Office Wasteland

Bonjour people of the world.

After a shake-up in my professional career, the dust has settled somewhat. I’m in a new place, but the job is exactly the same. I do have a window, so I can actually see the outside world and get some natural light to balance out the fluorescents that I believe are sucking the life out of me.

Anyway, I have a job. I’m making money. I’m getting fat with baby. And in about 4 and a half months, I’ll be done with this place forever.

I feel like I’m floating with no purpose in my workplace, and even more frustrating is that I can’t do anything about it. I just have to sit and wait for some sort of direction from whoever wants to step up and be my boss.

Since I’ve been in this work purgatory for so long, I’m starting to think that I’m meant to learn something from this soul sucking experience. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me I’m not meant for this kind of life. The office life. The corporate office life. I just sit at my desk, stare at my computer screen, and watch the clock in between answering stupid emails and creating ridiculous spreadsheets. And I work in the entertainment industry. When I tell people what I do, they say “that’s so interesting!” But it isn’t.

If the universe is trying to tell me to get outta here, then I wish it would also tell me what it is I’m supposed to do about it until I get outta  here.

So universe, if you’ve got something to tell me – some sort of direction you want to point me in – spit it out already. I’d prefer not to waste my life away under the glow of fluorescents. Any help would be appreciated.


Happy New Year!/?

Good day non-existent readers.

We’re almost a month in to the new year, and wowwie zowwie, 2015 seems to be a wild one. For me, anyway. I don’t want to bore you, so I’ll stick with the highlights:

1. had my first ultrasound and was relieved to see a healthy little baby chillaxing in my uterus.

2. announced my pregnancy as my boss was about to lay me off, thwarting the firing, and annoying HR because now they need to find a new job for me.

3. had soul sucking meeting with HR that made me feel as though I was the scum of the earth, resulting in emotional breakdown once I got home.

4. started swimming lessons, and swimming laps; I plan on being a sexy pregnant lady this time around.

5. my toddler finally started shitting in the toilet again; I now believe there is a God. A poo god, anyway.

6. learned that waiting for HR to assign me to another job is probably what purgatory is like.

7. realized that although it sucks to be a victim of an attempted lay-off, I’m going to be just fine. At some point. If I don’t think about it too much.

8. found out my friend is engaged, and was asked to be the maid of honour.

9. found out another friend is engaged, but she’s been distant and I feel my recent exclusion from her life means she is done being my friend.

10. felt my baby move for the first time. It was wonderful.

11. Learned that another friend’s father lost his battle with cancer, adding to the list of good people that cancer has taken from the world too soon. (note: I miss my mother in law).

And that concludes the highlights of my first month of 2015. It certainly hasn’t been boring. It’s been exhausting.

I had originally planned on continuing my thoughts and ruminations on the impact these events have had on my life, but I don’t think I can any more. I’m still in the thick of it, so it’s too soon. Besides, it’s taking all of my energy to stay positive, and feel thankful for all the wonderful things in my life. Because I know that I’m a lucky girl, who like anyone else, has bouts of bad luck. And like anyone else, I need time to deal with those bouts of bad luck or else I’m going to turn into one of those people who pretend that everything is wonderful all the fucking time, until I finally crack, have a mental breakdown, refuse to vaccinate my children, join the church of Scientology, start praying to Xenu and voting for Stephen Harper. The horror…


Good day non-existent readers!

It’s been some time since my last entry. I suppose I was busy doing other things, but what exactly, I can’t say. I can’t say because I can’t really focus on anything right now. My mind and body are preoccupied with trying to create a freakin’ miracle (surprise, I’m pregnant), and apparently making miracles makes me want to barf.

I guess it makes sense. I’m creating life! I’m like Dr. Frankenstein, but my monster resides in my uterus. Like a parasite. Sucking the life from my body, and leaving me feeling woozy and sick. Damn, this baby better be cute…

But seriously, this whole nausea business sucks. Not only does it suck to suffer from stomach flu symptoms for WEEKS, but on top of that, you have to keep going to work and act like you feel peachy keen. Because you don’t want people to know that you’re pregnant! Because after all those weeks of nausea, and barfing, and exhaustion, and food aversions, you never know if your baby is going to be okay. And that really sucks.

