Nothing in my life ever works the way I want it to because I’m a dingus, man…

Welcome to the newest episode in my eternal crusade against the delivery services of the world! Today: it’s kinda my fault.

I’m planning a party-sort-of-thing to celebrate some academic achievement or another, not important, anyway I thought it’d be funny to print invitation cards and send them through the actual mail, real old-school, befitting an aging lady such as myself. I order them online and have them shipped and while I wait, I purchase some envelopes to send them with. Easy, right? Well.

The day the cards arrive I unpack them, rejoice, grab my envelopes to begin addressing… and am stopped dead in my tracks, for the envelopes I acquired are… not envelopes, but blank cards. That looked exactly like envelopes, probably because they were right next to the envelopes in the store. Incidentally, they also have “envelopes” printed on them. Stupid factory errors. Anyway. I now have to go out and get actual envelopes. The problem is, my city is in the middle of an arctic cold spell, and I don’t want to venture out in -15 C weather (Canadian laughter in the background). So, what do I do because I learn nothing from my mistakes?

I order envelopes online.

Do they arrive? Somewhere, yes, they’re definitely on the same continent.

I realised too late they were being shipped with DPD instead of regular mail. Why? Why does amazon no longer send things through the mail? Oh, DPD is cheaper? I don’t believe you, and also, I’m going to charge you a self-pickup fee. Because that’s basically DPD delivery, self-pickup at a store somewhere close-ish near you. Strong emphasis on the ish. Turns out DPD drivers don’t want to venture out of their heated cars in this kind of weather either.

Of course I get the customary mail of “We haven’t been able to reach you” at 16:00. I read it at 16:17. Home the entire day. Most of my day spent in the hallway lurking by the front door. But nope. I’m going to start laying Scooby Doo style traps around the building and the street. Nets! Trip wires! Bear traps! One day I’m going to catch one of them and in the ensuing hostage situation we might finally reach some agreeable terms of delivery.

Now I have the choice of going out to retrieve the fucking things, or I can get creative and make my own envelopes. No one is gonna notice, right? And there isn’t a law that says you have to use actual purchased envelopes, right? Guess which one I go with?

And then, just as I’m about to get paper out of my stash in the bureau to start some major epistolary folding action, a box falls right the fuck on my head (because I’m shit at keeping things in order and then avalanches happen). It’s a box full of stationary. Coincidentally, it contains some old envelopes.

Now my question is, will I be awarded the World’s Greatest Dingus hat for the third consecutive year, and if yes, should I plan a party for that? I could print invitations.


Well, that’s one way to get high, I guess.

Picture it: It is a grey, cold Tuesday morning. Your Boyfriend has gone to work at six in the fucking am because old people need caring at 7. You have gone back to sleep because your schedule will not see you out of the house before noon. And then this happens.

Boyfriend came back home at 9 am high as a kite, rendered unable to work. Why? Because he overdosed on nose drops.

You read that right. Boyfriend’s been having a bit of a cold or tonsillitis or both, so he, uncharacteristically, went to the doctor’s and got some meds. One of them were nose drops for his poor stuffy nose. He took them in the morning, then got a headache and took an aspirin. Then all hell broke loose.

So he comes in at 9, I stumble out of the bedroom to check what’s up, and he’s sitting at the dining table, taking his blood pressure and laughing his fucking ass off at everything. At this moment, I knew exactly what to do.

I got my phone and made a video. But that’s beside the point.

I was also trying to tell knock-knock jokes, because that’s a tried and true remedy for patients who are laughing at their own hands, but he was having none of that.

Then I checked the package leaflet and now I feel like living in Bizarro World. The side effects of a nose drops overdose may include psychosis, hallucinations, high blood pressure and accelerated pulse. There was no warning not to take them with aspirin. Yeah, this man needs a doctor.

I mean… just the fact that fucking nose drops can cause you to hallucinate… I… what?

