Tiredness – Rant and Roll

I’ve never felt this way before

Ladies and gentlemen, do I ever have a treat for all of you!

Feast your eyes and ears on this majesty:

IT’S GUNS ‘N ROSES ON THE GUZHENG.

Holy smokes.

So, in my former life (a when I actually had time to sit down and troll ridiculous things on the interwebs) I used to come across lots of cool and irreverent videos, and enjoy parcelling them out to friends and families in the form of facebook posts or late night e-mails.

(Seriously, I always tell people that I have both an MA in Political Science as well as an MA in YouTube, what with the amount of time I spent surfing this website during my time in grad school.)

Now, I have to get my cool stuff from the radio (re: listening to As it Happens betwixt the hours of six and eight on CBC Radio 1) when I am careening about from one post-work activity to the next.

URG I’M SORRY DUDES.

I totally don’t want to be that girl who just talks about how busy she is all the live long day.

It’s just that I am.

I am so that girl.

And the crazy thing?

Even when I try not to be busy – when I put real effort into streamlining my life, and make a conscious effort to take on less extracurricular activities, it doesn’t seem to make a darn difference.

Not one iota.

In the words of the immortal Liz Lemon: What the what?

How is this even possible?!

Anyways, I’ve had my mini-rant, and I’m not going to mention it again (for at the very least the next week and a half.)

And if I do, it is totally your prerogative to call me on my crap. There are just way too many fantastic, funny, and fundamentally freaky thing going on in the world these days, and I need remember that my exhaustion meter ranks about 0.1 on the importance scale.

Coolcoolcool?

Cool.

So what else has been happening?

Well, Breaking Bad finally ended.

(Finally broke?)

Marc and I watched the series finale last Sunday night, and then spent a good couple of hours dissecting the episode (and the show as a whole – as we were wont to do after the majority of season five episodes.)

Do any of you cats watch the show?

I honestly think it is the best thing I have ever watched in my entire life.

(Yes, even better than The Wire.)

OH YEAH. I SAID IT.

I’ve also been reading a lot of Voltaire and listening to Franz Ferdinand’s newest album on repeat like a maniac.

THAT BAND IS MY VINCE GILLIGAN OF MUSIC.

Phew.

This post is a veritable dog’s breakfast of topics, is it not?

And in that vein, I want to end with a memory:

The year is 1998. I am twelve years old and I am in grade seven. As a newly pubescent human being, I am cognisant of the existence of the male sex, but mostly just think that all the boys in my class are weird, smelly, idiots.

Despite this, I still desperately want all of them to fall in love with me.

The fact that I am approximately seven to ten inches taller than all of them further complicates things.

My favourite outfit consists of a tight long sleeved black shirt that has a red and white stripe running across the chest (a hand-me-down from my older sister), levi blue jeans (!!!) and red Doc Martin boots (purchased after saving up eleven months of my allowance money.)

One spring night, my mum asks me if I want to go see a movie with her.

What movie? I inquire.

Les Miserables, she responds.

Sure, I say. Why not?

We walk to the Varsity movie theatre, just up the street from where we live. We buy popcorn and drink water.

My immediate reaction to the start of the film is that I have never before seen a man like Liam Neeson.

Watching him on the screen makes me feel a weird and shirty.

It’s a sensation I’ve never before felt.

And I kind of like it.

When we leave I try and nonchalantly tell my mum that I think the guy playing Jean Valjean is very handsome.

She nods and agrees with me.

He’s definitely nothing like any of the boys in my class, I think.

And probably taller than me too.

…

So that’s all friends!

Happy Friday to each and every one of you.

I wish for you all the love.

And all the weird, shirty feelings you can handle!

Lovers to bed, tis almost fairy time.

Dudes.

A couple nights ago, as I was getting ready for bed (WAY, WAY PAST MY PREFERRED BEDTIME), I turned to my husband and said:

“I have a really great idea for what we should do this weekend.”

He paused, mid-floss and said, “Let’s hear it.”

“NOTHING,” I said. “Let’s do absolutely nothing.”

He laughed, and agreed, saying that my plan sounded tip-top, lindy hop.

Now comes the rub: We have to actually STICK TO THIS AGREEMENT.

(As you might imagine, the two of us have a really, really hard time saying no.)

The one event standing in the way of an extreme rest extravaganza is my stand-up gig tonight downtown (off which I am of course incredibly excited about.)

However, if I don’t concentrate on getting a whack-ton of rest post-show, it’ll be bad times in the Maritimes. Sure, the old adage may be I’ll sleep when I’m dead, but I don’t want that to come true next Thursday at approximately five thirty in the evening.

JUST SAYING.

Anywho, in the interim, let’s see what’s cooking in ye olde Cosmic Kitchen of life shall we?

FRY-UP TIME!