In conclusion, I want to barf, I feel exhausted, I’m an emotional wreck, and except for my husband, I can’t tell a soul. Of course, since I can’t tell anyone, I turn to the place that never hears a word I say – my blog! Haha! I knew this horrible internet endeavour would pay off somehow.

And now that I’ve got all that off my chest, I’m going to go grab some lunch so I can look at it, and wonder whether or not eating it will make me barf.

Bon appetite!

The Curious Case of the Wasp and the Hated Husband


That’s what I yelled at my husband this morning. Harsh words, I know. But sometimes in marriage, you look at that person you share a life with, that spouse that you love unconditionally, and just want to throttle the life from them. But you don’t, because well, then you’d be a murderer and no one wants that.

After the words left my mouth, I was still in a rage, so I said them a few more times. He stared back at me in disbelief, and wisely stepped away from the situation. He’s calm like that. It drives me nuts.

So I said those hateful words a few times, and he left the room, and I went back to trying to tame my mane in order to get to work without looking like a fucking monster. All the while my brain can’t stop thinking things. For example the debate I had with myself over whether or not I should apologize for my choice words.

FYI: I apologize for just about everything. I was born feeling guilty and apologetic, so when there is an actual reason to feel sorry, the guilt is exponentially higher in me than your average functioning human being.

Nonetheless, the debate ended with me deciding NOT to apologize. Which then made me wonder if my unruly hair wasn’t the only monstrous thing about me.

For anyone reading this (not including me), you’re probably looking for some context. Fine. I’ll tell you what happened.

Basically a series of unfortunate events resulted in me having an allergic reaction from being stung by a wasp on my little toe. It was very sore, but I did my best to ignore the discomfort for as long as humanly possible; I don’t like to make a huge fuss out of these sorts of things. However last night, it became too much. My foot had swollen up, and was hot and incredibly itchy. I asked my loving husband of 9 years to please go to the drug store and get me some Benadryl. He didn’t think that was a good idea and instead found a cream for me, which he tenderly rubbed on my hobbit foot. He assured me it would help with the allergic reaction I was having to the wasp venom. I thanked him, and hoped that it would be better for work the next day.

During the night, I woke up itchy and scratching my throbbing foot relentlessly. Before I scratched my foot off entirely, I grabbed the cream and reapplied it in the dark. It seemed to assuage some of the discomfort, and I fell asleep again. I was still hopeful it would be fine by the morning.

Sure enough, the morning arrived, and much to my chagrin, my foot had only gotten worse. The swelling had spread and the itchiness became even more unbearable. I decided to put some more cream on. At first I couldn’t find it, which was weird since I had used it during the night. I asked my husband, and he said he had put it in the medicine cabinet. I didn’t have much time to consider how strange that was because the skin on my foot was hot and tingling and begging to be scratched, so I grabbed it and in the light of day, I finally realized what this fucking cream was, and why my dear husband was hiding it from me. He was hiding it because it was a fucking children’s ointment for mosquito bites. Sure it helped with some of the itch, but it certainly did nothing for the allergic reaction I was suffering. To my horror, I realized that my husband had placeboed me! In my hour of need, he lied to my face and gave me a goddamn placebo.

I put my trust in him, and he sends me to the allergic reaction wolves with a goddamn children’s ointment. That’s like treating a migraine with a hat. It’s like using a band aid for a broken bone. It’s like handing someone a Bic pen instead of an Epi pen. It’s ridiculous. It’s ludicrous. It’s infuriating. It’s outrageous! And this man is my emergency contact in life! He’d probably unplug my life support if he needed an outlet to charge his goddamn iphone! WHO THE HELL DID I MARRY?!

Anyway, after learning that he withheld important and vital information from me for the sole purpose of not having to get off the couch, I lost it. I lost it big time, and then I yelled. And then I declared my hatred for the man that I have so often professed my love for.

