this is not blogging; this is typing
What do you do with them?
All wriggley, white and falling off the green bin in clumps.
What I do is get the ABBA song Dancing Queen going in my head.
Then you replace the word Dancing with the word maggot.
So you’re singing something that sounds like “diggin’ the maggot queen.”
It may not sound pretty, but it helps you though the revulsion of dealing with the maggots.
See this week’s Herald column here.
Trust me, cat obesity is no laughing matter.
When our little darling was declared obese a few months back, we decided that our cat Cheddar needed to make a few lifestyle changes. It was time for Cat Watchers.
But making lifestyle changes and convincing your cat that this is a good idea are two different things.
It turns out that our Cheddar didn’t fancy the low-fat dry-pellet cat food. She wanted the burgers-and-fries equivalent dry-pellet cat food.
So, I suffered filthy looks, sit-down protests and whining in the middle of the night. At one point I thought she might run away. Pity she didn’t.
After a couple of hard months and two weigh-ins at Cat Watchers, she is half way to her target.
And this typist is half-way to cat-induced insanity.
What would you rather do: “throw a party” or do “some entertaining?”
Would you rather see your host relaxing and having fun, or shuffling around attending to people’s needs?
Would you rather herd into the kitchen and drink beer from the bottle? Or be seated in the living room and be served cocktails and hors d’Å“uvres?
When did having a few friends in for an evening become such a chore? It’s like someone’s trying to take all the fun out of it.
I know who to blame: The Gracious One.
Martha Stewart’s empire was built on the idea of entertaining at home. But if you listen to her and follow all of the silly little rules, you could end spoiling the party.
So party on, dudes. It’s supposed to be fun.
See today’s Herald column here.
Flax seed and multigrain. Spinach, tomato and potato. Trans fat free.
Big bold cheese flavour. Chips of a less hurried time.
Huh?
Walk down the chip aisle of a grocery store these days and you’d think you were in a health food store.
People, they’re chips. Chips are a tasty, salty, unhealthy vice. They are not health food.
Marketing chips as health food will make people eat more. People do not need to be eating more chips. It’s a scam.
Down with politically correct chips.
Go here for my Herald column on this.
Think about this: In the first quarter of this year, ExxonMobil made a $10.8 billion profit. And investors were disappointed. It wasn’t enough. $10.8billion in three months wasn’t enough profit.
Now think about this: skyrocketing gas prices, spiraling grocery costs, food panics all over the world.
Do you see what I mean by wanting to kick a multinational in the head?
Against a super-major like Exxon we are mere peons, but if all the peons get together they can hit Big Oil where it hurts. In the bottom line.
I like to think of it as ripping off a multinational. Legally.
If you have to run a car in town, try this: Ease down on the gas when you start from go. Don’t dart out. You’ll be a few seconds slower reaching speed, but you can save 30 percent on your gas bill. No kidding.
I started this awhile ago and I’m paying less for gas than I did when prices were lower.
So go on: make my day. Rip off a multinational and then buy yourself a drink with the proceeds.
The writing’s on the superwall, Facebook: We’re over.
I’m just not that into you anymore.
At first it was fun and all about the friends. But then you started throwing donkeys, turkeys and one-eyed pirates. And poking and superpoking and the mass invitations. I was getting Facebook Fatigue.
You became needy and demanding. I didn’t want to be in a co-dependent relationship with social networking platform. Then you started with the sneaky tricks - getting me to do things without my knowledge.
I felt jerked around by you, Facebook. You weren’t so much fun any more.
So I stopped checking and I didn’t answer your invitations. The flame just sort of dwindled. Then it extinguished.
I’m so over you, Facebook.
Women used to wax floors. Now they wax themselves.
I was thinking about this the other day as I was having my brows done.
“Waxing is a rip roarin’ good time,” I said to the esthetician. “You do the rippin’. I do the roaring.”
So she ripped. And I roared.
And that’s just brows. Think full Brazilian. Or for men, the ultimate waxing package: The Back, The Crack and The Sack. Yeeeeoooocccchhhhh!
Can it get more barbaric? I mean, applying hot wax to the skin and then ripping the hair out by its roots?
Someday we will look back on this waxing fest, and wonder what we were thinking? Just like we look back at the floor waxing of the 50s.
