Monday, May 31, 2010

New York City!!!!! Where Slut's Momma Touches A Man's Chestals

So, because I promised last week to start telling you about my trip to New York City before I get really old and senile and lose all my teeth, I shall. I've already started forgetting stuff, which is really not good, seeing as I haven't even sent my best friend Slut and her sister or her momma any photos yet, which makes me a total douche. But whatever. We all knew that anyway.

This trip was sort of a trip of a lifetime since NYC is a place I've wanted to see since I was but a pre-pubescent ugly girl who stuffed her bra with socks to make it look like she actually had boobs. So, as you can imagine, the excitement just thinking about the prospect of going was overwhelming. Luckily, my meds keep me stable enough that I didn't go jumping off balconies or running naked into the street, screaming, "I'M GOING TO NEW YORK!!! OH MY GOOOOOOOOOD!!"

The day came, and we met the tour guide Cindy at the mall at 5:30 a.m. That's in the morning, in case you didn't catch that. Yes, it was still dark out. Driving to the mall that early in the day to catch the bus tour irked me, and yet, I was still smiling. Why, you ask? Because, not only was I going to spend five days with Slut, her sister, and her mother, but I was also going to spend five days away from cooking, listening to kids argue and punch each other in the throat, and just thinking about that made me a very happy woman.

Notice the eyes. One is closed because it's 5:30 in the morning. 

It turns out that getting up at 4:30 a.m. makes for a very long day. Who knew? By the time we got to the border near Brockville and Syracuse, I felt like it was most definitely time for bed, but it was actually only ALMOST breakfast time. Not a good sign.

The border took forever to get through. We watched the guards through the window as they stood around the water cooler chatting. I'm not being allegorical either. Is that even the right term for what I'm trying to say? I have no idea. Typical of me. I'll just pretend it is. Let's go with it. So, there are about 25 guards inside, laughing and talking and drinking bottles of Coke and cups of coffee, and IGNORING US COMPLETELY.

It took them 45 minutes to deal with us, guys. FORTY-FIVE FREAKING MINUTES. Cindy, our guide, was not happy, and told us that this was the longest time BY FAR that she had ever had to wait at the border with a group. We felt like prisoners, not allowed to get off the bus. I'm  sure we've all been scarred for life. I know I have been. Obviously.

I was pretty sure it took so long because there was obviously a terrorist on board, probably Cindy herself. Or maybe Slut's momma.

But no, the border guards were just ignoring us.

We finally got to the Big Apple shortly after 3 p.m., and, except for waiting AGAIN (conspiracy?? no kidding) for our room keys, we were there!

All I wanted to do was lie down and have a wee nap. But Slut, her sister and momma had different plans. Apparently, we were going to get tickets for a same-day Broadway show. Awesome. Seeing as I knew absolutely nothing about NYC, I just nodded and followed directions, carefully remembering to wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth as we made our way to the TKTS booth on Broadway.

We ended up getting awesome tickets for the show La Cage Aux Folles, starring Kelsey Grammer, which put my panties in a knot. I mean, how often does one get to see Frasier in the skin?! Not often, that's how often.

I was so excited about this, I think I must have talked non-stop about it to everyone. I didn't notice at the time, but I'm pretty sure they were all ignoring me, which is rather rude, but I forgave them once we had arrived at the theatre.

Because this is what we saw:

And then Slut's momma did this:

because that's how she rolls. Literally. In a wheelchair. Well, only for some of the trip, really. Actually, I should have had one as well. It would have kept my whining to a minimum.

All in all, the show itself was great, although Slut's momma didn't really like it. I think it's probably because there weren't any naked gay men in it.

What I liked even more than the show was the theatre. I didn't realize that the theatres on Broadway were so glamorous, replete with red velvet chairs and gold trim, as well as gorgeous flowing stage curtains.

Not sure why these seats at the Longacre Theatre look black. I swear they were red. Either that, or my eyes were hemorrhaging, which is totally possible.