Now, if this doesn’t sound like a big deal to you, then you probably have never had an allergic reaction to wasp venom, and then been betrayed by your spouse. Because if you had, then you would absolutely think that this is a big fucking deal. HUGE.

It felt like the person that meant the most to me decided I wasn’t important enough. I wasn’t worth the effort. I wasn’t worth the time it would take to get in the car to retrieve some medicine, (which translates to about 10 to 15 minutes). And it hurt.

And so I yelled, “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

I don’t actually hate my stupid husband. But in that moment, those words flowed effortlessly from my lips. And I’m not apologizing for it. Perhaps it’s the Benadryl talking (which, by the way, I got on my own after shoving my misshapen foot into a stiff but sensible high heel shoe), but he deserved it.

Hell hath no fury as a woman suffering an allergic reaction to a wasp sting, and then given a placebo instead of real medicine! (Not exactly as poetic as Shakespeare, but you get the point.)

In conclusion, I hate wasps. I hate allergic reactions. But I don’t hate that I used the word “hate” when communicating my frustrations to the stupid man I love. And I’m certainly not going to apologize. But I may take a nap under my desk, because everything seems to be getting fuzzy right now…ahh, sweet over the counter medications, I love you…


Rage, RAGE against the dying of your disrupted night!

Good day non existent readers. What, you may ask, has driven me to add yet another post to this mediocre blog? Well, I’ll tell you. I had an experience last night. Not a good experience. No, not good at all. It was an experience so unwelcome that it has shaken me to my very core.  And without knowing what to do with the flood of emotions I’m dealing with in its aftermath, I’ve absolved to come to my blog, and send my thoughts soaring into the ether. Hopefully typing it out will prove to be cathartic. Perhaps it will help others who have had similar experiences (but I doubt that since, we’ve already established nobody reads this ridiculous blog). But who cares about all that. Let’s get on with it, already. Here’s what happened…

It all started with an innocent plan to spend some quality time with my family. What better way to make the most of our Sunday, I thought, then a trip to the art gallery. A little culture would be good for us, right? So we headed out, completely clueless that the universe was already conspiring against us. One plan after the other fell through. Emotions were running high. Temper tantrums. Arguments. Tears, and more tears. And this was all before we even got to the damn gallery. But we did make it and once my son realized that we were not at the museum to see the dinosaurs, he tried his best to keep his shit together. But like I said, it was a tough day.  Tempers were running high, and inevitably, the tears started flowing like a waterfall. It’s moments like these, moments when I can feel my sanity being pushed to the very edge, that I wonder why I didn’t just stay home and pop in a Disney movie instead.

But we survived. And when it finally came time for my son’s bedtime, I was ready. I tidied the house. I got my pjs on. My husband was going to reward my mothering efforts with a devilish trip for take-out from McDonald’s. We were going to eat junk food, and watch the new episode of Walking Dead. It was a great plan. I sat on the couch, picked up my book, and blissfully relished the quiet moment I had to myself, when something horrific happened. Something that would change the course of the evening entirely.

It started with a knock on the door. My dog leaped up from my side, barking like a lunatic at the intrusion. Who could that be, I thought. Who would disturb this tranquil moment, and how quickly can I get rid of them? What I hoped would be a stranger trying to sell me on religion, or new eaves troughs, was something much more horrific. The door flung open, and it was our friends, with their toddler.  That’s right, folks.  They decided it would be fun to “pop-in”.

And when I saw them, and I looked at my husband in disbelief, I hoped that they just wanted to drop something off. A quick hello, and then get lost. I mean, they couldn’t possibly be showing up uninvited on Sunday night to hang out with us. Clearly I was in shock, and in complete denial.  I didn’t want to give up on my quiet, indulgent evening at home. I had already dealt with a toddler all freaking day – why was there another one at my door?! This couldn’t be happening! And as they took their coats off, and their shoes, and the toddler got busy digging into my son’s toys that I had just finished putting away, leaving a path of  stuffed toys behind her, I knew that my night was no longer mine. And there was nothing I could do about it.

