The Lifespan of a Fly

We Meet Again… Netflix
October 21, 2011, 1:17 PM
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So we finally got ourselves Netflix. Actually, we didn’t. My mom gave me her account and password and insisted that we try it out and see how we like it. After years of deciding which torrents to download, and planning their download time around your regular life. iI’s sort of neat to be able to browse through hundreds of titles, most of which were movies you wanted to see but not badly enough to pay for them of their own accord.

Which has led us to a new dilemma. The Wii remote blinks schizophrenically at us while we’re trying to make a decision. It blinks like that because we’re always out of batteries and are left instead to scrounge them from other remote controls, alarm clocks, smoke detectors and other valuable life-saving necessities. We could go buy more, but it’s probably not going to happen any time soon.

So now it’s October, and October is the month where I watch a year’s worth of horror movies and serial killer flicks in tandem.

So I watch one serial killer movie! One! Now it keeps recommending “Ed’s Top Ten” filled with brutal violence. Which is cool, cause I like brutal violence in movies and all, but it’s my parents’ account! And I don’t live with them!

I can just see it now, Ma and Pa, sitting at home about to watch some sort of culturally shocking, or heartwarming movie. Ma moves in for the cuddle and Pa’s big arm rests on her shoulder as she nestles into him.

AND THEN BLAM! In their face is flashed movies where dudes pop out girls’ eyes, or some mad German (why are they always German?) scientist is sticking three people together to make a fecal-fuelled centipede. Which, by the way, probably wouldn’t work with the whole e-coli thing.

So now poor old Ma and Pa must face the cruel reality of their daughter’s interests. No, no. It wasn’t anything to do with the way you raised me! I swear! No, no. It wasn’t because you sent me to overnight summer camp and I got lice! I… I…. I just like it.

A system had to be created. A system that was unbreakable, and convinced my parents that my emotional hard wiring was A-OK. It’s devious, it’s clever and it’s all mine. My secret to defeating Netflix is simple:

All Dogs Go To Heaven.

Clears up those genius suggestions in no time.


Hold Your Questions Please!
September 22, 2011, 1:33 PM
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You know what bugs me? Ok, ok a lot of things bug me, but you know what really drives me batshit? Questions. Not questions like “What are you going to make for dinner?” or “Do you want to watch The Shining or Halloween?” but questions that just aren’t anyone’s damned business. For the first six years of our relationship, Mike and I dreaded going to weddings. Short of the booze and bad music, you just knew some distant family member was going to corner you and go “So, when are you two going to tie the knot?” *wink wink* and you’d have to smile and think of some lame excuse like “Oh, it’s not really a priority to us right now”, when what you’re truly thinking are things like “Get lost old bag” or “Who is this person talking to me?”

Well, it gets worse after you get married. People assume that now you’re married you’re just dying to procreate. As if you’ve really been waiting seven years until marriage, because a child out-of-wedlock is a sin…and other bullcrap.

They also assume you want lots and lots and lots of little you’s running around, screaming, eating candy and taking turns crying and pooping. Now, please don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike kids. But to be fair, I don’t like very many kids either. So this whole “kids” thing? Yeah, I’m thinking about it. It seems kind of cool. I’d like my life to have more meaning then the things we want to do, and well, to be honest, kids have cool toys.

So you answer something like, “Yeah, maybe in a few years we’ll have a baby. Just one though”. Well, that starts off this whole new thing. The family member (whose name you can’t remember and relation you’re skeptical of) starts in on the whole “Just one? Oh, wow. If it were me I would have just had oodles of little babies. I just love their little cheeks and the way they smell”.

Look, I’m thinking about it ok? I don’t really want to commit to a whole slew of kids. That’s like saying “You know, you may as well give me all the BMW’s in the lot, since I like luxury vehicles a whole bunch”. I’m ok with just the one. You know? See how it works out and stuff. Then maybe… maybe I’ll have another one.

Besides, babies are like these perfect, clean little people. They’re canvasses for parents to fill with colours and paint in little personalities. And guaranteed us adults are gonna fuck them up. So I wonder to myself, how many little people do I want to screw up? Cause I’m gonna. So if I only screw up one person, does that mean I’ve mitigated the damages?

I don’t know, this is a lot of pressure.

Is there anywhere I can rent a kid for a bit and see how I do?

You Have Been Un-Friended
August 30, 2011, 2:42 PM
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Normally I’ll do a substantive Facebook clean up where people from elementary school and people you meet at parties and have pictures of you get erased. However, this all-encompassing attitude towards a Facebook cleanse isn’t working out for me. Therefore, I am now setting guidelines which will determine on an individual basis who I will be deleting from Facebook. Since this blog is linked to my profile, I expect that those who read this will either delete me first, or follow my new rules.

1. If you update your status more than 5 times a day, you shall be un-friended. If your life is that interesting I beg you to please start keeping a journal, use Twitter or go on reality TV and get paid for it.

2. If you post pictures of what you’re eating/will eat/have eaten. It looks yummy to you, to me it looks like a 1975 Company’s Coming cookbook. If you’re not inviting me for dinner, stop inviting me to look at what I’m not invited to eat.

