If I get shit at work today I'll know the boss reads my blog

So. Imagine me as I Love Lucy and you'll get general gist of what I'm about to tell you.

It was a dark and stormy night... hell no, it was a dark and stormy day at the office. Busier than a one-armed paper hanger. Busier than a two-peckered rooster in a henhouse. Suddenly, the work stopped. I had a 10 minute hiatus while other people got their shit together. Being the conscientious employee that I am, I decided to take my lunch dishes to the kitchen. There, before my helpful eyes, was a loaded dishwasher waiting to be run. I added my dishes to the dirty fray and then looked under the sink for some dishwasher soap. There was a teeny, tiny, itty, bitty couple of granules in the bottom of the box.

Feck, I said to myself. It's just like home when someone leaves a mouthful in the bottom of the milk pitcher.

Oh well, sez I, as I dumped the remaining bits in the soap dispenser. Realizing there wasn't enough soap in there to clean a missionary's mouth, I decided to add a bit of Palmolive dish soap to the mix. You know, the stuff you normally put in a sink. There still didn't seem to be enough so I squirted it generously around the bottom rack, and then gave the top rack a squirt for good measure. I closed the dishwasher door and started it up and, as I walked back to my desk, a swing in my step and a halo over my head, I thought, what a good employee am I.

Still with nothing to do momentarily, I struck up a computer chat conversation with my pal Sarah, who works in a different office than me, and she was telling me about an appointment she had when I got an e-mail from the office manager. It didn't have a subject line but it was addressed to everybody in the building. It was a one-sentence message.

It said: "WHO RAN THE DISHWASHER THIS AFTERNOON?"

Ruh-row.

The unmistakeable smell of dish soap wafted all the way from the kitchen to the back of the building where I sat, red-faced and panicked.

I interrupted whatever the hell it was Sarah was saying and started typing.

C: I just got an e-mail and it said, 'WHO RAN THE DISHWASHER THIS AFTERNOON?' From the office manager! And it was me! I put Palmolive dish soap in it and now I think it's exploded with soap suds!

S: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

C: I can smell the soap! I think there's a big mess in there. What should I DO?

S: My friend did that once and there were bubbles all over the place, I mean it exploded with bubbles. Don't tell them it was you!

C: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! OMG, don't tell them?

S: NO, don't tell them! LOL!!!

C: People are talking about it. Someone just walked by and was complaining about the soap mess in the sink. "All we can figure is some dumbass put Palmolive in the dishwasher and let it run."

S: BUAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I'm starting to snort.

C: I know! So am I! I'm, like, almost wheezing and my face is all red.

S: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

C: I know! ROFL! If someone asks me why I'm laughing, I'm dead meat.

S: Don't tell!

C: OMG, I won't. I'll be in such shit. I was just trying to help. And I put extra Palmolive in so it would do a better job.

S: Extra? BUAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!

C: This reminds me of the time when I joined a gym and there was a jacuzzi and there was a sign that said NO BUBBLE BATH ALLOWED. So I just put a little tiny amount of bubble bath in there. And there was freaking bubbles EVERYWHERE. They were TAKING OVER. I ran out of there so fast!

S: BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...  snorting! I'm snorting here! Sounds like you really learned your lesson!

C: There was no sign saying don't put Palmolive in the dishwasher. Who knew? I didn't know. OMG, everybody's talking about the smell. There's bubbles floating around in the production room. I'm gonna pee myself, I swear I'm gonna pee my pants.

S: BUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

And so it went.  I was laughing just like this:



Oh feck, I hope the boss doesn't read my blog...

No Jann Arden for me

Yesterday I was, like, JANN ARDEN IS COMING TO HUNTSVILLE! And then three minutes later I was, like, HER CONCERT'S SOLD OUT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I JUST FOUND OUT!

Sorry about the all-caps. But that was my face, one big round all-cap. I love Jann Arden, are you kidding me? I've been trying to see her in concert since forever and every damned time I get wind she's going to be performing anywhere near my neck of the woods, she sells out in 30 seconds. OK, so I exaggerate. Maybe it's more like 45 seconds. She was in North Bay a couple of years ago but I missed her because I wasn't quick enough. Toronto – not quick enough. Both cities are a ways away from me but I was willing to make the drive because, as I have said, I loves me some Jann Arden.

Then, yesterday, I found out she would be performing in Huntsville, which is 20 minutes up the road! Twenty minutes! Jann Arden! I was woot-wooting all over the office ... until my workmate, Lynda, discovered the concert was already sold out.

Excuse me. I must pause. I'm tearing up again.

