Happy, happy Birthday!

In honour of Daniel's birthday, I've prepared a short quiz for all of you.

It's pretty easy to do, just scroll down and compare the two pictures, then tell me which photo is the least horrific and will haunt you in your nightmares the least.

DIS one??





OR,











DIS ONE??



I leave it up to you. You're the judge, jury, and if you want to be, the executioner.

It may be better for us all if one of you does step up and puts on that black hood. The axe is in the corner, all sharpened and ready to go.



Happy Birthday, Daniel!

Chicken soup, and the All-Star Game

That pretty much sums up my night tonight. I'm curling up on the couch, sipping at a steaming bowl of chicken soup that my lovely husband concocted (with a little help from his couch-ridden, watery-eyed, frog-voiced wife). I told him the measurements and quantities of all the ingredients, and he did the rest.

He's not used to me being sick. It's usually him that gets sick, and I'm the one running around making soup and tea and bringing water and orange juice for him to drink. Seriously, I don't think I've ever been this sick since I've been married. Maybe once, but it's a far distant memory.

The NHL All-Star game is on tonight, which means that I can't watch the Simpsons anymore. They've kept me company for hours as I sniffled, hacked, gagged, and coughed my way through the afternoon. It's not so bad, though, I don't mind watching hockey most times. Plus I do like the skills competition, it's fun to watch.

In times like these it's easy to be miserable. But I have a husband who swears I'm still pretty even though my eyes are puffy and surrounded by ghastly dark circles, my nose is red and raw from wiping, and I perpetually cough and hack and sneeze every few seconds. Plus he went to town to buy me lemons today, so I could make a nice mug of lemon & honey tea. And that's just razz.

Hey, my dogs don't care that I'm sick, either. They sit at my feet and curl up on my lap just as happily as if I weren't a fountain of germ-laden spittle. I don't think they even notice that my hair is caught up in a lop-sided bun, with stray wisps sticking out at ridiculous angles, or that I haven't changed out of my pajamas since I got home from work on Friday.

Well, I'm losing steam again, better go fall listlessly onto the couch once more, and in a few minutes maybe muster up the energy to climb upstairs to bed. Maybe.

Because it has to be said

DISCLAIMER: This letter is probably not for you. You can read it, but if you're insulted by any of it, well you're just being a silly dilly. :) I love all of my 5 readers. Do I have 5 readers? I don't know.

You are not that awesome. Seriously. Just because you can talk a lot doesn't mean you actually understand or know anything about what you're saying. Don't be arrogant. Arrogance is never flattering on anybody, and it is especially unflattering on a person who has little to no real experience.

Don't tell me you only want to learn, and then keep asking questions that are poorly fabricated attempts at subtle criticisms. If you know better than I do, prove it. If you can do better than I can, prove it. Words are cheap. Be practical.

Stop saying you don't want to step on any toes as you are crushing my entire foot. Stop hiding your intentions with that terrible mask of innocence. You aren't a great actor.

Either mean what you say, or don't say it. Stop trying to defend your obnoxiousness behind a sham that you really don't mean any harm.

If you want to learn, listen. Stop railroading people as they try to explain something to you. Even if you don't agree with them, listen. Especially because you are new, do it their way. If it's a better way, do it their way without a bad attitude. Maybe thank them for teaching you something you can use.

Don't assume you know better than everyone else just because you went to university. What do I care that you went and sat in a room with a bunch of other young people for four years listening to some tool talk at you. Big freaking woop. That doesn't mean you actually learned anything that could be put to practical use. Book smarts mean little in this industry. We need common sense. I learned mine by spending four years IN THE INDUSTRY. Learning. Growing. Working. Discovering.

I'm not stupid, stop treating me like I am. You're not that smart, stop acting like you are.

Stop acting like you're God's Gift to pig farmers. We're the best team in the country, we don't need you. Let me say it again, We Don't Need You. Quit assuming that we do.

Oh, and stop smiling at me and talking to me like I'm your best friend when you just met me and do not know me. You're not my friend. You're an annoying inconvenience with a god-complex who will make every day a trial until you go away.

PS, I don't work for you. Stop grilling me about the specifics of what I do. I do my job well, so well that my bosses are banging their heads against the wall because I'm going on maternity leave soon. I don't see anyone banging their heads against the wall for you, maybe because of you since you're so damn annoying, but that's hardly the same thing.

UPDATE!

Ding, dong, the witch is dead.

Well, not dead, just gone. Out of our barn, gone. Not gone from this earth.

Huzzah! Everybody whiss, everybody whiss!

Happy Birthday Justin!

TEN years old!

Holy chipotle!

Well, my very first nephew, Happy Birthday to you! Hope you have a splendiforous day, filled with lots of fun & laughter. Love you lots!

It's 1995 all over again

Perhaps you are a fortunate person, who although oblivious as a baby, grew up to realize that you have a most unique name. You were the only -insert name here- in your neighbourhood.

I am not one of those. Although I love my name, and wouldn't change it to anything else (except for Kathleen... I really, really love the name Kathleen) it was and continues to be VERY popular. When I was little, I was in a big homeschooling group, and there were three other girls named Sarah in my age group. It got frustrating sometimes to be in a crowd, and hear someone calling "SARAH, SARAH!" only to look around and see that someone was not calling for you. It can give you a complex.

Well, I'm reliving some of those memories now. At work, a new girl was hired (to replace Mr Whiny) and her name is Sarah.

Dear old Bob thought it was a real hoot. He calls me Sarah 1, and the other girl is Sarah 2. I don't think he'll ever let it go, either.

The problem is, she's really good, so I don't want her to quit or be fired. But I really, really hate it that she has my name. It's MY name, darnit! It is giving me a complex. Every time Wayne says "Sarah, can you go do this" I think it's me, and where before it was always me, now it's sometimes that other Sarah! Bah.

If only I were lucky, and had a name like Adeena.

A tale of a blueberry

We look so stinking happy! And we are.
We aren't great actors, people.... that is not faux joy you see.


But it is joy with a price. I am exhausted all the time. I didn't know that you could sleep for hours and hours, get plenty of R&R, and still feel like you just made it through a 10 round battle to be the Ultimate Fighting Champion. Minus the gory wounds.


Can someone explain why something the size of a blueberry takes so much energy to keep up? Honestly! It's a little ridiculous.


At least I haven't upchucked yet. I've felt like it (lots), but so far, nothing. Lots of things make me gag, though, and smells that used to be just icky are now extremely intolerable, like the unwashed trailers and trucks in the shed at work. I have to hold my breath walking past them or I'll lose my cookies.


Well, I just made tomato soup for supper, and it doesn't smell too unappealing, so I'd better go eat. The blueberry is quite demanding.