And the atmosphere was amazing, despite the presence of the girl in front of us who thought she was pretty hot with her eleventy hundred carat diamond ring and crystal-encrusted cell phone, as she chewed gum noisily through the first act. 

I planned on taking a five-hour city tour the next morning, which excited me, except for the fact that I was starting to feel unwell.Typical. Give me the moment of a lifetime, and I end up with a snot-blocked nose, runny eyes, and a rat caught in my throat.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Fiskars Sucks

Still no reply from Fiskars, guys. I'm getting really angry now. Pulling out the big guns, as they say.

Methinks they aren't taking me seriously, which is just ridiculous.

So, I'm in the midst of putting together another email to Nikki at Fiskars Headquarters, and this time, I'm not mincing words. In the meantime:

* Waiting for my garden boy, and almost having a heart attack when I see a Harry's Hedges truck across the stress.

* Still waiting for my garden boy, and getting kind of tired of it all really, which actually means I'm pretty much just a pathetic excuse for a person who has no life and would rather live in her wild and wily imagination than actually face reality, whatever that is.

I also spent Saturday with Adonis and Wood Nymph, who, along with Dee, went to my parents' gravesite and planted flowers to make things look all pretty and presentable, because if we're about anything, we're all about image. I didn't take any pictures, however, because I am a lazy bitch.

Stay tuned, as I write about my travels to New York City with Slut and her crew, and meet up with possibly circumcized Jewish men who are apparently funny.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

My Imagination Runneth Overtime

Well, I'm still waiting for my response from the Fiskars people. They sure take their time. Or perhaps they're just having a difficult time finding a therapist who's willing to take me on as a patient.

Either way, I've already got a list of chores for my naked sweaty, shirtless garden boy named Jorge. And a chilled mojito in the fridge for me. I come prepared.

Speaking of which, my blood pressure must have gone sky high yesterday as I pulled out of my driveway and saw a truck in front of the house with the words Harry & Hedges, Lawn Maintenance across its side. Jorge had arrived, I thought. And here I was, in the midst of a heat stroke, sweat pouring down my forehead and into my eyes, a drenched puddle of perspiration pooling into my bra cups, looking my best. NOT.

Obviously, I was wrong. Harry was at the neighbours', and I saw neither muscular arms nor barely-clothed nethers. Story of my life.

I'm expecting an answer from Fiskars today. And a garden boy soon thereafter.

I'm nothing if I'm not entirely optimistic, and extremely naive.

My next post will be about my New York City trip. I promise. I know, I've said that before, and here I am, still talking about Jorge and stupid weed pullers that apparently don't work properly. But there are times in this life, my friends, when priorities must be set. And when it's between New York City thrills and Jorge, the garden boy, well...must I explain?

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

I don't give up easily. And maybe I'm a little insane.

I got a response from Fiskars yesterday.

This is the message I sent them:

Well, I got a message from them, and I'm afraid to say it's not very comforting, or socially responsible.

Yeah. Thanks A LOT, Nikki.

Not even an offer of lawn products, guys. Nothing. However, the fact that Nikki wanted me to let her know if there was anything else she could help me with made me think that there was still a chance.

So, I've written Nikki back:

I'll let y'all know when Jorge arrives.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Cap guns are actually pretty realistic

The neighbours are sure to hate us now, if they didn't already.

Dee has a cap gun and is now shooting up the neighbourhood. Awesome.

I clearly win the Mother of the Year Award because I suggested he buy the cap gun in the first place.

He hasn't been arrested yet, but one teenager walking by just looked at him, his face getting pale, and said, "Dude..."

Like I said: Awesome.

I took my time getting back into the blog swing of things, and rightly so. Travelling literally around the world is hard work, even when you're sitting on your ass for most of it.

Elephant penises and exploding pools. If you need more than that, you need help.

