Why am I such an ass?

From: Jo
To: Treen; Donni
Subject: tired
Date: Wed, 20 Jun 2007 23:02:36 -0500

Hey gals! thought i would email you two since I had to come downstairs and clean the A/C vent. Also I apologize that I haven't emailed you two in a while, obviously I am the glue that sticks us together as I notice w/o me and my daily emailings, nothing goes on. You can't tell me you two uppity career women don't have time for your unemployed homemaker mother friend now?? Or treen are you just corresponding with all your facebook friends only? (which would NOT include you donni!!)

Anyhoot the real reason for the mail is just to let you know treen, donni's half of the gazillion dollar gift card has finally gone through (after some calls to the lending institutions) and the gift is now really from both of us.

Did you guys use it yet? Whatever you do, DON'T go to the sucky Home Depot on Bishop. Try and find the one where Trading Spaces is or where Andrew Bojumbo (or whatever the hell his name is) is. Let us know how you spend your gazillion dollars.

enjoy your day ladies.

love me, jj


From : Donni
Sent : June 22, 2007 9:10:13 PM
To : Jo; Treen
Subject : RE: tired

So anyway, Treen, as I was saying in one of our sixteen daily emails (or was it in one of our four daily calls? no? the nine texts, maybe then?), 9:30 am tomorrow in front of the St. Norbert Foodland sounds good.

After we buy premium priced, farm-fresh organic fruits and vegetables (and hemp-based beauty products!) from the farmers' market, we can have a (substitute) egg-white only and steamed mushroon omelet with a side dandelion salad (picked only after they wilted so as not to harm any of God's creation) brunch at a trendy bohemian-chic vegan bistro (maybe Sienna Miller will be there!) and have an engaging roundtable discussion on how we can reach our career goals and shatter the glass ceiling.

Woo! Let's hear it for CEOs with vaginas!

PS - bring your SUV. We'll pretend they're hybrids.

Disclaimer: Jo, for the purpose of, you know, THE WORLD reading my blog, I've taken the liberty of correcting your spelling errors (just the major ones) because, well, I'm embarrassed for you, really.

I'm camping!

I just busted out the screen in my second bedroom so I could run my laptop out to my balcony.

Most people? Would just get wireless. But that would be way too easy.

The great outdoors are much more tolerable when you've got the inter-web.

And wine.

In other news.....since I'm still keenly following Saskatchewan media, I have to say this - has Lorne Calvert officially reached the I've-got-nothing-to-lose stage of his premiership? I mean, suing the federal government over equalization? Have you gone mad?

I bet it went down like this: Calvert et al are sitting around the SK NDP war room (which in my mind is adorned with alot of hemp macrame) watching Harper dare disgruntled provinces to take the feds to court, also known as the bring-it-on-be-otch phase of his prime-ministerial career. LC takes a pregnant pause, shrugs his shoulders and says, "Hmm......ok," and launches a lawsuit.

Actually, balls to him for taking on the PM. And if things don't work out for him, he's got all kinds of options: gardern g-nome, leprechan, an extra in Willow 2.

I don't know why I'm lashing out at LC. Must be because I miss SK so dearly. We always hurt the ones we love......

Wait - did I just hang the first skeleton in my political closet?

They like me. They really, really like me!

I got invited to my first party in the Peg. I am super-excited about having friends.

I hope they like me. What if they don't like me?

Boy, oh boy!

Congratulations to my best friend Abby and her man Errol on the arrival of their son, Boston.

Talked to the new mom today and everyone is doing just great.

Can't wait to go shopping!

Countdown to NYC

My cellular telephoning device tells me that in just 77 days (17 hours and 50 minutes) Whiskey, Leslie and I depart for New York City. Flights - check. Hotels - check, check. Yankees tix - check, check, check, despite major pissing and moaning from the Big Stupid Monkey.

So now he's offered to cut a deal. He'll stop telling people I'm a lesbian (long story), if I forego the Yankees game. I told him I would abstain only if he handed over all of his Islanders cards, including the Mike Bossy ones he carries around in his wallet. What? Every 34 year-old man DOESN'T carry collector cards of his childhood sports heros on his person at all times, you say? Shocking!

Needless to say, we're at an impasse, which is pretty much status quo for us as of late.

Anyway, the BSM thinks, for some foolish reason, I'm going to ruin the Yankees. I don't know what gives him that idea. Just because I've managed to successfully ruin his beloved Cowboys and Islanders in the past just by watching them on television (you'll get yours soon, Lions!) doesn't mean I'll send the Yankees to their demise through my mere presence at the game.

Shit, I'm funny.

Yes it does! With all my foam-hand wearing, over-priced beer drinking (seriously, I'd have to be drunk at a baseball game to keep myself from lapsing into a coma), and ball-park frank eating, those Yanks are as good as done.

Now if I can only get Jeter to kiss me on home plate....

If I was a horse, they'd shoot me

Yesterday afternoon, I was going through a large Rubber-Maid tote of my summer clothes. When I was done, I lifted the tote off the bed and turned to put it back into the space between my desk and freezer, but I misjudged the distance and caught the corner of the freezer, interupting my fluid motion and jarring my back. I felt an intense jolt of pain through my entire left side, stood there for a second and then dropped like a tonne of bricks.

