A little about a lot of things.

Thinking to myself as I pass a window on my way in from lunch: “Geez, my hair looks good today.  Bangs are behaving themselves, minimal fuzziness.  Loooookin’ goooood.”

Lady walking by me who I know but not all that well, not ten seconds later: “Hair looks good today!”

Day: Made.


I briefly mentioned yesterday that Avery was sick.  Remember?  With the projectile vomit all over my kitchen?  Including my pants that I was a titch tardy changing?

So we’ve been kissing her on the cheeks to avoid the sharing of the puke bug.  But I, being her mother and not much of a germophobe, always kiss her on the lips no matter what.  Except at lunch I happened to give her a hug and said goodbye and was about to walk out.


Oops.  My bad.  So I kissed her on the cheek.

“Wrong way.”

I stood corrected.  Avery pouted out her lips and basically told me ‘Nice try, woman.  Do that again.  Correctly, this time.’

So I kissed her on the lips.


I’m so confused.  I have to kiss her, but only on the lips, but don’t kiss her.


I had to go the the washroom really bad. 

So I went.

As soon as I started, I could hear the custodian tinkering around in the electrical panel that is on the exterior of the washroom wall.  The very thin washroom wall. 

And he kept tinkering.

So I stopped tinkling.

And he kept tinkering.

So I conceited defeat.


There’s this woman at work that I’m going to give absolutely no details about.  I like having a job.  Not that she’s in any position of authority, but still.  I’m not risking a good, old fashioned Doocing.

Anyramble, there’s this woman at work who hates me.  I mean, I have no proof, other than dirty looks and her ignoring me even when we’re the only two in a hallway and the severed horse head I found on my chair when I came back from the washroom*.  But I’m sure she hates me and I didn’t even do anything wrong.  I smile politely, I let her walk up or down the stairs without passing her (she says it’s bad luck; I think she just doesn’t want my shoulder germs), I nod and smile when she talks, even if I don’t agree with what she’s talking about.

I’m not 100% sure, but I think she thinks I’m some sort of hooligan.  And who can blame her?  Let’s look at the facts: I’m younger than her by 50%, I have children (2) that occassionally visit me at the office and while here they speak outloud, I once in a while wear shirts with hoods on dress down Fridays, and I also once accidentally used 11 point font on an interoffice memo when the corporate policy clearly dictates we use 12 point Arial (which she sternly pointed out to me). 

It’s actually quite obvious.  I’m one scary mofo who shouldn’t be trusted.

* might not have actually happened.


I now get to blog for work!  Not that I can tell you anything about it really, other than it’s work-related and a part of my work that I love.  Blogging is now an official function of my job.  Does that make me a professional blogger now?  Let’s just go with that.


So … how about that hockey game last night?

*squinty eyes*

Yeah, I didn’t watch it.

I want to be super patriotic and cheer on all of our Canadian athletes in every sport, but I just can’t do it.  I have to say ‘no’ to hockey.  Hockey is like chloroform to me.  If I breathe it in too much, I pass out.  I actually just have to be in the same room and I’m out cold.

So I don’t watch it.

I heard Canada lost, though, and it became some grandiose Canada v. USA thing where everything in life became a comparison between Us and Them and because the US won, that means that obviously they’re better at everything.  Obviously.

Whatever.  It was just one game in a tournament.  Canada will recover.  I guess.  And come back to win gold.  I guess.

I probably won’t watch that game either.

Where do I turn in my citizenship?  I have a feeling it’s currently in the process of being revoked.


And, as the Grand Finale, a brief list of questionable conversations I have been a part of so far today:

  • Dogs eating vomit.
  • Cutting poop off because it was taking too long. (EDITED TO NOTE: This was unrelated to the washroom incident at work.  Thanks for keeping me on my toes, Stef.)
  • The smell, colour, and consistency of the contents of a diaper.
  • A blood-squirting vein and going for distance.




13 thoughts on “A little about a lot of things.

  1. WOWZA!! That is a lot of info today!!!

    So Jen, you actually stopped tinkling because of the maintenance guy tinkering? That can’t feel good! He’s heard pee before. Oh and was the “cutting poop off because it was taking too long” a part of this episode? Either way, I need to LOL at that because the other day Owen totally did that. He said “Mommy, I am not waiting any longer for this poop. I’m done”. He then gets off the toilet and says “I still feel it though Mommy” and starts to cry. I of course have him go back on the toilet and after about 1 min. he says “no Mommy, I refuse to wait”!! Yes he is 3 and he said refuse!! Too funny that you were just in a convo about that today. I, personally am a pretty patient person, however, I can understand people having better things to do. I mean Owen’s lego wasn’t just going to wait for him forever!!

    LOL about the lady who actually scolded you for using the wrong font size. I could see if you used like 8 or something but 11?? Hehe, she obviously like confrontation I think.

    I am not going to scold you for not watching the hockey as I too do not watch hockey. HOWEVER, I know that once upon a time, you did watch and we got really wrapped up in the game and it was fun! Wasn’t there a certain player that you enjoyed as well. A certain *special* player? I forget them all now. I do watch hockey now once every 4 years when it’s the Olympics and it really is entertaining. I watched last night and it was really exciting! You should give the gold medal game a try. Just sayin…

    Congrats on your work-related blogging promotion!!! No one deserves it more than you. Your writing skills rock (mine obviously don’t because I just used the word “rock” like I was 15 again).

    Hmmm, is this comment too long? Is there any rules for the commenters on length of comment?


  2. I can totally relate to the tinkling story except everytime I go tinkle it’s not some dude tinkering with the electrical stuff it’s a girl pumping her titays in the middle of the locker room. Every. Single. Time. It’s like her lactation schedule is intune with my urination time table. It’s hellua awkward trying to tinkle when all you here is “sqoosh, sqoosh, sqoosh” of her breast being mechanically played with.

  3. You have yourself some pretty “interesting” conversations throughout the day, I’m guessing the font lady doesn’t initiate such conversations. Oh and the comment by Tristachio made me spit out my gingerale I was laughing so hard – sqoosh, sqoosh, sqoosh! Great news about the work blog – now you get paid to blog, but sadly I’m sure you can’t blog about what you want though ~ font lady might not approve!

    • The first and last conversations were with the lady I sit beside, and the middle two were with my brother and sister, respectively. I try to save the poo convos for my family. They appreciate them the most.

  4. Hey look at me! Hitting your blog from home because I can’t ever comment at work because stupid WordPress is blocked! What an exciting day this must be for you. Plus that good hair! If there was a condition that could be called Win/win/win/win…you just had it I think.

    I wanted to put this in 11 point font, but HTML is for dorks!!! And for people with even a cursory knowledge of how the internets work.

    • Ha ha! Look at that! It’s Kurt! Everybody, point at Kurt!

      WordPress is blocked? Is your work run by nazis or something? That’s the most racist thing I’ve ever heard. Have they even read my blog? If they had they would change that policy immediately.

  5. If I would ever devote less time to commenting on blogs/twitter, I might actually write a novel one day- but so many people depend on my input.

    I want to blog for work, is what I’m saying.

    • It would be even more awesomer if I could blog about whatever I want. But I can’t. I’ll take it though.

      I could never concentrate long enough to write a novel. My novel would be about 16 pages made up of multiple 140-character-long ramblings.

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