Next week: Whereby Mary goes to New York City, gets sick, and almost gets to talk to Kelsey Grammer.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Today's post is full of frustration. Enjoy!

Life is so damn frustrating and utterly confusing, I don't even know what I'm talking about. Which is par for the course, actually. See? I told you.

I tried sending my friend this photo of a framed elephant penis the other day, and it wouldn't work. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?! Even more frustrating than you can imagine. I must have spent three hours trying to email it to her, but no! the internet would not co-operate. So, here you go, Slut. From me to you:

Okay, so I didn't really spend three hours trying to send a stupid elephant penis photo to my friend. Although I totally could have. But that wouldn't be such a good thing, really, and even I realize this. It would probably mean I truly have no life whatsoever, and should be committed. Which is probably true anyway, but I digress.

I've also recently found it extremely frustrating that I went out and bought a Fiskars weeder, just like this one:

and I even used it the same day instead of throwing it in the back of the garage like I normally do with everything, and I was really really happy with it, because it requires no bending whatsoever to pull those damn dandelions out of the lawn, and the less work the better is my motto. I spent probably a good hour or more pulling the weeds out of the grass. We obviously had quite a few because we don't use pesticides. And we hate anyone who does. We're neighbourly like that.

I was really happy with my Fiskars weeding machine, until I woke up Monday morning and saw this:

WTF, Fiskars??? 

I just weeded the freaking lawn, and eleventy hundred dandelions bust out the very next day!?

Obviously yet another conspiracy looms, people.

And, not only that, but I went to the Fiskars site, and found this comment:

"This is the best weeder I've ever used and it is fun to use. The weed ejector reminds me of my 29 years as a police officer. It sounds just like racking a round into a pump shotgun. I believe I bought my Uproot at the True Value in Prescott, AZ or the Home Depot, but neither carries it now or your other extended weeder. Can I buy them on line?"


Is it just me, or does this person sound a little -- umm, I don't know --- PSYCHOTIC??!??! Would that be the correct term? Please correct me if I'm wrong, but who the hell equates a lawn weeder with a pump shotgun?! No one, that's who. Be wary, Arizonians. Heads up.

And, on another final note of frustration, my friend Slut's pool exploded on the weekend, sending hundreds of gallons of chlorinated water into her neighbour's backyard shed, forcing Slut to run around in her nightie emptying her neighbour's shed, and screaming things like, "Oh my god!" and "Wow, that's a helluva lot of water!" and "Crap, now I have no pool for the summer. FML."

Because I am a good friend, I didn't laugh quite as hard as I normally would have when I heard this story. I mean, Slut lives for her pool in the summer. Especially since she is too cheap not willing to invest in air-conditioning for her stifling house, so she spends the very humid and hot summer in her pool. Except now, that obviously won't be happening, which makes Slut very very sad. And, which, in turn, makes me very very sad, except that every time I think of the pool exploding and Slut running amok with her nightie on, I laugh and laugh and laugh. Someday you too will laugh about this, my silly little friend.

Next post: New York City, unless I think of yet another inane and useless post topic first. Which is much more likely.

Update: I decided to email Fiskars and complain about the lack of apparent ability their supposed weeder has to get rid of my dandelions. If they're as good as they claim to be, I expect a boxful of lawn appliances any day now. I'll let you know what happens.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

It's About Damn Time. You're Right, And I'm Sorry. Now Do You Feel Better? Didn't Think So.


Mondays are hard enough. Couple that with Monday after close to a month travelling from one end of the world to another, and I don't think I have to tell you how freaking confused I am. And I was pretty confused to begin with.

So, I'm back. And it's time to once again face reality, drink the Kool-Aid, and go through the motions of my daily life. Which is difficult on the best of days, but so much more so when you consider that I've been living in a lala land for the past few weeks, eating in restaurants every day, watching Italian men, trying to touch New York policemen's bums, and not thinking too much about real life.

