Archive for the ‘IStupid’ Category

The Happening wasn’t (happening, that is)

Dear M. Night Shamalamadingdong:

CHEESE AND CRACKERS boy, did you actually receive real cash money for making this piece of tripe? Really? Really, truly? Really, truly, sincerely? Well then, I would like to request that you to send me mine back.

I want my money back for the movie tickets. I want the $1.45/litre gas money I spent to get there. I want the funds returned for the 5000% marked-up popcorn and cokes I bought at the concession and the $1.59 Twizzlers purchased earlier in the day at Safeway and concealed in my handbag. I want to be paid for the time I wasted sitting and watching this monstrosity (I’ll settle for minimum wage, as no experience was necessary to watch this movie – gawd, did one even need to own the skill of breathing to fill the position? Shall we say $8.50 an hour?)

Say, M. Night? Why don’t you just send me your billing address, then I’ll just go about forwarding all of the expenses as they come along (ie: my therapist, my masseuse, my esthetician, my priest and my neighbour’s dog who I spoke to in an unkind way after bringing all of that disappointment home from the theatre…poor Rover’s gonna need therapy now, too).

Hey M? Can I call you M, because M. Night is so many letters to type. Hey M? You know what I really wanted the most? I WANTED MY FRICKING TWIST ENDING YOU DOUCHE! I could have totally stomached the bad acting and the terrible script and the swiss cheese plotline if only you had provided me with a classic M. Night Shamalamadingdong ala Sixth Sense, Signs and The Village twist ending. I racked my brain for the entire movie wondering how you were going to fool us at the end. At every overexageratted line (think: “Don’t you take her hand unless you mean it!”), I would think that’s going to have something to do with the twist ending. Alas, you left us hanging.

Send me my money.

Yours truly,
Procrastamom

P.S. Hey, M. I think I know now why the trees were angry and were taking things out on the humans. It’s because their tree buddies were being cut down and made into paper upon which money was printed and then spent at theatres to watch your movie, by unsuspecting idiots like me.

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Reviews I wish I’d taken the time to track down before I went to this movie last night can be found:

Here

…and here

…aaaaand another one

…and littered all over the damned internet.

*headdesk*

I’m loathe to ask. Did anyone else catch this flick?

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I pretty much bankroll the whole 3M Empire

I have a severe addiction to Post-it Notes — I bet you I go through 10-15 sheets a day, scrawling reminders while I’m on the phone or attaching them to documents to outline who they are to be forwarded to. Pretty much daily I’ll write myself a reminder of what I need to do or pick up on the way home from work. I’ll jot something down, then attach it to my handbag inside my desk and when I get out to my van at 5 o’clock I usually stick it to the dashboard so I don’t forget to:

p/u Ashley
p/u milk
buy oranges
go to bank

…or any of the 7000 other things I try to cram into a typical day.

Today after work I stopped at Safeway to pick up some groceries for dinner. I noticed as I was walking through the aisles that people were stealing glances at my bag. It’s my favourite handbag, bought on one of our junkets to the outlet stores in the Les Etats-Unis.

I think I just said the The United States, but what can I do? This is the extent of my Federally mandated bilingual education…bonjour, merci, je suis, une, deux, trois…and that’s about it. I can also sing all of my verbs in French, but only really loud and screechy, just like my Junior High French teacher Ms. Karate taught me.

Anyways, I was thinking that people were admiring my beautiful Wilson’s Leather handbag when really they were staring at this:
My cool handbag
Merde!!! I had left my shopping list attached to my bag.

Note to self - sausage and bacon
In case you can’t read my chicken scratch it says: sausage bacon

Breakfast stuff…it’s what’s for dinner, baby.

I’m sitting here eating them at my desk…whilst babying my sore finger

Screw that fell out of my oven

Last night I was busy making chocolate chip cookies (as opposed to the chocolate-chipless-cookies that Ashley loves to make…what is the point without the chocolate, asks I). When I closed the oven door after trading the cookie sheets, a screw fell onto the floor (ping!). I bent over to investigate and, unfortunately I’d already peeled off my oven mitts, because when I picked that sucker up it sizzled as it burrowed itself into my flesh! With smoke! I screamed and flung it across the kitchen and then I found it under the water cooler and then it was STILL! HOT! so I chucked it from hand to hand and then I put it carefully on the counter and took a picture of it for my blog. Then I Twittered the incident. The end.

(did you know I Twitter now? I totally do. Because I have lots of spare time for it)

(If you happen to be a wall-oven mechanic/technician, maybe you could help me figure out where the screw dropped out of. I’m sure you can tell from the type of screw or maybe the shape and colour of it? By looking at a picture on the internet. Yes?)

Would you like a cookie?
Cookays!

WTF Tuesday?

I drove one block from home this morning and spilled an entire cup of coffee all over myself.  Drenched.  So, I turned right at the next four-way and drove around the block home.  As I got out of the car, I avoided making eye contact with the other moms walking their kids to school and skulked into the house to change.  I wiped down my steering wheel and door and proceeded on to work.

“No-duh PSA of the day”*:  Warning!  Do not grasp coffee cup by the lid and lift! 

When I got to work I found that my deli pasta salad had leaked extra virgin olive oil all over the rest of my lunch.  So, if you walked into the kitchen of your workplace this morning and saw someone rinsing factory sealed granola bars under the tap?  Hi, we’re colleagues!

How’s Tuesday treating you?