3. OMG!!!. If I see this I assume there must be something so goddamn awesome you can’t even finish your sentence involved. If awesomeness isn’t involved, please stop using this to explain how your cat, Mr. Muffins, ate mothballs yesterday.

4. Pictures of your pedicure. Don’t care, they’re toenails and your feet are callused. Yuck

5. Repeated status updates relating to your job. You’re employed, I’m employed, we don’t do it cause it’s fun. Got it. I don’t care. I don’t know how else to explain it, but I can guarantee no one else cares either. Except for maybe your boss, who would be happy to relieve you of your consistent complaining about your job. He calls it “unemployment”.

This is the beginning of the end. Please continue posting pictures of your vacation, so that I can compare its awesomeness to the awesomeness of my own holiday. Please continue misspelling everything so that my snobbish friends and I can mock your idiocy. Please continue updating your relationship status, bad and good, so that I can currently track who is dating out of their league.

Go forth and create Facebook goodness.

*Note: Sure I can block you on my Newsfeed, but if I don’t want to see your shit, I might as well un-friend you.

My Fanny Pack Can Beat Up Your Fanny Pack
June 15, 2011, 8:33 AM
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That’s right, I have a fanny pack. Now before you start snickering behind your hand, please understand that this is no ordinary fanny pack. J accused me of fanny-packing and began comparing me to her father who regularly dressed up to meet her looking like a redneck janitor (this is Alberta, we’ve seen our share of them). I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly clear the air about my fanny pack vs. regular lame fanny packs.

First, let’s get a few things straight.

The Fanny Pack was carefully created by Tibetan monks to be used in all sorts of survival situations. It boasts a front pocket, which many would think should be used to house credit cards and a few bucks for beach time fun. This is wrong! Seemingly innocent, the pocket is meant to house things like grappling hooks, trail mix, pointy knives, extra ammunition and garlic (vampires), for those times when you just have to go out and kick nature in her sharp, pointy teeth. There is no beach time fun involved here.

The Fanny Pack also has a holder for your water bottle. Many would assume this is so you can hike with ease and delicately finger wildflowers while feeding chipmunks your trail mix. This is also wrong! The true purpose is to keep your hands free for Yeti fights, which one regularly runs into out in the wilderness. Yetis are impermeable, surviving against even the strongest blade. Their only weakness is their eyes, where your fingers must jab and jab until they explode in a cloud of purple smoke (this is science, don’t argue with me).

Last, but not least….

STFU J. I’m not gonna carry your goddamn chapstick if you make fun of my fanny pack again.

The Anti-Bucket List
June 10, 2011, 7:39 AM
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A few years ago, on our flight home from Italy, Mike and I watched the Bucket List. Not together, cause that would be sort of weird with those little headphones they used to supply you with (Air Canada is a bunch of pricks) and you just know the person before you had some contagious ear disease and for three hours all you can think of is “I can feel it crawling into my brains… oh God my brains”. Anyhow, we took bets on who among our fellow passengers would start crying. Mike cried, proving he has the soul of a lamb. I didn’t, proving I have the soul of the lion who would destroy that lamb.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Wait, shit, where was I? Ah yes, the spawning of the Anti-Bucket List. Since I’m never going to die (and if by some change I do, it will be in a fiery spectacular form which will awe all the little children out of their candy), having a bucket list seems pretty pointless. So I’ve created a list of thing I never want to do before my inevitable immortal reign (with Skynet’s help of course).

The Anti-Bucket List
1. I never want to go to Australia – There are spiders that eat birds, which are the size of your face. Therefore, able to eat your face.
2. I never want to watch an episode of The Big Bang Theory and laugh.
3. Play hide-n-seek with God (that bastard cheats).
4. Be the middleman in the Human Centipede.
5. Own a cat.
6. Eat real Chinese food – not this ginger beef shit.
7. Move back to Ontario.
8. Admit that I know how to fix almost any photocopier.
9. Listen to WSPA people who stand on corners and try to convince me hunting is bad – at least that’s what I think they want.
10. Plummet to the Earth at top speed and hope my parachute opens – commonly known as Sky Diving.
11. Buy a Coach purse.
12. Pretend that golf, tennis or bowling is an actual sport.
13. Watch golf, tennis or bowling on television and be interested.
14. Stop brushing my teeth.
15. Cheer for a hockey team just because they’re “Canadian”, although most of their players are European. Yes Vancouver, I’m looking at you.
16. Go camping with the Donner Party.
17. Watch another Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
18. Be a “Furry” – whatever the fuck that is, it sounds pretty weird.
19. Pretend CSI is deeply insightful and actually has a legitimate story line.
20. Give up on finding the Island in LOST – it exists, and I will find it.
21. Care about MSG and how much water I’m drinking in a day.
22. Take myself too seriously.
23. Spend more time worrying about the people who will never like me then I do with the ones who love me.
24. Give up the belief that magic is real and so is Harry Potter.
25. Stop dancing like I don’t care who is watching.