Suffice it to say that I've had a blast. The trip to Geneva and Venice was amazing, replete with heavenly visions of canals and centuries-old buildings (and beautiful Italian men), totally engrossing us in an historical world of many yesterdays ago. I felt like I was in a book or a movie. One evening, as Mr. Handsome and I strolled through cobbled, narrow, very dark streets, I told him I found it almost impossible to believe this was real. It felt more like a movie set, or a ride at Disney World. That is how unreal it was.

It was so unreal that I found myself holding my breath repeatedly, forgetting to breathe as my eyes took in all the unbelievable beauty, the history, the amazing vibrance of a city so old that it is literally falling apart and sinking. Scaffolding has risen up throughout Venice, in a possibly feeble attempt to keep the city upright.

Don't forget to click on the photo to get a larger image,  if you really and truly want to read what I've written. I wouldn't bother either.

Sad-looking lion sitting next to gorgeous wisteria blossoms. My artsy shot.

Although we didn't ride in a gondola (even I realize that paying $150 for a half-hour ride in a wooden boat is waaaay too much), we did take water taxis (the extremely noisy version of a gondola), walked through hundreds of streets and squares, ate at many waterside cafes and restaurants, and breathed in all that is Venice.

The Rialto Bridge.

One of the most romantic cities in the world, Mr. Handsome and I took advantage of this fact and spent one evening on Piazza San Marco, sitting at a table, drinking special drinks, eating an amazing dessert, and listening to classical musicians play beautiful music. It felt like a dream, and I didn't want to wake up. Completely magical.

The Piazza San Marco in the evening. Pure beauty.

The musicians.

Our dessert and my drink: vodka and cranberry. It was ALMOST too beautiful to drink. The peanuts were gratuitous.

But wake up we did, and too soon, it was time to go home.

The trip home from Venice was uneventful, unless you include the huge bang and flash of light as our plane rose into the skies. I was sure we were going to die. And I was also sure it was the work of that suspicious-looking guy I'd seen in the airport gate area and had automatically pegged as a terrorist because he just looked sneaky.

The big bang, flash of light and airplane bounce ended up being something the pilot called "a static disruption", although those weren't the words he used. Sorry I can't think of them. I'm still in shock. Apparently, this kind of thing happens quite commonly on flights, and it can sometimes cause plane damage and cause the plane to turn around and land. The pilot told us everything "seemed to be fine", the instruments "seemed to be in good working order", and he said he had decided we would continue our OVERSEAS flight (as in, flying over lots and lots of very deep water), and he'd have the plane examined thoroughly when we arrived home.

Good decision, alert and overly informative pilot. You only made me sweat buckets for 9 hours straight, and bang my head repeatedly against the back of my seat as I convinced myself that I was about to die and would never ever see my children again.

I then had three days in which to recover from jet lag before I yet again left for five days in the Big Apple, this time on a bus. I wasn't sure what to expect on a bus tour, since the last time I'd done one was when I was 16 years old and took a trip with my dad and younger brother across Canada and the United States as part of a bus tour filled with people who I was sure were taken from their graves just to fill the seats.

Stay tuned for details on The Bus Tour In Which Mary Fills The Bus With Five Days Worth of Gaseous Emissions.

P.S. This post was supposed to go out yesterday, but I had lots to do, and the internet wasn't co-operating, so just put the word "Tuesday" in wherever you see "Monday", unless it doesn't make sense, in which case, put "Monday" back in and forget I said anything.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Guess Where I Was

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

I think someone ought to warn the po po we're on our way

For your viewing pleasure, here are a few more photos from my recent voyage to Switzerland and Venice. I'm busy gulping coffee in an effort to wake up enough to RE-PACK my bags since I'm leaving for New Yawk City Thursday morning. But first, I have to follow Gryphon around the house as he drops shit nuggets. The poor animal has such a sensitive digestive system, any stress (or food he's not used to) sends his body into the throes of eruptive disorder, which creates further disorder for everyone around him. New York, here I come!