(*This “No-duh PSA” was brought to you by the same brilliant minds who warned you not to immerse your toaster in water and not to put your keyboard in the dishwasher and not to eat yellow snow.  You’re welcome.)

Those tissues I keep in the glove box sure come in handy

Ambulances make me cry.  Only the ones that have their sirens going though.  They make me cry.  Every fricking time.

I’m driving along the highway this morning on my way to work, singing along to Spandeau Ballet (do not judge!).  I swear this is TRUE.  I hear the faint song of sirens in the distance and my fingers quickly travel to the volume knob to turn down my tunes.  My attention turns to the rearview mirror and I spot the emergency vehicle making it’s way down my lane about three blocks back.  Everybody is starting to pull to the left and right and stop in the sidelanes in order to make a path through the middle for the ambulance.  In my panic, I cross from the left lane all the way over to the right in order to stop.  Afterwards, I will realize that I could have just pulled over to the left like everyone else in my lane and there would have been ample room to let them through.  I will feel stupid about this meaningless little fact for the rest of the day.  My heart is beating at the speed of sound by now and I barely register the ambulance as it whizzes past us.

When it’s safe to go, I cross back over into the left lane so I can turn at my usual intersection.  Bringing my coffee cup up to my lips I realize that my hand is shaking so badly I dare not take a sip.  Tears have welled up in the corners of my eyes and are threatening to spill forth.  I end up chokey-crying all the way to work.  Over a stranger.

Why does this always happen?  Why?!!!  It’s not like I know the victim in the ambulance.  I’ve never experienced an emergency where said vehicle was a necessity.  I’ve been inside of an ambulance exactly once.  It was when my mother twisted her ankle skiing.  Yes, I said twisted.  Not broken.  Not twisted her ankled followed by a heart attack.  Not twisted her ankle after falling off the ski lift rendering her a quadrapalgic.  Hmph, I no longer want to talk about this.

I just don’t like crying at every ambulance that passes by.

———————–

I got a text message today on my cell phone from a 316 area code.  It said:

Ok ik zie je dan

What does this mean?  Is it French?  German?  Who is Dan?  Do I need to forward this message to twelve friends and then Bill Gates will pay me $236 each time they forward it to twelve friends?  Where is the 316 area code? 

I just have more questions than answers today.  I’m also feeling a little guilty over not responding.  Should I respond?  Tell them they have the wrong person?

Yut dialt wronk number.  Ok ik vicky.

—————————–

Oh hai.  I’m bak.

I have so much to tell you.  Not the least of which is that we moved and have been living in the glorious privacy and splendor of our sweet little family of only 6 (5 peoples, 1 cat) for a little over a month now.

So much to tell….

Sweating Bullets

Oh my god!  I am currently the highest bidder on ebay for two items that are exactly the same thing.  I sort of remember four days ago that I thought it would be a good idea to bid on a few different auctions of the Philosophy Microdelivery Peel so that I might ensure the winning of one.  That is, I only WANT ONE!  If I win them both I am in so much trouble with Cheap Bastard.  Fifty extra bucks on the credit card he might not notice.  But a hundred?  He’s gonna notice.

(Why yes, I am a kept woman, thank you for asking.  My husband keeps me out of trouble by doing the budget for the family.  He keeps me out of doing yard work by doing the mowing and the trimming.  He keeps me on the internet by being my IT guy.  I think I will let him keep me.)

You know, this is all Sephora’s fault.  If they didn’t want to continue charging me 97.00 Canadian dollars for a $65US item, plus $17.00 shipping, when our dollar is worth more than our Southern Cousins’, then I wouldn’t have to resort to shopping on ebay for all of my beauty necessities.  And yes it is necessary to peel (microdeliver?  philosophize?) my face once a week with the magic goo.  It makes mah skin sexay, yo!

Actually, shopping on ebay has proven to be a lot cheaper than buying retail and my last three purchases, including shipping, have all been less than the sticker price.  I just wish I wasn’t so trigger happy with the bidding fingers.  Oh!  You just beat my bid of $35 with $37.50?  I will bid $40!  You will see my forty and raise it to $42.50?  I will foolishly raise my maximum to $50!  (because I trust that you don’t have your best friend bidding against me to get the highest price for your wares Mrs. Ninety-Nine Point Nine Nine Five Positive Ratings Ebay Superstar Powerseller From Hawaii.  Riiiiiight)  I admit though that I do feel a little slighted when I get an outbid notice in my inbox.  And yes, sometimes I get a little competitive bartering for my face tonics.  I will show you flexigirl771 !  You think you can swoop in with your $51.50 bid one minute before the auction ends?  Ha, ha!  I will bid $55.00!

See how I might have gotten into this double bidding war in the first place?

Dear flexigirl771,

Please swoop in and outbid me on at least one of the Microdelivery Peels auctions.  I would like to keep both my husband and the shiny credit card he lets me carry around.

Yours truly,

vicky5109

Update 6:38 pm:  Oh crap!  I won one of them…$43.75.  Only two more hours or so until the other auction ends.  Please, please let someone else bid over the forty dollar mark.  I don’t want my marriage to end!  Who will cut the grass?!!

Update 9:22 pm:  Sorry, you didn’t win eBay item Philosophy MICRODELIVERY PEEL KIT  

(can I get a round of “Phew!’s” all up in here?!)

In my case CGA stands for Cruddy (and) Grossly (in)Adequate

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