I stayed still for a moment, thinking ok, I just need a minute here and I'll be ok, but I was pretty much fucked. And the pain has gotten consistently worse since then. I took a hot shower, no help. Thought maybe if I walked around (and spent money) I might feel better but no luck. So I came home and spent the rest of the afternoon on a ice-pack and heavy doses of Advil gel caps. By nighttime, I was pretty much in some of the worst pain I can remember.

This morning, I can barley walk - yet somehow can blog. I am not sure if I need a chiropractor or massage therapist but I have to do something about this before I'm put down or start making friends with the dealers downtown here.

boy friends

Last night, I watched a new show on TLC called Mind Your Manners. The premise is that these two etiquette experts, if you will, and host of What Not to Wear Clinton Kelly, take the most ill-mannered, rude, under-refined people in society (who are turned in by their friends and family), give them lessons in decorum and then return them, much more polished, to the world from which they came.

This show? Is like pornography for me. I was shocked and appalled by its filth - savage brutes who burb, fart, talk whilst eating, chew with their mouths open and are just generally crass - yet totally turned on by the reformation. Seriously, a show about manners, combined with WNtW and Stacy London's new show Fashion Fanatics, otherwise known as Friday nights on TLC, is pretty much my idea of Heaven!

And just when I thought I could not love Clinton Kelly http://www.clintonkelly.com/ anymore, here he is yet even more fabulous. I really think me and Clint could be BFF. Well, him or Jay Manuel http://www.jaymanuel.com/ from America's (and embarassing as it may be, Canada's) Next Top Model. Actually, I would like to see the two of them girl slap eachother silly for my affection. The victor would get to walk off into the sunset with me telling me how fierce I am....

If I had friends I wouldn't be counting Friends

So I did a guide search and found that Friends, the Emmy-award winning American situation comedy about a group of six friends living in the New York City bourough of Manhattan, (that was for anyone who just woke up from a 13 year coma to find themselves reading my blog, and thank you, Wikipedia) is aired 16 times a day.

Sixteen times a day. Now I'm no mathimagician, but by my figurin' 16 - 30 minute episodes equal eight hours a day of Monica, Chandler, Rachel, Joey, Phoebe and that other guy. Eight hours a day! That's like, like a full time job.

If anyone knows how I can get a job watching Friends eight hours a day, call me.

Keeping with today's fun with numbers theme, piles of vomit counted on my walk to work this morning: four.

And seriously, I can only describe them as piles.

God, Winnipeg, what are you eating?

Losing my facial v-card

Ok Apparently? Blogs, like tomagotchis and children (so I hear), require regular attention. Thanks for pointing that out, Whiskey, and suggesting that it was time for an update. Obviously, I hadn't thought this thing through before I decided to share my life with the world.

And seriously? I have a blog? I am one of the most private people I know, hence all the bricklayer jokes. I blame my sudden need for attention (beyond my usual need for attention from my immediate social circle) on the pre-30 crisis I am going through. BTW, just 94 more days until my ovaries explode. But back to my pre-30 dilemma. Any of you who remember how I waxed poetic about how I would be fabulous at thirty may now want to take this opportunity to say "Caw, caw" (mmmm crow) as it turns out I am not so fabulous. What with father time doing those break stands across my face and all.

So last week I had my FIRST facial. I know you're all wondering how a girly-girl like myself could be such a spa neophyte. But I have really sensitive skin and I've always feared that I would walk out of there looking like Samantha before Carrie's book launch party (if you don't get the SatC reference, well you're just sad). Anyway, desperate times call for desparate measures, I am not about to grow old gracefully, but rather rage, rage against the dying of my youth....anyway, the facial was pretty meh. I thought it would be like angels doing riverdance across my face and I'd leave looking all dewy and doe-eyed and 21. I really didn't see much of a difference and a few days later thought I looked about 38 again. And as soon as my pop-tart is ready, I can throw that toaster in the bathtub......

Speaking of unstable, I went to the Magic Room for a pedicure on Saturday (ok maybe I'm not such a spa neophyte) where all the staff, who are lined up in a row working on ugly feet, speak non-english (as in chinese, or mandarin or something) to each other. Now, like my workplace where there are many french-speaking employees, I am convinced that when people are speaking non-english around me that they are, in fact, speaking about me. Yes, I am a VERY rational person. I am going to be SO multi-lingual, and SO freaking disappointed when I discover that no one, in fact, is talking about me.

So here's how mother nature fucked me over today. After waking up at a leisurely 10 am, I spent the rest of my mid-morning and early afternoon cleaning and such, periodically peering out the window to check how much sunlight was being cast on my balcony. Because I face west, I get afternoon sun and I wanted to catch the tail end of that 10 am to 4 pm when-the-sun's-rays-are-at-their-most-harmful period (yes, I've read the previous paragraph). I decided to run a few errands around two (Shopper's Drug Mart for ant-aging products). Of course, I also stopped at a few clothing stores. As I emerged from a dressing room empty-handed (Doh!) I saw that it was POURING rain outside. I was also wearing a very light, white cotton tunic bc it was like 30 degrees when I left (woo hoo, wet t-shirt! please, winnipeg, look at my ta tas). Needless to say, my plan to drink wine, sit in the sun and read my new Jen Lancaster book was foiled, and I had even bought an SPF four for the occasion....mother nature you be-otch.