I really don’t understand the decorating aesthetic of boutique eyeglass shops. At all. I mean, I’m talking complete and utter bemusement here. Is it a Vancouver thing? Is it a city bylaw that if you’re a trendy little eyewear shop, you have to design your window display to be maximally incomprehensible and 100% unrelated to the services you provide?
Because these stores, without fail, have the weirdest shit in their windows year-round. Sometimes it takes me a full minute of staring from the sidewalk just to realize what the store’s meant to be selling.
The needle on my WTF Meter just screamed and broke off.
Pop quiz! You’re walking down the street and catch a quick glimpse of Fifty Shades of Hipster here out of the corner of your eye.
a) recoil because AAAaaAAaaaAGH CREEPY YARN MAN,
b) assume the store either sells knitting supplies or is owned by cats,
c) start getting ideas on how to spice things up a bit in the bedroom,
d) feel a wave of inferiority because Creepy Yarn Man has a better mustache than you,
e) immediately recognize that of course this is an eyeglass shop, Nutty, DUH, and decide on the spot that anyone who comes up with a window display like this must be without question the best candidate with whom to entrust the continued health and well-being of your eyes and vision.
I wonder if the store’s in-house opticians ever question their life choices on their way in to work.
Because no offense to them, but no matter how qualified and professional you might be, I’m not coming to you for a contact lens fitting if I feel like I need to have two infinity scarves on and a safe word ready just to walk through your door.
Even if Creepy Yarn Guy’s mustache is positively fabulous.
Normally I turn my nose up at getting out the Christmas decorations before December 1st, but as the weather forecast for the next week is looking very shitty indeed, I figured I should at least put the outdoor lights up this weekend so I wouldn’t have to do it in the freezing rain later on.
I was going to stop at the lights, but of course once I got those done I felt very accomplished and pleased with myself, so before I knew it I was back up on the stepladder in the closet sorting through boxes and bags to see what else I could get a head start on.
Long story short, it’s November 29th and we’re just a plate of cookies and a glass of milk shy of Santa breaking and entering in order to skulk around under our tiny tree.
I even dropped by Pier 1 before decorating the tree and added four new birds and two deer to my ornament menagerie, because Christmas isn’t Christmas without eighteen pairs of adorable eyes peeking out at you from your fake fir branches.
Nutty’s Artificial Animal Sanctuary, Xmas 2015.
“What’s the big idea, lady? This ain’t the North Pole!”
I realized after the fact that it was actually a really good idea to set the tree up early, because it turns out adorably crafty birds made of twigs and burlap and straw are much cuter to look at than that one derpy light on our color-changing LEDs that refuses to turn green anymore.
WHY YOU GOTTA BE DIFFERENT, CARL?
I don’t know why I named the derpy light Carl. It’s just one of those things that wandered into my head and happened to stick.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my buddies who hail from the land of stars, stripes, and crying eagles.
As a Canadian who already got all this crap out of the way a month ago, American Thanksgiving feels a little like deja vu, but I do have to give you credit for having yours on a Thursday because thanks to Black Friday you guys have basically managed to milk that shit into a full-blown four day weekend.
Whereas with our inferior Monday version, we have to go back to work on Tuesday like suckers instead of getting up at 5am and lining up for the chance to trample people over discounted merchandise at Walmart.
So go forth, my clever friends. Eat, drink, be merry, be safe, and always remember the most important thing:
No matter how much I love my friends, some days I just can’t handle the sheer amount of bullshit that shows up in my news feed.
Yet another alarmist urban myth posted by someone who still hasn’t figured out how to Google the validity of something before they click “Share”.
Yet another rabid anti-vaxxer going on a tirade about how she shouldn’t have to poison her little darling just because a few losers with weak immune systems don’t want to be infected with something they might die from.
Yet another spammy event invite from someone who’s turned their entire FB account into one big sales schtick and wants me to buy Tupperware/firming cream/weight-loss shakes/organic hemp karma-boosting sandals from them, and hey, would I maybe think about joining up and selling this shit myself so they can get a 10% referral bonus?
