My Tuesday has been a Benny Hill-style comedy of errors: traffic jams, misdirections, roads that don’t go where they’re supposed to, and a pharmacist trying to kill me. I knew I was in for a bad day by the time 9:30am rolled around, but I still held out hope that the day would simmer down now and I wouldn’t find myself being chased by Keystone Cops all around my living room as a cat ran away with my bra.

Of all the stupid things that have gone wrong today, I’m most annoyed at the pharmacist who wasn’t smarter than me. I am generally a self-sufficient person; able to make enormous leaps of logic in the blink of an eye – but sometimes it’s nice to encounter people whose career path is dedicated to ensuring I don’t die in a tragic yet hilarious accident. Pharmacology is a perfect example of an area in which I expect people to be smarter than me – they’re in charge of ALL THE DRUGS, and it is not at all reassuring to me if someone in charge of ALL THE DRUGS can’t spot a glaringly obvious lapse in medicinal logic.

My one dose of cure for my crazies is made up of two pills: 150mg of sanity, and 37.5mg of sanity. This dose of 187.5mg of sanity is a bit of a pain in the ass, but one that works for me because I just have to be a special fucking snowflake at all times. It also means that instead of one prescription for one pill I take once a day, I get two prescriptions for two pills. Fine, whatever. I get my medication in 90-day doses so I don’t have to really think about it, and when I get home I dump all the pills into one container for easy popping and then I ignore it all until I can see the bottom of the pill container and put plans in motion to get more drugs.

Last night I realized I only had enough sanity for three more days, so I dug up my prescription info and pressed some magic buttons to get more. I picked up my meds today after work, and that’s when everything WENT TO HELL ALL OVER: because all my meds were in one container, I forgot that there were actually two different kinds in there and that I had two prescriptions, not one. I only refilled one, picked it up, and went on my merry way – and this is why I’m so pissed off, because it says right on the fucking bottle TAKE 187.5MG OF SANITY DAILY YOU FUCKING CRAZY PERSON. Any pharmacist smarter than me – and that should be fucking ALL OF THEM – should have noticed they were only providing me with 150mg of sanity, looked into my drug history, and seen an additional refill for the missing 37.5mg. Then they should have ASKED ME ABOUT IT, because they are my pharmacist and making sure people don’t kill themselves by taking their meds wrong is kind of their job. If they had looked and put the clues together and mentioned it to me, I would have went OH SHIT YOU ARE RIGHT PLZ REFILL THE OTHER ONE TOO I WILL WAIT THANK YOU SO MUCH I AM DUMB and then I would have went home with ALL my meds and I wouldn’t be abusing the capslock on my laptop right now.

But NO.

That DID NOT HAPPEN.

So now I have to call in the refill and go to the store again to pick up the rest of my damn meds, which will cost me way too fucking much money.

.. which is also part of the problem, because my – Ed’s, actually – benefits are fucked up thanks to his new company, and the usual 90% coverage was denied because that isn’t our drug plan any more.

Oh, and let’s not mention that to you at all until you’re at the till and your purchase comes to $150 instead of the $60 you were expecting and there’s a huge line now and you really have to pee so you’re just going to have to pay for the fucking thing and hope to hell it can be sorted out later.

GODDAMNIT PHARMACIST STOP BEING SO FUCKING USELESS

I AM ANNOYED

LOOK AT ALL THESE CAPITAL LETTERS

Also, the novelty of driving to Langley each day has worn off and I will be really glad to a) go back to taking the bus downtown to work and b) not be in Langley anymore and c) not work 12-hour days as of Thursday.

I wrote an angry letter to the store, taking them to task for not being smarter than me. I wonder if I’ll hear back from them.

I’m in Langley!

It smells like outdoors and it is hot!

Hooray for variety!

(seriously, I don’t have time to write – I’m at an off-site meeting!)