My fast food order was cancelled because now we had guests to entertain.

My clean house was destroyed deftly, like only a toddler could.

I feigned happiness at the surprise visit, and offered them drinks.

And once they were happily sitting on my couch, sipping on their beverages, there was nothing I could do but hang up my pjs, and put on my big girl pants.

I tried not to think about my empty stomach, or the fact that I was going to miss the new episode of Walking Dead, because it’s simply not suitable for a toddler. A toddler that should be in bed, at her own home!

No, I tried to make the best of their visit.  They are our friends after all. Maybe I should be flattered that they wanted to see us. Maybe that’s one way to look at it. But after the day I had, this was not my reaction. I just couldn’t shake the feeling of how f-ing pissed off I was about this whole situation.

Of course, I didn’t tell them to get the hell out of my home. I definitely thought it, but I didn’t say it. We didn’t even tell them that we hadn’t eaten yet. We didn’t want to be rude.

But weren’t they rude? Weren’t THEY the ones that couldn’t pick up a damn phone to warn us that they were coming? What’s wrong with THEM?! THEY’RE the crazy ones, not ME!

But this rage stayed bottled up. It would have been inappropriate to unleash it on them. Not only would it have been inappropriate, but it could have been downright ugly. Someone could have gotten hurt. And with a toddler present, I thought it best to keep my rage to myself.

By the time these home invaders finally meandered to the door, and slowly put on their coats, and boots, and the toddler had chased my dog around for the last time, I had accumulated an enormous amount of rage. A Hulk sized portion of the stuff. Not only was I angry at the intrusion, but I was STARVING. All I wanted was a burger. A simple pleasure that my rage filled soul desperately needed.  But once we finally closed the door on our uninvited guests, my husband informed me that it was much too late for him to pick me up a burger.  No, instead, he was going to eat some leftover salad. Did I want some?, he asked.

No.  I did not want a stupid silly leftover salad, with limp lettuce and sad little radishes. What I wanted was gluttonous burger. A big greasy burger with a side of peace and quiet. And as my dear husband was eating this horrid salad, I realized that this small “pop-in” had turned me into a monster. I was Godzilla and my husband was a tiny Japanese businessman whose life I wanted to destroy.  How dare he sit there so calmly, eating his puny salad! THE NERVE!

And so before I could act on my feelings of rage, I announced I was going to bed. The day had won. It had kicked my butt, and before I kicked anyone back, I had to call it a day. My rumbling stomach was not happy, but it soon realized, like I did, that after the atrocities perpetrated against us tonight, we had to take a stand. It was unfortunate that it came in the form of a hunger strike, but like I told my stomach, in the absence of our Big Mac, all we had was each other.

And while I lay in bed, seething with rage, burning with hunger, tossing and turning sleeplessly, I thought to myself, never again.  Never again will someone pop in on me. I will take a stand against the uninvited guest. I will share my story with anyone who’ll listen, so that they won’t ever participate in this despicable behaviour. The pop-in, as harmless as it sounds, is a destructive act that only disrupts and destroys the calm and quiet in its path.

Heed my words, non-existent readers, if you ever think it might be fun to “pop-in” on your friend, DON’T! It’s not cool. It’s the exact opposite of cool. It’s selfish. No matter how awesome you think you are, there’s nothing quite like robbing a friend of some much needed rest and relaxation. The whimsy that you think you’re creating, is actually just a gigantic ball of rage.  A big monster sized ball of rage that just might destroy a whole town, or city. And if you still can’t restrain yourself from the “pop-in”, pick up the damn phone and call first. That won’t kill you, will it? But not calling first just might.


I dedicate this blog to the Big Mac that never was…

It’s been too long

Good day non-existent readers!  It’s been awhile since my last post.  I have no excuse for my absence, except that I was too busy living my mediocre life to write a blog entry for no one to read.  Alas, the dry spell is over, and I am feverishly tap tap tapping at the keyboard for you.  You’re welcome!