I’m not normally one to gawk, but my word, women’s breasts seem to be getting big these days.
Honestly, the number of supersized hooters bobbing around St. Maarten was absolutely breathtaking. And virtually all of these super boobs were supported by the most minimalist of pouch-and-string bikinis. It’s like the place was overrun with Lara Croft Tomb Raiders.
I’m not talking about the old fashioned type of breasts you may be familiar with. You know, the ones: made of soft tissue and prone to a little jiggle now and then. No, these babies are rock solid and no matter how big, they are always pointing straight ahead Fred, like the headlights on a car.
Ten-Hut! Attention!
No droop. No sag. Gravity defying. Could they be injected with something supernatural? Like Kryptonite?
And these mega mammaries always seem to appear on the most stick-insect of bandy-legged little women. You almost feel afraid for these women carrying such a heavy front load of breast.
If they aren’t careful, they could teeter forward and topple over, falling on their face. And wouldn’t that be a shame.
You know who I mean. Spitzer aka Mr. Clean aka the Love Rat of New York.
I heard a number of women call into the CBC radio program As it Happens to defend poor old Eliot. They say the wife’s to blame.Â
The argument goes something along the lines of this:Â Silda wasn’t paying enough attention to her husband (read: giving him sex) and THIS is what drove Mr. Clean into the arms of the $1000-per-hour call girl.
Oh, I see. So, the man cheats on his wife, humiliates his three daughters and betrays New Yorkers who voted him in because he was Mr. Clean…. and it’s all Silda’s fault.
Silly me for pointing a finger at Eliot the Idiot
Tell me. What century are we living in again? 18th or 19th? Is this what happens to women who give up their high-powered jobs to support their husband’s political career and bring up the kids? Do we blame the Silda’s of this world for the dispicable acts of the Eliots?
What’s particularly sad about this is that it’s coming from women. In 2008. What does this say about us? What do we tell our daughters and our little sisters?
Even cave women were more liberated than this.
Forget the flowers, chocolates and the racy lacy lingerie, boys.
If you really want to get your gal in the mood, take home a nice bottle of vintage Lysol, fill a bucket with steaming hot water and try on a pair of yellow rubber gloves.
That will get your gal in the mood according a new study which says married men get more sex if they do their fair share around the house.
So the next time you get love on the mind, men, don’t look at her with bedroom eyes. Gaze at her with I’m-going-to-scrub-the-toilet-bowl eyes.
You could be smiling for days.
There was a time when grocery shopping was easy. Not so now.
These days, the supermarket is fraught with danger, risk and - gulp - long-term consequence: evil carbs, pesticides, antibiotics and trans fats. That is why yours truly sheds the humble, mild-mannered typist persona and transforms into Ninja Girl!
Ninja Girl is a crack martial artist engaged in grocery store guerrilla warfare. She uses special powers to identify and rub out these dangers.
The most dangerous part of her mission is - cue Gothic horror score - The Aisle of Doom where trans fats are crouching in processed products with long shelf life. It’s scary business, but Ninja Girl is trained in unorthodox shopping techniques.
When it’s all over Ninja Girl transforms back into the mild-mannered typist. But only until the next trip to the supermarket.
Go here for live column.
There are two sides in this war: me vs. me
On one side is the noble cause of me needing to earn a living. As you know, I’m a typist. My troops are my fingers, and by extension, arms, shoulders, upper back. My artillery consists of a keyboard, a mouse and a flat-screen computer.
On the other side are the rebel forces who have attacked and occupied certain muscle groups in my upper back, neck and shoulders. They are causing tension and pain.
It’s ugly, this war, and I’ve had to call in reinforcements - the lumbar support cushion. I’ve also called up the reserves - the massage therapist, Epsom salts and various heating pads.
There are new tactics too: 15 minute computer breaks and regular yoga stretches.
My troops are growing tired and weary but we soldier on. Because that is what typists do. They keeping going.
I get the holster and the hook to attach it to my belt.
I get the fancy email address and the special passwords. I get the “cool” of behind a BlackBerry hipster.
And then I get something really funny.
A call.
I hadn’t been anticipating this. What do I do? There’s so many buttons and they are so small. My finger’s so big.
My finger needs to go on a diet in order to work this thing.