It’s been a long week around these parts. I’ve been struggling lately with a lot of deep, loomy things: self-image, the inevitable and unwelcome reality of getting older, indignent rage, the loss of self (I miss being relevant) – y’know, good time stuff. It’s left me quiet and melancholy, which I frankly don’t have time for. Summer is finally here, I’m delightfully busy at work, and planning for our London trip has started. I don’t need or want to be sad or angry, but I’m kind of both at the moment. It’s stupid. Where’s the unsubscribe button?

This pretty much sums up how I’m feeling these days:

It was a busy long weekend; one I’m not yet recovered from. I got my haircut and brows waxed on Friday, henna’d my hair on Saturday (while reading horrible books), played a lot of Diablo 3. Things were kind of lazy and pantless until Sunday, which is just how I like it (and how I’m quite seriously counting down the seconds until I can go home tonight to continue my life of pantless leisure), but eventually the siren song of the grocery store won out: I needed supplies for Heather’s birthday SBBQ. Full up of meat and gummies, we went home for a whirlwind afternoon of dip preparation before dragging Josh and Shan up a mountain later that evening: it was Canada Day, and there were fireworks to behold from far, far away:

boom

kerplowie

Not shown: 7 mosquito bites and the wicked black lung I got from the second-hand smoke. Thanks for sharing, assholes. I wasn’t there for the fresh mountain air, or anything.

Monday was the stat in lieu of Canada Day, and it was a busy one. We were supposed to be going to a SBBQ at Josh and Shan’s place, in honour of Heather’s birthday (which is today – go wish her a happy day), but the weather wasn’t playing along. Rather than move the party to a pub, I suggested we hold it at SPARTA instead. All important parties agreed, and just like that I went from spending an afternoon out to hosting 18-ish people in our house for the evening. I hadn’t had nearly enough sleep, but I leapt out of bed and started cleaning. Luckily, the house wasn’t THAT bad – no matter how much Ed complains about the horrible filth we live in, it really only takes us a couple of hours to do a deep clean. We were ready for guests by 1pm, and more importantly, ready for the delivery of the secret cake:

apparently, daleks are chocolate inside

Hooray for surprises! The cake was made by Candice of Love Your Cake, and was completely delicious. Between the awesome cake and the disturbing amounts of food people brought over, everyone was stuffed into oblivion and beyond – I don’t think I want to look at another piece of meat, let alone put it in my mouth.The weekend festivities led to an extremely slow start to my morning, but the week has officially started rolling again – it helps that the week is almost half over already, thanks to the Monday off. Still, I need a great big squishy nap to sleep off all the cake I ate.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HEATHER! WE LOVE YOU!

Sleeping now.

• Number of references to penis: 56
• Number of different words used: 2
• Number of times “erection” is used: 55
• Number of times “cock” is used as a noun instead of a verb: 1
• Over three books, where “cock” appears as opposed to “erection”: Third book, in the epilogue, 96% of the way through
• Number of different references to vagina: 2 (“vagina”, 2 per books 1 and 2; “down there“, too many times to count)
• Number of times I rolled my eyes: SEVENTY MILLION

So glad I’m done with all that tripe. Back to Penthouse Forums!

As revenge for spreading the Twilight books around my social circle like a plague, Heather sent me all three 50 Shades books yesterday. I was going to ignore them, but I was struck by a sudden bout of sadomasochism – one far more real than anything remotely depicted in those books – and I dove in. I had just slopped a fresh batch of henna on my head, and was trapped in the house for at least eight hours .. how bad could the books be, anyway?

Completing the first book broke my brain entirely, resulting in the down there post below.

Then for some fucking stupid reason, I cracked open the second book around 1am. I can’t put down an unfinished book, so 5am saw me finishing the second and annoyed as all hell that these things are so popular. GOOD GOD THEY’RE BAD. I gave myself an eyeball hernia from rolling my eyes so many times. How can you possibly write a sexy times book when a) you never, whether by dirty slang or scientific terms, mention the word “penis” AT ALL, b) your sex-crazed heroine is still shocked and giggly at being touched down there (and I swear to god, the author used the exact same down there when he finally stuck a finger up her butt), the only term of endearment used throughout the book is “baby”, and it gets really creepy, and d) everything else that’s wrong with these fucking things.