His blood pressure was through the roof. So was his pulse. Then he got the idea to finally assemble his Lego Tardis I got him for Christmas. And he kept complaining he wanted to watch Doctor Who. And how stoked he was for K-9. When I said, Honey, go to the doctor, I did not mean this Doctor. Does he even have a license? I don’t believe this man has ever been to medical school!

I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

So while he came down after a while (and one Doctor Who episode) the doctor’s office was finally open and so he went. And I’m sitting here, three hours later, mind boggling over the fact that nose drops can make you trip balls apparently if you try hard enough. Or even if you don’t.

You could sell this shit to high schoolers, make a fortune!


Brb, coming up with a new business venture.

Kidding, those are prescription only. I’ll never be able to fake enough of a cold to keep the business going.

Clothes Make the Woman… Angry, That Is.

Clothing industry, are you and me gonna have a problem?

So as you may know I’m a human which means I have to wear clothes because otherwise small children will faint and I’ll get arrested. Also, frostbite. But how in the world am I going to avoid this quandary if you, clothing industry, keep giving me tissue paper to wear?

Seriously. I don’t have abundances of money, so I can’t buy like locally grown vegan clothing like all them rich ethical bitches. I don’t have any damned money. What do you need to get money? A job. What do you need to get a job? A job interview. What do you need for a job interview? Acceptable clothes. What am I not getting anywhere? You guessed it. I tried to buy a nice looking shirt on sale. Online, because y’know, grad school kicking my ass with some last exams and there’s no way I can just leave the house to do some shopping. Nice simple shirt, will go great with business casual or smart casual. Shirt arrives. Shirt is tried on.

Shirt is see-through.

What in the everloving hell?

Not sheer. That would have been too obvious. Just thin enough to be see-through.

Oh, I’m sorry, store, I guess I wasn’t aware of your stripper collection! You know, when they said everyone can be a star, this wasn’t what they meant, you know that, right? Andy Warhol was predicting YouTube and Twitter, not YouStrip and Titter. (Although…)

It wasn’t see-through on the store’s page. It just looked, y’know, shirty. But literally, you can see everything! I’m not sure I’m applying in the right kind of industry to wear see-through clothing to an interview. No, really, I don’t think my clearly visible bra is going to help me any. Especially not when apparently 90% of HR is female.

And even if I wasn’t too fat to be a stripper I’d refuse to wear almost transparent anything in public.

Seriously, I navigate across four pages of seventies style blouses with cut-outs so everyone can see your bra and flab just to arrive at the one decent looking shirt and then it’s fucking see-through?!

I mean, I know it’s going to be fucking summer in, hm, six months, but come on!

And don’t even get me started on pants. Pants would be the enemy if skirts were a feasible option. This is 2016! We all have giant mobile phones! How do we not have pockets on our pants?! What do you expect me to do, fashion industry, put my phone in my bag where I have to dig it out between my wallet, my keys, my asthma inhaler, writing pad, pens, assorted tampons, hand sanitiser, and my emergency snickers bar? Look, there’s a Greenpeace guy with a clipboard right there at the corner, I need to pretend I’m busy, I need my fucking phone! Now! Give me pockets on my damn trousers, dammit!

Also, I don’t know if you can see it under all the facial hair, but I’m a woman. I need pockets to sneak tampons into the bathroom at work because taking my entire bag is not fucking subtle, okay? You know what’s also not subtle? Walking around with a suspiciously clenched fist because I’m smuggling a tampon down the hallway. I might as well go around parading the tampon box over my head. No, I’m not angry because of my period. I’m angry because of the lack of proper pockets on my clothes! Forget penis envy! Ain’t no one want to deal with penis anyway! Pocket envy‘s where it’s at!

And Boyfriend wonders why I’m basically running around in drag. It’s no use. I’m going to wear men’s shirts until I die. And men’s pants, because they have pockets. Fucking pockets, man. Fucking pockets got me acting like a crack addict.

Rant Day! I’m Getting My Rant Game Back on Track!