Yet another wall of hate speech about how Obama is ruining America, citing a dozen hyper-biased sites run by conspiracy theorists as peer-reviewed sources.
It’s only a matter of time before every last actual person on my friends list winds up hidden and I’m greeted each day by a news feed consisting only of Mental Floss lists and Oatmeal comics.
My one regret will be that there are no more brilliant AutoCorrect fails to liven up my mornings.
It’s okay, AutoCorrect.
It wouldn’t be the first time alcohol has resulted in children.
Today is one of those days where sitting still is agony.
As I rearrange my legs yet another way to try and achieve some semblance of comfort in my rigid office chair, everything in my body is screaming for me to leap to my feet and run. To go do cartwheels in a field; crash a Zumba class; sprint down the road to the Fraser River and just dive in, water quality be damned.
I’ve gone to the bathroom four times this morning, just for an excuse to get up and do something.
This is a sad state to have arrived at, I realize, when I reflect upon my life thus far. A very sad state of being for me indeed.
I have climbed mountains.
I have snowboarded down other mountains.
I have cycled lakeside hills and forest trails. Run long distances over plains and in stadiums. I have walked unnecessarily long stretches in the dark and the cold, over city bridges and along country roads, when the thought of being squeezed into a bus like a sardine was too much to bear.
I was not built for stillness.
And yet I sit in this office, day after day, moving nothing but my arms and hands, to either type or bring coffee to my lips.
I was strongly cautioned politely informed in advance that Christmas parties hosted by my husband’s work have a reputation for getting a little crazy.
As the last real corporate Christmas party I attended involved several dozen of our store’s finest getting good and plastered on a dinner cruise in the harbor, the drunken (and somehow unnoticed) theft of an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels from a bar by one of the new cashiers, and one of our full-time deli girls threatening physical violence against the coat check girl at a strip club (don’t ask), yesterday’s event had quite the precedent to live up to.
Ah, disappointment, we meet again.
I don’t get it. Champagne and sangria shoved into our hands at the door. Wine glasses topped up after the smallest sip. Reminders every two minutes that, “It’s open bar, guys, so go nuts!” There was every opportunity for alcoholic excess and lowered inhibitions.
We saw maybe one drunken wobble all night.
C’mon guys, it’s like you weren’t even trying. Responsibly tipsy? What kind of entertainment value is there in that? I was promised pure inebriated chaos, dammit!
But I guess that’s just the kind of letdown you can expect from from a Christmas party held in freakin’ November.
Ladies (I’m being sexist here and assuming it’s mostly women who can relate to this one), do you ever feel an irrational sense of betrayal when your preferred brand of hair dye changes their packaging, or is it just me?
Okay, so I hate change in general when it comes to beauty products (but I didn’t ask for “new and improved” foundation, people, I liked the old one just fine the way it was thankyouveryfuckingmuch), but hair dye is, in my opinion, the worst offender.
Maybe it’s because I suck at noting down the precise code name and secret identity of my latest choice in boxed tress transformation that this riles me up so much. Did I last dye my hair with “medium reddish brown” or “radiant auburn”? Color number C53 or AK47?
Fuck if I know.
So when I get to the drugstore, what do I do? Why, I search for a familiar face, of course. I’m far better at remembering the model on the box than the written details of the hair hue she’s sporting. She’s my coif cousin. My shade sister. She gets me.
At least, she does until the cruel bastards at L’Oréal or Garnier or Clairol get it into their head that their packaging needs an update, and replace my pigment pal with some new tramp who apparently thinks she can just step in and take my bff’s place.
I DON’T THINK SO, MISSY.
You think you can just bump Sarah* off and waltz onto my dye box with those hipster bangs and resting bitch face, and I’m supposed to pretend we’re cool and play along? HUH?
Fuck that noise.
You just watch yourself.
*Naturally I have no way of knowing what my hair bff’s real name actually was, so I just named her Sarah.