I hope to god that there are no inexperienced virgins reading these books and getting their sex education from within. For starters, not all women have an orgasm during their first time (let alone more than one). For seconds, giving good head takes PRACTICE – you don’t look at your very first dick ever and suddenly you’re an idiot savant with no gag reflex. And thirds, you don’t soap someone up and THEN go to town down there – soap tastes nasty.

Oh, one more: when you’re writing a series of three scandalously depraved sex books and the only time the word “cock” comes up is as a verb – characters are constantly cocking their heads to and fro like fucking puppies – then SOMETHING IS VERY VERY WRONG.

There’s one more book to go. Depending on how much I hate myself later, I may read it this evening to get it over with (I hate not knowing what happens, even if it happens terribly).

DOWN THERE

His words echoed in my ears, tickling the sensitive bones deep in *there*. I stood glued to the floor, incomprehensive with shock. “What did you say?”, I whispered.

“We’re out of olive oil”, he muttered, not looking at me.

My world spun as the words tumbled from his full, lush lips; lips I’ve dreamt of biting and kissing until his entire body was swimming in my digestive juices. I shook my head and hugged myself as if trying to keep the gravity of the situation out of my heart. Out of olive oil? I always knew that I was not good enough for olive oil; it didn’t make sense that it would want to belong to me. I’m nothing special – just a normal woman of above average intelligence and enormous breasts that heave and jiggle in the golden light of the tropical rainforest I call home; with a good job in a first world country, never lacking for anything – yet for some reason, I feel as though this bottle of oil is so otherworldly and special that it doesn’t rightfully belong to me. I grip the counter to steady myself, and lift my eyes to his.

“None at all?”, I ask in a voice that trembled much less than my legs. I was fairly proud of that.

“Nope. We’ve got vegetable oil, though. Just use that”, he suggested as though nothing had changed between us. I knew, though, that things would never be the same again. Even as I silently cursed olive oil in my head, I wanted to throw myself at the empty bottle and beg, plead, offer anything if it would only give up one drop to me. I blushed furiously at the memory of last week, knowing the oil had been deep inside me, significantly lowering my risk of coronary heart disease thanks to the higher proportion of monounsaturated fats. Memories are all I had left, though – I raised my head high and steeled myself to look into his luminous eyes, throwing my hair back and pretending his words didn’t cut me to my very core.

“I don’t believe you. Let me look in the cupboard.”

I stormed past his astonished face and flung open the pantry doors. Frantically, I pawed through the canned foods – who could possibly need that many beans?, I wondered – until finally, just as I had given up hope, I spied something buried under sixteen opened boxes of pasta: a bottle of olive oil.

—

Later, as I curled up on a couch reading a book written in the mid-1800s because I can’t run the risk of having to compare myself against other female protagonists with some semblance of spirit and spunk, I let the tears come. Damn olive oil, anyway. Damn the no more than 0.8% acidity and the superior taste that comes from only the finest olives in all of Mediterrania. Hot, salty tears splashed on my alabaster cheeks as my insides wracked with agony – not physical pain, but pain from FEELINGS. Would I ever learn? How could I trust his what he said when I tingled down there; down in my most secret moist places that I, as an adult woman, can’t possibly refer to in clinical non-coy terms? I clenched my legs, feeling a reluctant thrill through my frilly froo-froo fur cave. Why? Why, damnit? WHY?

BC Ghost Ship is a good deal less scary than movie Ghost Ship – for starters, fewer dead bodies (that we could see) and no one getting cut in half via tourniquet guillotine trip wire thingie. That being said, it’s still spooky as all hell:

strange boat adrift on the ocean, happened upon by four people out exploring. yeah, that doesn’t sound like the start of a horror movie AT ALL.