Item 1: So I actually got a compliment the other day. In public, no less. And it weirded me out, because, hello, since when do we talk to strangers on public transport?! This is Autism Central, we don’t acknowledge people’s existence until we bump into them! So I’m on the subway, White Lies blaring in my ears, when I feel someone tapping my shoulder. Thinking it’s just a late tourist trying to get to the airport, because that’d be the right line for that purpose, I unplug my ears, turn and say, “Yeah?” And this hipster looking dude with round turquoise Harry Potter-esque glasses says, “Hey, I just wanted to say your glasses are real cool. That’s it, really.” And proceeds back to his corner as I say a slightly baffled, “Okay. Thanks. Yours are nice, too.” And spent the rest of the train ride stewing in my own awkwardness, suddenly questioning the entire universe. Who is this guy? What’s so special about my glasses? Is he doing a Random Act of Kindness kind of project to get more followers on his Twitter feed? Is he tweeting about this now? Is he snapchatting his bros about my glasses?! What just happened?! Does not compute!

Safe to say I’m bad with compliments. Probably because I never get any except from my mom.

Item 2: I got back into Pilates with the end of the heat wave and now I’m hurting in places I didn’t even know could hurt, or, for that matter, were located within my body.

Item 3: I recently found out that my dad and most of the people he knows of the 50+ generation never wrote a single letter of application in their entire life. Not one goddamn cover letter, and those guys ain’t exactly poor. They just knew people who were like, hey, you seem cool, wanna come hang in our brand new office? Like, the first job my dad ever had, he walked out on the second day all like, screw you dickwipes. And it’s like, why are you asking me why I don’t have a proper job when the real question should be, how do YOU even have a proper job?! You didn’t exactly work for it, no pun intended. Fellow millenials, it’s time we take to the barricades! As soon as we can afford any.

Item 4: Mom got her first smartphone and I’m so proud of the progress she made so far, even though she says it’s like having to learn to read all over again. And now dad’s all jealous of me because I’m a better teacher than he is. Right in the generation gap.

Item 5: I seem to be hanging out a lot with my parents, is that normal?

Item 6: I swear job interviews are getting weirder every year. Like, they make you do little tests now like maths and proofreading. What’s next, asking me what kind of animal I’d be if I was an animal? (BTW, the answer is either cat or koala. I excel at sleeping and I’m a picky eater.)

Item 7: The next heat wave is rolling around! Run for your lives! Meet me in Iceland!

P.s.: It’s been over a week and Boyfriend has not noticed the kitten attack.

Random Thought Tuesday, July 14

Y’know, I’ve been thinking…

Piece of advice: If you’re going to wear men’s boxer shorts or boxer briefs as a girl make sure you don’t wear them under skinny jeans, the legs on those fuckers ride up like hell. You gonna be fine with leggings, though.

Now, do you want to know how I know that? I give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.

Snooorrrrrrrre: Confessions of a Secret Frequent Sleeper*

*in Metropolis because obscure song references are kinda my thing.

Actually, sleep is the weirdest thing ever. I mean, you lie down in a darkened room for hours, near-comatose and wildly hallucinating. And we have an extra room just for being comatose and hallucination. And an extra piece of furniture. And special clothing.

If you had to explain to someone who’s from a species that doesn’t sleep what sleep is you’d sound completely mad. “So… you’re telling me humans put on their special sleep clothes and go into their special sleep room, lie on a sleep slab and then just… what?”

Yeah, what?

Scientifically, sleep is very interesting, mostly because you can’t explain it. No one actually knows why we sleep, but most species on this planet do it. It’s useful for a number of things, that’s true. Relaxation. Improved healing. Slowed metabolism so you don’t starve while putting in your eight hours of hallucinating. You also go crazy if you don’t sleep. But all evidence to date seems to point to one simple answer: you fall asleep because you are tired. And then what? You also wake up tired, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep instead of slugging over to your work place in your special work clothes with the biggest cup of choice caffeine known to humankind in hand.

So no one knows why we do it. We don’t have sufficient data to say if other species on other planets do it. All we know is: sleep is fucking awesome! Why else would you spend a third of your day in your sleep slab? It’s like holidaying with your brain. Granted, your brain can be fucking terrifying at times (killer clown in the tool shelf level of terrifying), but nevertheless.