When I finished pouting and wailing I got busy and started my Stalk Jann Arden Campaign. I sent her about a 406 messages on Twitter trying to weasel a ticket out of her stellar self. I think I even promised her an interview here on my blog (that hardly anybody reads because it's been so boring lately, and hey, I can't blame you) thinking that Muskoka River blog coverage would give Jann the publicity, fame and fortune she has so far been sadly lacking. Yes, I think that's what every celebrity needs, a post here at the River.

Mizz Arden, sadly, did not get back to me. Probably she was too overwhelmed by my offer, I'm thinking. But. And here's a pretty cool but (not that kind of butt) – SHE STARTED FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER!

Now I'm all weirded out. The pressure to tweet only good stuff is intense, so I'm not tweeting anything at all. Not that I tweet a lot to begin with but, still. Jann's listening. So do I pretend to be all cool, like I don't notice that she's following, just like when you're in high school and a cute boy walks by and you're like la-dee-dah-dee-dah at your locker, pretending your heart isn't in your tonsils? Or do I get all smarmy and send her smeemy messages like, "Thanks for the follow, Jann." Or, the classic, "how's it going, eh?" because she's Canadian and probably likes having other Canadians say eh to her a lot.

On a completely different note, also requiring all-caps, I WAS DOWN ANOTHER FOUR AND A HALF POUNDS LAST NIGHT AT WEIGHT WATCHERS!!!!!!!! Woot! Woot! Root beer toot! That's 19 pounds in six weeks, NOT THAT I'M COUNTING or anything!

Who's dancing all over the kitchen right now?

P.S. So I just saw Laura Eno's comment... Laura, get outta town, you don't know who Jann Arden is???? Won't do, sistah, won't do at all. Here's one of her biggest hits – take a couple minutes to listen and tell me you still don't know who she is!!! Also, thanks for accepting all my poundage! I sincerely appreciate that! (And hugs to Laurita and Delores - love you guys!)

And then she said

I've got blog-blank-page-itis. I'm staring at this screen thinking, there is absolutely nothing new in my life but there is, actually, I just have blog-blank-page-itis.
I have new hair, for starters. Tracy at The Renaissance in Bracebridge gave me a sassy slanted bob. The back is cut to army regulation, right at the hairline, and the front is cut to my jawline. Almost all of the dead-kilt-by-blonding hair has been chopped off and what's left of it has been dyed to a satisfyingly rich chestnut brown.

I remind myself of my cousin, Kelly. Kelly, if you're reading this, I look just like you for some reason. I mean, I probably look nothing like you but when I look in the mirror I'm all, "hey Kelly, how's it going?"

Oh, and I have a new exercise bike. I now have a treadmill, an eliptical and a bike, which is practically an entire home gym, so why do I still look like the side of a barn? I am working on that. This week has been another good one, diet-wise. I'm finding the Weight Watchers program easy-peasy and the built-in cheat mechanisms mean I'm not going hungry. Tonight's my Monday weigh-in/meeting and I'm hoping for another couple pounds down the drain. Or should I say down the toilet. When you eat as many vegetables as I do, you spend a lot of time whizzing. So anyway, I've been feeling real thin. The bathtub is getting wider, my clothes are loosening up and I have a ton of energy. But then I went into Canadian Tire on Sunday and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the security mirrors and I couldn't reconcile the old fat woman in the mirror with my sleek new self. (Who has self-image problems? heh) Who cares what I looked like in the stupid mirror – I was there to buy a bicycle and get all fit!

I've been faithfully riding my bike up and down the road for a few weeks now but was stymied last week by work and social schmoozing and couldn't get out on my bike at all. When I had time it was pouring rain. Not to mention the days are already getting shorter and soon the snow will be on the ground. I didn't want to give up all that pedalling goodness so I decided an exercise bike was the ticket. Yes, I have a treadmill and an eliptical but I have bad knees and I really can't take the impact. The bike lets me sit on my arse and pedal without knee stress. So I went to Wal-mart because our local Canadian Tire doesn't sell exercise equipment, and bought a recumbent bike for $299 plus tax. On Sunday Dave put it together and the damned thing wouldn't work. The electronics were all screwed up. So we took it back and then went down the road to the Gravenhurst Canadian Tire where we picked up a way-better bike for a way-better price. This bike was regularly $399, on sale for $199. Bargoon, eh! I don't know why I buy anything at Wal-mart. First of all I hate the way they treat their employees and their business practises. And a lot of the stuff they sell is just crap. Live and learn, I guess. Having said that, you'll probably see me there next week.