The boat was obviously a BC Ferry, but in a place it had no business being. The water was calm and I didn’t have to pee, so we decided to get a little closer.

where did that mysterious fog come from? it was so nice out just seconds ago! *

something is just not right here – and is that a theremin i hear?

is that bag dripping blood?

Never have I ever so very, very badly wanted to throw caution to the wind and EXPLORE THAT BOAT, but we were not equipped for urban exploration (or fighting off a team of crazed hillbillies wielding chainsaws and wearing suits of skin) and were paying for our boat rental by the hour, so we didn’t stop. I want to go back, though, so bad. The boat calls to me. It .. sings. I hear it singing. It’s lonely, and it wants me to return. And stay. Forever, and ever, and ever.

do you hear laughing children?

We had seen a couple boats in the area as we approached the boat, but while we were within gaping distance we were utterly alone. It was hands down the creepiest thing we’ve ever stumbled across (well, second creepiest for me – that dismembered deer leg I found once in downtown Victoria was still worse), and so confusing: why? It wasn’t always there; Ed and I have made that boat loop at least 4 times before, and this was the first we’ve ever come across a seemingly abandoned  BC Ferry. The name of the boat had been painted over, but you could still make out the letters beneath: it was the Queen of Saanich; a boat I have been on before. For some strange reason, that wasn’t a comforting thing to know – oh, here’s a boat I’ve got history with, all rusted out and broken down in a hidden cove for no reason at all. No big deal! Except yes big deal, because it was CREEPY AS SHIT.

unsettling.

And yet .. well, what are you doing tomorrow?

Bring gloves.

i was the only survivor.

*: the fog came from my boobs. I have a bad habit of storing things in my bra, and that’s where I was keeping my iPhone zoom lens – I grew warm in my excitement, and the condensation collected on my lens. I mean, it was a ghost fog. Yep, totally ghost fog and not sweaty boob fog.

I ate the raspberry panna cotta, and it was sublime. And, just as I expected: the twisty cup proved to be immediately useful when the tasty treat was gone!

Just look at all the useful things I did:

rice! creepily flesh-like laundry detergent pods! hello kitty! upside down jesus playing hockey!

But wait – there’s MORE!

pickles! decapitated heads! canadian tire money! “foot cream”!

So worth that guy cutting his hand open while making my lunch.

I know I said I was going for an Angry Lunch, but I didn’t actually require any bloodshed.

I’ve had a rough morning at work, so I opted to get my favourite sandwich* for lunch. My Angry didn’t really go away even with the thought of deliciousness because people are stupid (hey, rich tourist lady with the multiple Holt Renfrew bags in the crazy long lunch hour line up, letting your kid stand in the middle of the narrow walkway blocking traffic while you take up all the room with your huge stroller and then proceed to ask what’s on the menu and what’s in each item? FUCK YOU), but I placed my order and stood back to wait for my food to be ready. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Then there was more waiting, and I was starting to pout a little when they realized that I hadn’t received my food yet. The kitchen manager came over to apologize and to let me know what happened:

Apparently someone was making my lunch (with extra deliciousness) when he SLICED HIS HAND WIDE OPEN and bled all over the universe. In the rush to get himself some badly needed first aid, he forgot to tell someone what he was in the middle of doing – so my order was forgotten. Manager man was full of apologies, which I didn’t need – my lunch made someone bleed! After reassuring me the guy was okay, he insisted on giving me some dessert for my trouble. I told him to pick something for me, and he gave me this:

i am not one to turn down free things with raspberries on the top

It’s panna cotta with raspberry goo on top, in a REALLY COOL TWISTY CUP. I am almost more excited about the cup than I am the delicious goo inside, but overall I am pretty pleased with the outcome.

Um, and I feel bad for the guy who sliced himself open.

*: yeah, I have a favourite sandwich now. I try not to talk about it, given my rage towards all other sandwiches – but it’s cool; this sandwich is kind of like having a black friend so clearly I can’t be racist.