Lost in translation.

We received this flyer in our mailbox earlier this week:

Suffice to say that it did a fantastic job of bringing forth all the laughs.

Also, it serves as an excellent example of why individuals should really monitor their use of Google Translation, particularly the importance of not using it for translations longer than one sentence.

Although I do really like the idea of bringing back “trading hours.”

It makes me think that I’m living in the wild, wild west.

Or some turn of the century port town.

Either or really.

Onwards!

An assault on good taste.

I was grooving about the aisles of H&M the other day when I espied this mannequin:

HOLY SMOKES.

I just – I just don’t know anymore.

I was with a friend who was trying on ACTUAL clothing (like, fit to be seen in daylight and everything) so I didn’t really think it would be appropriate if I took off in order to scrounge up all the makings of this offending outfit, just so I could take a photo of myself in the dressing room and then kill myself laughing at my reflection.

(This is also why it is important that I don’t spend more time alone during my lunch hours.)

(Jen I love you!)

But seriously – is this what the cool kids are wearing these days? I mean, I’m all for keeping an open mind (I like to think I’m mellowing in my old age) but this is rather crazy.

Do the kids who wear this dreck even know Johnny Depp pre-Pirates of the Caribbean? I mean, even I’m too young to know Crybaby.

Also, I’m worried that we just aren’t trying to do anything new fashion-wise anymore and that we are just going to recycle everything from the 20th century over and over again, until the day the sun supernovas, and the stars fade away.

So stop making me have all this silly anxiety fashion world! Hop to it with the creativity!

Sheesh.

Sing it loud.

So I haven’t had many chances to curl up in front of the television of late, so unfortunately I have no tv or movie recommendations for you this Friday. Also, since we don’t have cable and netflix’s offerings have been total bollocks of late, I probably wouldn’t have anything even if I had tried.

On the other hand, I have been listening to some excellent tunes of late, courtesy of the ever fab Lumineers.

They hail from Denver, Colorado, and their awesome blend of folk rock has seen me dancing and singing around my house, like and dancing and singing thing.

So check them out:

I hope you like them as much as I do.

…

There you have it, my fab chaps.

I hope that wherever you are, it is much dryer than we have it out West – that your days are filled with laughter and mirth, ridiculous take-out menus, and snappy, happy fashions.

You deserve it all, and more.

Looking forward with a turn of phrase

Dear world:

Can we please bring back “heavens to murgatroyd!”?

BECAUSE THIS IS THE BEST TURN OF PHRASE IN THE HISTORY OF TURNS OF PHRASES.

Please also see: “really cleaned his clock!” and “you’ll end up in the drink!” and “egads!”

(Also “gadzooks!”, “rats!”, and “what a way to run a railroad!”)

Because, for serious, my life is infinitely better anytime I either manage to fit them into a regular conversation, or overhear someone use them while out and about on regular business.

Please picture me wearing a really fab hat while out on said business.

419230_10152088280125179_1372221209_n (1) — Wash it with borax? Gee whiz, I’ll have to ask…

I’m pretty partial to old timey language as is, and I would really appreciate that instead of just recycling HORRIBLE FASHION FROM THE 80s and 90s, we could start using some of the awesome slang that came about during roaring twenties, or better yet, the dirty thirties.

What do you say?

I’d like to see this trend take hold like a duck to water.

(Is this too much? I’ll stop if it’s too much.)

EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT I CANNOT STOP.

I mean, I’m just too big a fan.

Take for instance, the “we got on like [insert verb/noun combo here]” descriptors.

Ie.) Gangbusters, house on fire, a barrel of monkeys, etc.

I mean, how can you not love these? Although I’m not even sure that any of them even remotely make sense.

Also, is a barrel of monkeys a good thing? That just sounds violent and deafening to me.

And do I even want to know the etymology behind these sayings?

Kind of yes, but mostly no.

I’ll just end up finding out that everything I’ve written about has some bloody awful origin and is completely offensive to ninety-nine per cent of the earth’s inhabitants.

On second thought, I should probably bite the bullet and make sure I am in fact riding the PC train straight to onsideville every time I break out my oldisms.

Right?

Right.

Okay, so you might have guessed it already, but I’m a little tired. The past couple of weeks have been so incredibly jam packed that I’m feeling a tad run down (aka completely exhaustified.)

I’m sitting here on our couch, wrapped in many blankets and the ends of my eyelids are starting to feel as though they’ve been weighted down by miniscule sacks filled with what I’m apt to believe is magic sleep dust.

(I was going to write flour at first, but then what the heck would flour sacks be doing balancing precariously at the ends of my eyelashes?)

I think I might just call it an early night and head upstairs to hit the hay.

Bedtime before ten o’clock on a school night?

Zounds!

But to bed I must, so zoiks and away!