I'm hoping all my friends on the east coast are doing OK in the wake of Hurricane Irene. I've been watching the news and crossing my fingers for you, hoping and praying you're safe and sound and dry.

Speaking of weather, I had to laugh this morning while watching Canada AM. The weather guy, Jeff, announced that the temperature high in St. Johns, Newfoundland, would be 27 degrees C. "Finally," he said, "they're getting summer temperatures just as summer is over." When Dave and I were in Newfoundland last October it was as hot as hades. I packed sweaters but I should have brought shorts. Ninety degrees in the shade, it was. Oh well. To Laurita and Alan and the folks, enjoy it while you can!

Because you need a laugh

Go here. Trust me. You will laugh.
Siren makes me laugh out loud. She's wry and witty and sarcastic, but nice. She's been through hell and back (oh god, read her older posts about her horrible young life and you will weep) and now she's carving out a nature-loving life for herself with her partner, Diane, and a bunch of pets. I've come to admire her and thought you might, too.
The post I'm referring you to? About the Bruces? It's an original. Never. Seen. Anything. Quite. Like. It.

Harry B. Sanderford asked how I could hate touching fish so much when I go fishing all the time. Well, Harry, going fishing has nothing to do with touching or eating fish! Dave baits my hook, takes the fish off the line and he throws the fish back. See? No fish are involved! Salmon sandwich on the counter? That's a whole different kettle of fish.

I just noticed somebody cut down a dead tree in our front yard. I was out late – came home in the dark, and Dave was half asleep when I rolled in. Funny, he never mentioned cutting a tree down. You'd think when I asked him how his night was he might have referred to cutting down a tree. Kind of a major bit of news. But there it is. A chopped up tree. Huh. Excuse me while I go outside in my pajamas and take a picture. For evidentiary purposes. Just in case there is a mad man with a chainsaw running around the neighbourhood cutting people's dead trees down.

One more thing: I am NOT shaving my head. OK? Even though y'all want me to shave my head. My head is not pretty like Laurita's head. Trust me. Or even Mike's head. My head shall not be shorn in the best interest of those who pass by. I know. I'm noble.

OK, OK, so one more thing. Have you voted for the Best of Friday Flash Reader's Choice story yet? You should! I just happen to have a story nominated, you know, if you can't decide who to vote for, mine is, ahem, available. Y'know, if you need a suggestion... you know me, always trying to help... Here's the link... go to the bar on the right hand side and click madly.  And thank you. Really. Thank you.

Great, now my fingers stink

Uck. I accidentally touched goo from Dave's salmon sandwich when I was cleaning up the kitchen just now. I had purposely avoided touching any crumbs on the counter but didn't discover until my fingers were in the goo that he had made the sammich on top of the dishwasher. Touched the goo, smelled my fingers, went "blech," scrubbed fingers with Palmolive. Smelling my fingers just now and they still have a lingering fish smell. May have to go wash fingers again. Once a guy from work brought smoked trout and sauerkraut to work and heated it up in the microwave. The whole building smelled like gack. The boss came in from lunch and said, "Who the fuck died in here?" So the legend goes. I didn't actually hear him because I was at my desk, retching.

The key word in that paragraph? Dishwasher! It's, like, the best thing that has ever happened. In. My. Entire. Life. Some day I'm going to do an entire post about the dishwasher, complete with erotic photos of its loveliness. Maybe even a centrefold with a staple in it's silverware rack.

Lost three and a half pounds at Weight Watchers this week. That's 14 and a half pounds in four weeks. Nobody has really noticed any changes yet but I know, for a fact, that my ass is getting smaller. My underwear actually go around it now, not hovering nervously waiting at the top, worried about stretching over the whole thing. My ass is like a planet, but not Saturn, because it doesn't have any rings, unless you want to count my underwear, which sort of ring it. So yes, it's exactly like Saturn.

Tomorrow I have a hair appointment. Did I mention my hair? I hate it right now. What's left of it. About half of it broke off. I seriously have hardly any hair. I look like I've been through chemotherapy. I have to do a comb-over or one side is balder than the other. My once thick locks are now stringy and thin and fried to a crisp. It's the blonding that killed it. Bleached it off in chunks, it did. Made it all brittle. Then I went to bed a couple times with a ponytail and it snapped off where the ponytail holder was. So now I have a dilemma. Do I get it all cut off and start over? Do I cut off to chin length and wait a couple months for the balding areas to catch up to the rest? Do I keep it blonde and risk killing hair in order to avoid skunk head? Or do I go back to brown and do root touch-ups every week? Will seriously consider any advice on this very important topic ...