at times during the build though was all of the layering and positioning of everything that I overlooked during the designing process.  What looked so straightforward in Photoshop made for lots of frustrated flailing and teeth gnashing when it came to putting it all together.  Usually my templates are very block-centric and this layout broke all of my usual rules with content and sidebars and headers and footers all running into each other and mashing together.  :x

Yes, I'm aware that I've utilized some CSS3 and HTML5 elements that aren't fully supported on all browsers yet -- and who knows to God what this poor blog looks like in Internet Explorer -- but one of the neat perks about working on web design for yourself is that HEY, YOU DON'T HAVE TO CARE.  Yes, there are a few padding issues in various browsers that I'll try to eventually look at, but as far as IE goes I actually hope the entire blog is a hideous, unreadable mess of toxic proportions -- because maybe if everyone actually stopped bothering to coddle that horrible browser and its shit web standard practices, maybe it would finally WITHER and DIE and NEVER BE USED AGAIN!  :)

No, seriously.  If you're using Internet Explorer right now as you're reading this, please go download a new and better browser.  Like Google Chrome.  Everything looks good on Chrome.

(End geek-out.)

So anyway, always a yay for new layouts~  This makes six now, so I've almost managed to have a new for one each year.  Sometimes I don't really realize that I've been writing in this blog for over seven years -- jeeze, since high school.  That's a lot of years worth of memories and thoughts and events and emotions all preserved in one little online journal.  Every now and then I go and re-read entries from the very beginning; it's kind of like flipping through a photo album (only with many more lame internet memes and obnoxious teenage ramblings) and I realize how important this blog actually is to me.  It's like a constantly ongoing and ever expanding time capsual keepsake~  :3  Some people scrapbook their lives.  I blog.

A very obscure little rant.

Thursday, November 11, 2010 -- 4:42 pm
Mood: 01 Old and curmudgeony

About bras. Or more pointedly, about shirts over top bras.

Like many ladies out there, I like a nice bra. I too enjoy pretty, frilly, and occasionally brightly colored undergarments. They're that fun, sexy little addition to your daily wardrobe that hardly anyone will actually ever see, but still add that extra ray of girly sunshine when you get dressed in the morning and a little bounce to your step during the day.

So therefor it perturbs me when after a very careful and thoughtful undergarment deliberation, I then pull on a t-shirt and discover that my bra is very clearly visible, loud and proud and lacy, through the fabric. D:{ *Pulls at hair* Wonderful. Carefully selected wardrobe is now in horrific shambles, and now a choice must be made whether to stick with happy yellow, feel-good bra of the day and change top; or keep detailedly crafted ensemble and swap for ugly safe-for-any-and-every-outfit beige bra.

Outrage! And it doesn't stop at the tops! No, four out of my five poor little dresses must be saddled up against not only drab-colored bras, but equally as unflattering skin-toned underwear because they're crafted from some sort of material more likened to the undergarments they're intended to cover than to actual clothing fabric. Way to rain down some sadness on that happy little summer dress. WHY, I ask you? WHY?

I don't think I ask for much. A tasty piece of chocolate cake, a cute kitty cuddling up on my lap, maybe a re-run of a good West Wing episode. Is it really too much to presume that a garment that I've probably already paid too much for and am bound to a complicated and hassle-full washing regiment just to own not have the molecular structure of tissue paper?

Sigh. Annoyed Brenna is annoyed.