Swan in Lake Geneva, ignoring me. Typical.

Another boring shot of Old Geneva, with Mont Blanc in the background. I wanted to climb that mountain, but it was not to be. I couldn't find my cleats. And I have no idea what soccer shoes have to do with mountain climbing. Just accept it as it is, and move along.

Busy waterway in Venice, with a lone gondolier in the middle, trying not to crash into parked boats as he maneuvers both his gondola and his bottle of Chianti.

Gorgeous Venetian masks in a storefront. I wanted them all, and got none. Story of my life.

Yet another incredibly artsy photo of a very old Venetian building, a gondola, and algae-filled water. You're welcome.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go pick up a few more dog crap clumps, and finish packing my bags. I may not post again until next week because I will be incredibly busy touring New York, looking for Jude Law or Sting, and trying to touch police officers' bums.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Travelling is a dangerous thing to do, so I did it for you. You're welcome.

So, we're back.

And, although Mr. Handsome and I had a wonderful time in Geneva and Venice last week, I am now completely sure the world is out to get me. Check it out:

Note the look on my face. Clearly, not pleased.

And if that wasn't enough, I had to live with a ripped toenail for the entire week because I refused to bring nail clippers on our trip because they are just a huge hassle and take up way too much space. So, instead, I ended up getting my nail caught in the bedspread about a million-and-one times, and had to keep tucking my toe under my foot while traipsing about because the whole thing was unsightly and I'm all about image, as you well know.

Our trip to Europe was awesome, despite my apparent injuries. It's actually surprising we actually even lived through it all, thanks to the crazy driving practices of our European friends. What you think is a one-way street is actually two-way, and sometimes four-way. And yes, that is possible, apparently. Because not only do one-way streets become multi-way, depending on who is driving, but people also tend to think that sidewalks are made for driving motorcycles.

So, on top of my insect bites and nail injury, I got a great case of whiplash just from our numerous attempts at navigating Swiss and Italian streets without getting run down by a bus, trolley, rogue car or scooter. It's vicious out there, people. Vicious and nonsensical.

And did I mention the jet lag? No? Well, then, let me tell you...I now know what it means. And if you looked up the meaning in the dictionary, this is what you'd see:

I Photoshopped this as much as I could. Please forgive me.

And now I have jet lag all over again, having just come home late yesterday. And, although we are now ahead by six hours (since Europe is six hours ahead of us here in Ottawa), I still feel like crap. Go figure. Clearly, jet lag is out to get me as well.

Apart from all that, our trip was amazing. We were in Geneva for three days, with Mr. Handsome doing his presentation at the United Nations last Tuesday afternoon, leaving me to my own for hours on end, which is never a good thing. I ended up walking around Old Geneva for four hours, taking photos of everything, including thirsty pigeons.

 Strangely enough, people drink from these fountains too. Yeah.

Then, last Wednesday, we boarded a train with barking dogs and crying babies (but no chickens!) and spent eight glorious hours watching the scenery as we made our way through the Swiss and Italian Alps to Venice, where we spent another three days exploring what turns out to be a very strange (yet beautiful) city.

Venice is like no other place in this world. And to show you what I mean, I will post photos of my trip to both Geneva and Venice throughout the week, because I am tired, exhausted, have laundry to do, and have to get ready for my trip to New York City with Slut, her sister and momma, which begins this coming Thursday. And no, I don't plan things very well. And no, I don't normally travel this much. But, my motto is, when the opportunity presents itself, you've got to go for it. And you pay for it later.

So, here you go, a few photos of Geneva and Venice for your viewing pleasure. And I am now going to go dunk my head in a large bowl of ice water to try and wake up.
Not sure what this sign means. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with dirty penises. Or banana peels.
My very artistic impression of Geneva at night, with a full moon.

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