Sleep is so important a huge part of our culture revolves around it. There is an entire industry dedicated to making mattresses and pillows and bed sheets. Articles over articles that tell you in five easy steps how to sleep better. Get more sleep in less hours! Pulled an all-nighter? When you’re over 25? You’re so badass! How are you not dead? Sleep is the first thing that gets axed when there is a lot of stuff to do and it always involves this great personal sacrifice because everyone knows that insufficient sleep is unhealthy. You sacrifice sleep, then you sacrifice food, it’s like paying tribute to an ancient god. One in a suit who holds your paycheck hostage, but nevertheless.

Personally, I love sleep. Forget about sleeper agents, I’m a sleeping agent. But I’m really bad at it. I’m an insomniac, for one, I cannot fall asleep before midnight, for another. It takes me hours to fall asleep. But when I sleep, I sleep. No alarm clock? See you in ten… hours. Or twelve. Better make it twelve. Nap? Hah, good one. I can’t take 20-30 minute naps like normal people. Not even 90 minute ones. Nope. I nap 3 hours or not at all. Why? Dunno. If I lie down in the afternoon I know I won’t see anything but whatever my crazy brain is cooking up until evening. I can’t lie down for 20 minute because 20 minutes turn into two hours, then I check the time, think “Fuuuuuck” and fall back into the pillows because 1) I’m tired as all hell, 2) it’s so fucking late anyway, why bother getting up?

Then of course there’s the entire waking up part, which is gruesome, because 1) NOISE!, 2) my brain always wakes up first but the body is somehow lagging behind. Like, I’m already making a list in my head, or planning a short story, or just having very deep and meaningful thoughts that may or may not involve donuts, but my body is like… “Okay, inventory: left arm, check. Right arm, check. Head, check, because the fucker is babbling again. Breasts, two, check. Stomach, check, empty. Bladder, check, full. Spleen, check, still there. Liver, check, whatever happened there? Left leg, check. Right leg… wait a minute… oh, there you are. Check. You can open the eyes, Jim. Jim? Oi, Jim! Dammit, can’t get any decent help around here these days, now I have to open them manually *exit stage left while muttering expletives*”

Or that’s how I imagine it anyway because by the gods if it doesn’t take me forever to physically get up. If I do end up sleeping I’m gone. If someone put a do-not-resuscitate order on me, I could take a nap and wake up in a morgue, scare the crap out of some pathologist. Might as well send a rescue team with emergency caffeine. Or just keep me from sleeping.

Seriously though, I woke up once to my care assistant soon-to-be-nurse Boyfriend checking my pulse. That’s how I sleep, motherfuckers. You think this is a game?

On the Importance of Men’s Fashion, or It’s Not Drag If I Am Cold

Why is men’s fashion important? Because otherwise I’d have nothing at all to wear.

Looking back to this post, you might have guessed that I was a bit unhappy with women’s wear. I was and still am. Then this other post about men in sweaters happened and I thought I had something so say about that. So let me sing the praises of men’s sweaters.

See, I don’t have a lot of money. I’m still owed two months wages and it’s cold. It can’t possibly be colder in the ice block that Satan apparently inhabits (ask Dante, he was there. Or tripping balls. Anyway.).  So this winter I ventured out to get cheap, warm clothes.

And therein lies the problem. You can either have cheap or warm. Definitely not both. I’m looking for something reliable that will last me a few years, but I’m so not going to pay more than 30 for a single item.  Actually, I’m not going to pay more than 15 for a single item, because 30 can buy a week’s groceries for me. So off to Cheap Clothes Central, otherwise known as H&M and Forever 21. I’d go thrifting if it weren’t for the fact that some thrift shops here are actually more expensive than our cheap clothes stores.