Event Planning as Dictated by the Rapture

Totally got Raptured

So I think I survived the Rapture; and so did everyone else I know. I didn’t do any head counts, but I did call my most socio-responsible/aware friends and they were still around. So either Jesus didn’t come and save us all, or everyone I associate with does the Devil’s work; which is definitely more probable. Whatever, at least I won’t be lonely in Hell.

Also, not being Raptured sure clears up my calendar for this summer. No angelic feasts for me to participate in, only bar-be-ques and beheadings for this girl. Although Griff did invite me to a rally this morning. I get invited to a lot of rallies, which is why I was sorta counting on the Rapture and following apocalypse to provide me with an adequate excuse. Sorry guys, can’t make your rally today. Got Raptured and you’re going to burn. But Skynet failed and now I’ve been invited to a rally.

I probably wont go. Not that I don’t believe in whatever the cause is this time, I probably do. I dislike quite a bit of my world and shouting with signs does seem like a great way to spend a Saturday, but I’m kinda lazy.

First, I’d have to make a sign and I kind of ran out of glitter. All signs must have glitter on them, or their opposition loses its effectiveness. Trust me on this. Politicians are known for their short attention spans, so shiny shit that attracts their attention to my big sign is a must. Besides, it’s pretty.

Secondly, I’d have to find something really clever to write on my sign. I wanted to have Welcome Skynet!, but I don’t know how to make a tinfoil hat.

Third, I kinda just don’t want to. See, there’s a level of expectation here. If I go to your rally, then I’ve gotta go to the next one too and, well, my calendar is kind of full with non-angry activities. Anger gets sort of boring after a little while. Sure, it would be cool to burn down the Parliament building, or throw cream pies at Premiers, et cetera. But after the Parliament is a smoking pile of Rapture, and the cream pies have been destroyed (a travesty if I may say so), then what else is there left? It all feels a little anti-climatic.

So if it’s all good with you, I’m probably not going to participate in a rally. I’m a little claustrophobic and if I wanted to spend an entire day getting my face smashed in by/with an angry mob, I’d go moshing. And really, what kind of shoes can I wear to a rally? Is there proper etiquette for rally-wear? Close-toed or sandals?

That’s Not What I Meant!
May 12, 2011, 8:08 AM
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Have you ever said something completely innocent and suffered that sideways look from people? “Does she know what she just said?”. “No!” you say, waving your hands and hoping that your mortification is apparent on your face, “That’s not how I meant it!”

Welcome to my life.

Oops! That’s not what I meant!

1. “I like black humor” – Upon discussing The Office with some school mates this year, I began to explain that I don’t think slap-stick jokes are funny. Steve Carrell is dumb, his character is dumb, and, well it’s a stupid show and not funny. Now, because everyone but me agrees that yes, it is funny, I am then forced to provide an example of my taste in humor. I began by asking if either J or A had seen the satirical movie Fido. Nope. Of course not. The words “I like black humor” slipped from my lips and the sideways glance began.

Count: one… two… three… four… My face drops and I realize the words that just came out of my mouth.
“NO! I didn’t mean it like *whispering now* black people humor”.

Moral of this story, use the term “dark humor” from this day forward.

2. “Show me your goodies!” – Miche is pregnant. Miche is beautiful all the time, but more so when she’s fermenting a little baby in there. Miche got new maternity clothes. I wanted to see said new maternity clothes and thought I’d request this privilege by shouting *ahem* “Show me your goodies!” at my very pregnant, very beautiful, very married co-worker. The sideways glance, along with the patented eyebrow lift, were directed at me.

“No! Not like that! I wanted to see your new clothes!”

Moral of this story: Don’t ask pregnant people to show you their goodies. It’s inappropriate and weird.

3. “You sure are a cheese factory?” – This happened only yesterday. Mackie is what every twenty-year-old wishes she’d look like at thirty, and most wish they look like at twenty. Yas, our beloved receptionist and friend is moving all the way West to Vancouver. Our hearts are sad and we’re all trying to spend as much time with her as possible before her move to The Promised Land. So we find a restaurant that’s more than a couple blocks away. I wear flats, as do most of us office clerks. Mackie, well, Mackie is the Queen of Ridiculous Shoe Land. “Bring flats,” we warn her, knowing perfectly well that she probably wont.

Oh, did I mention this was an email conversation? Did I also mention I don’t get the slang these kids are using nowadays? No? Good thing I got this cleared up.

“No one wants to carry this cheese factory around fireman style!” Mackie announces. Now, what I assume she meant was, like, cutting the cheese. You know, fart factory? So I reply with “You sure are a cheese factory!”


Count: one… two… three… four… the email version of the sideways glance. Until my sweetie Asher beside me pipes up:

“Tannis, do you know what a cheese factory is?”

Uh, like farts? She’ll be farting in our faces? No, apparently she’s talking about cellulite. Not only am I agreeing about her having cellulite, I “replied to all” thinking I was making a joke about Mackie’s flatulence.

“NO! That’s not what I meant! I was calling you gassy!”

The moral of this story is: that’s not any better than calling her fat…

Can I just go home now?