What’s new?  It’s a new year.  As of today, it’s the year of the horse.  What does that mean? For me it means I’m getting older.  Ageing isn’t new though – it’s more of an ongoing process.  And the alternative is death, so ageing isn’t too shabby.  Nonetheless, I’m pondering my age since I keep getting older.  And this is what I’ve been thinking:


I look older in photographs.  Not so much in video or real life situations (maybe because my quick movements make it difficult for the human eye to assess age properly).  It doesn’t bother me that much, because I’ve always vowed to embrace my changing face.  But maybe it’s time to freshen up my look.  Maybe it’s time to shake things up.  The older I get, the bolder I should be with my look.  How old do I have to be to pull off a fruit basket hat?  I think that bananas could really bring out the yellow in my teeth.


I could joke about being as stupid as I ever was, but the truth is, I’ve grown.  I’ve progressed.  I’ve become a different person over the years.  And that’s good.  But where will it end?  And is there a point in which I will get worse, not better?  Or maybe I haven’t grown at all, and I’ve regressed, and what I think is growth is actually just decay?  So many questions. But the point is, that the person that I was 10 years ago, even 5 years ago is long gone.  For better or for worse.  I’m okay with that, but there is a part of me that feels bummed about it.  Also I’m afraid of what I’m going to become.  I suppose if I don’t turn into a total jerk then I should be happy about that.


As I get older, I sometimes feel like I’m wasting my life.  More so than I did when I was younger.  Time just feels more fleeting.  My kid keeps getting older, which is a constant reminder that I’m getting older.  My brain just keeps yelling at me: What are you doing with your life!  But I am doing stuff.  And then with social media, and work, if I see people who are 10 years younger than me accomplishing things I’m still working at, I feel that nagging twinge of jealousy in the pit of my stomach.  Then I feel like a petty person, and remind myself that I’m doing just fine.  But it’s a nasty way to feel when others are doing well.  I’m going to assume it’s normal, and give myself a break.  But my plan is that if I keep working hard, and making sure I make the most of my life, I will minimize the feeling of regret that I may have if I die in a slow kind of way, which will allow too much time to wallow in negativity.


While I age, so do my friends.  And with all that changing, maybe I don’t like some of them like I used to.  Maybe I don’t have time for negative Nellies, or self-involved Stuarts.  Or maybe I just don’t have the money to pay for birthday and Christmas presents for their growing families!  One kid, two kids, three kids each, and suddenly my closet around Christmas time resembles a toy hoarder.  And then I have to WRAP them.  And I barely even know your kids, because you’re too busy dealing with your kids to see me the rest of the year.  Is this a friendship or a cash grab?!  Okay, clearly I’m lucky to have any friends with my attitude.


I’m getting older.  I’m changing.  Things are changing around me.  One day I’m not going to understand the crazy music the kids listen to, and I probably will be deaf too, so I won’t be able to even hear it.  What am I going to do about it?  I’m going all in.  Through all the life changes I’ve gone through, the losses, the gains, the growing pains, I’ve learned one thing: no regrets.  I don’t want to regret anything.  So I’m going to take advantage of the time I’ve got in this life, and hopefully have some fun, and with any luck, accomplish something that I’m proud of.

Happy Chinese New Year everybody!

WANTED: a brain

I am at work.  

This statement is true in the physical sense.  I AM at work.  I can tell because when I focus long enough, I recognize that I’m in my office, at my desk.  

My windowless, beige little office with its florescent overhead lighting that is designed to suck the life out of all who dare step under its glow.

It’s actually not that bad.

Anyway, since I ticked off all the tasks on my to-do list this morning, my brain has taken a leave of absence.  Without my brain, my productivity takes a major nose dive.  So in the mental sense, I am not at work.

So if I’m not at work, where the hell am I?

I don’t know.  

While I ponder my existence, I’m going to grab a coffee.  Maybe the caffeine will snap my synapses back to where they ought to be, and I’ll get back to being the productive worker bee that I claim to be.