Because it is winter, and again, actually cold, no matter what those Californian designers are thinking (seriously, where do you get your ideas of fall and winter from, fashion girls you see on Pinterest? They’d fucking die from hypothermia over here.), I quickly sigh the sigh of the defeated and slouch out of the women’s section. Because women’s sweaters don’t deserve the name. Odd cut and thin as paper. And itchy, because my skin doesn’t like the stuff that makes the material stretchy. Also, WHAT THE HELL I COULD WEAR LIKE FIVE OF THESE AND STILL BE COLD!

So I take a deep breath. Straighten my back. Draw back my shoulders. And attack the men’s section.

I always find it funny to be virtually the only female in the men’s section of a clothing store. Mostly because of the male shoppers. It’s like they’re one step away from growling. “Intruder!”, their looks seem to call. “Intruder! What dost thou intrude upon this our territory? Thou hath ventured beyond the pale, wench! Thou hast no business to be here, in these holy halls of manhood!”

Not like I could be shopping for my Resident Man Beast, right? I mean, I do, sometimes, but not right now.

Boyfriend is pretty similar in this respect, actually. I’m always silently laughing my metaphorical ass off when I browse the net and suddenly it’s like “Oh, those gloves look nice.” – “Should I get you some when I go out tomorrow?” – “Yes, pl… wait a minute, those are women’s gloves!” Boyfriend’s hands are as big as mine, by the way. It’s not like they wouldn’t fit. Or the opposite case: “What do you think of this shirt?” – “Looks nice.” – “Would you believe I got it in the men’s section?” – Cue giant eyes of disbelief and hasty retraction of former “Looks nice”. Males. Are. Weird.

Seriously, clothes are clothes. They’re made in the same sweat shop in Taiwan or China anyway. It’s especially stupid with things like scarves. Like… it’s a cloth rectangle. If it fits, I wear it. Unless we’re talking about a penis warmer I don’t see a problem.

The problem is of course the cost. Men’s clothes cost more, probably because they’re made of actual thread and cloth, not just of things the designer found lying on the floor. You know, old newspapers. Bagel bags. Starbucks coffee cups. Actually, a bunch of Starbucks coffee cups will probably keep you warmer than a women’s sweater. So your choices are spend more money on clothes or spend more money on cough medicine. I guess it evens out in the end.

Okay, so I can see why some people may not be able to comfortably shop in the other sex’s assigned department. Some girls have giant big boobs (you can tell from the adjectives that this is not one of my problems) that won’t cooperate with men’s shirts and I get that. Me, I can’t wear men’s trousers because they’re too loose around the mid and too tight around my butt (exception: men’s sweat pants. So comfy!). Sometimes sleeves are too long, and everything is too wide. But honestly? If I’m cold I don’t really care.

I own a lot of men’s clothing, actually, and you wouldn’t know it unless I told you. Basic t-shirts that on my frame are a loose fit. Long sleeved shirts that look great with skinny jeans. Plaid shirts that go with everything. Scarves. Gloves. Hats. Hoodies! Giant warm sweaters! They’re giant because a men’s S is apparently a women’s XL! But I don’t care! You don’t easily get all-cotton for women, at least not for the kind of price I can afford. I’m so grateful for that 15.- cotton knit long sweater that doubles as a very short winter dress (necessity is the mother of invention). I love cotton! Mostly because it keeps you warm! Not that I mind artificial fibres. I just can’t wear a lot of them because allergy issues. Sure, my life would be easier if I could just comfortably wear any acrylic or polyester (and then hope to never get caught in a fire). But am I the only one who’s freezing here? I just don’t feel like they keep you warm. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round?

It’s all in how you wear it, and obviously I’m very good at that, because bitch, I’m fabulous (three snaps, ’cause I’m sassy as hell). It’s also pretty much impossible to mistake me for a guy (but thanks for your concern, Boyfriend), because 1. I’m very short, 2. my face is very feminine, 3. I wear skirts a lot in winter because it’s absolutely impossible to fit three pairs of wool tights under any sort of pants. Guys, if you’re cold, try that, it works. Yes, that includes guy-guys. It’s a valid option until we finally get some decent fashionable cold protection suits. And Taun-Tauns.