The number one rule of the zombie apocalypse — be prepared. And run like hell.

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I have 2 legitimate fears in life.

1) Spiders

Yes I realize they are small and probably more scared of me than I am of them, but they terrify the bejesus out of me. Something about their little legs and the way they scurry around. Also the fact that they only show up when NO ONE else is around to kill them for me — I can’t even kill the things without having a minor panic attack. I don’t care how useful they are or what they do for the microcosm and environment – they gonna’ die.

 

2) Zombies.

No, I don’t care if they are “only” a hollywood character as some may argue — these bitches are coming, and I am going to be ready. You think I am kidding, but I have a huge deathly fear of zombies. Maybe not the glamorized flesh-eating dead come to life creatures we see in movies, but the idea is definitely possible. Think about every pandemic that has occurred in history, from bubonic plague to more recent SARS — all it takes is one outbreak of something that will cause massive damage to the human race, causing people to continuously spread a deadly illness that will turn your neighbours into deadly creatures (or at least contagious infectious a-holes), and it is only a mere while before the world is ending and anarchy takes over and we kill each other off. CHEW on that for a while.

Speaking of zombies, I was always too paranoid to watch movies about them – over time I have gotten better thanks to the Walking Dead and have realized that it is possible to survive and easy to kill the motherF-ers… but yes, I still get bad dreams from watching it… the end is near, people… and more often than not, I am thinking in terms of “ability to survive the zombies when ___” or “how this ____ will come in handy against zombies”.

Part of my zombie survival plan is A) learn to shoot a gun (I have yet to do this…. let alone ever even hold a gun, but that is beyond the point, it is on the ‘to-do’ list). And more importantly B) Cardio — you think I am joking, don’t laugh, who do you think is going down first? Yah, that fat people and the sluggish, and I will be damned if you are holding me back from survival.

Every day I go to the gym at lunch (where, by the way, there is a multitude of interesting people who I have a bad habit/affinity with taking pictures of to document my intrigue – more on that in future posts). There is an indoor track where I spend my time running, as the nuclear winter here ruins any outdoor training.

One Monday, about a week ago, I was enjoying my run when I noticed a man in the distance of the oval limping and dragging his arm. Keep in mind I don’t run with glasses on, and the night before had been the Walking Dead, so my zombie-radar was on high alert. As I got closer, I noticed this older frail man walking IDENTICAL to a zombie — I nearly had a heart attack, telling myself “why would a zombie be walking on a track?” and “maybe it will make you run faster”…. As I went by him I had mixed emotions of “nice to see this old man is trying to rehabilitate after likely having a stroke” and “holy shit this dead guy walking is going to reach out and try to eat me as I go by” – Every single time I passed him.

I really wanted to take a picture or video to prove how incredibly spot on this guy had the zombie walk down, but figured it wouldn’t be too politically correct to be terrified of, and filming a stroke victim…. next time

Needless to say, it instilled in my mind the importance of cardio both for zombie dodging purposes as well as for rehabilitation.

If the weather channel was the KKK, my mother would be the Grand Dragon

Some of the shit my mom says I couldn’t even make up.

She texted me last night telling me to “stay warm, marie. It’s cold there”. I should mention her absolute unbelievable fascination with the weather. If her TV only got one channel, and it was the weather network, she would be happier than a fat kid with a piñata and a pizza. I get at least 2 texts a day regarding the weather where I live (she lives in the retirement capital of Canada, they don’t even have weather systems there, they have sun and rain, and Jesus help us if they got a skiff of snow – not that it would matter, because my mother would have known far in advance and have collected an entire bomb shelter’s worth of supplies before the first flake even fell from the sky). She will call or text and warn me of a storm coming in, or the fact that my city is the second coldest place on the planet (true story — we have set records before), or that it is snowing outside where I live (because she must assume I have no windows and work in a max security prison instead of an office), or telling me that I am lying about the temperature here because the weather channel told her otherwise… she loves the weather — and loves worrying about the weather.

Now often times if I am just too tired and lazy and don’t have the energy to humour her, so I won’t reply to her texts because of the ensuing hour and a half of her 5 page long texts about the weather, or worse, she would call and ramble on for 45 minutes about – you guessed it, the weather.

Last night she texted me to ask if I was warm and if it was still snowing. I chose not to answer. 10 minutes later my phone rings – I guess my no answering concerned her that I might be stuck in a snow drift somewhere and on the verge of death.

Mom: “Oh goodie, the phone worked this time. I was worried that your phone was cut off because I tried calling about 7 times and it wouldn’t work…. Did you always have to dial a “1” in front of the area code, Marie??”

Me: “um.. you have always had to put a “1” in front of every area code for long distance calls… I’m pretty sure you have had to do that since dinosaurs roamed the earth”

Mom: “Oh God. Don’t say that Marie I am not losing my mind… My brain is fuzzy, I feel like the Wizard of Oz… just like the Tin Man…”

Me: “Wha… never mind…”

She then hung up, and I sat there staring at my phone wondering what the hell just happened, and decided just to leave it at that.

I’m so old I don’t even buy green bananas anymore….

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It’s amazing how a few glasses of wine can make a work place Christmas party the best thing since… well, last year’s shitty Christmas party. And by a few glasses of wine I mean a bottle… and by a bottle I actually mean two. And if we are being honest here, I should also mention the $7 glass of vodka too.

My boyfriend’s work had their Christmas party (or is the politically correct term these days “Festive Winter Seasonal Get-to-gether”? I don’t even know anymore), think of a ballroom at a very swank golf course filled with electricians, their wives, and one very wealthy owner who paid to fly in from the States the special guest ventriloquist. Yes, a ventriloquist – complete with creepy puppets, and I kid you not, a Christian theme. Luckily for me, the boyfriend’s best friend’s girlfriend was there to join me in the misery, as well as our good friend free house wine. The waitress kept bringing us more bottles and asking if we wanted more – I guess she saw the look of desperation on our faces – but more than likely she just felt sorry for us.

waitress: “another bottle of white?”

me: “why not… can you bring me a straw with that one?”

her: blank stare

me: “a slurpee straw should be long enough for the bottle”

My boyfriend had given up on me at that point and just went to talking to his co-workers, hoping I would not make a fool of myself, or perhaps so he could ignore my tipsy remarks under my breath about a man with his hand up a puppet’s ass making it sing about Jesus.

Before the event my boyfriend was made aware as to why the owner of the company only had the bar open for about 30 minutes the whole night. Apparently a few years ago one of the guys had brought an escort as his date who got completely sloshed and started a full on fight with the owner’s wife. I guess liquor was attributed to this (and possibly the devil), and booze was limited there-after. As well as escorts, I can only imagine.

boyfriend to co-workers: “This is my lovely girlfriend, Marie”

co-worker: “Nice to meet you! We were starting to think this girlfriend he talked about was make-believe, based on all the purple he wears and his queer car” (foot note: my boyfriend loves to wear pink and purple, and has a very large shift knob in his car that could be easily mistaken for a dildo – true story)

me: “oh, nice to meet you too. You can call me his girlfriend as long as his check clears after the end of the night”

boyfriend: “I hate you so much”

As the night progressed and the ventriloquist carried on singing sunday school hymns with his puppets, the wine kept flowing and he definitely got better. At one point I mentioned to my friend how this hymn sounded like my personal favourite and number 1 hit on the Billboard charts when I was born “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (you do the math…). In hindsight, I don’t know how “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart” could possibly sound similar to that infamous rock ballad, but at the time, it was spot on.

Friend: “I love Total Eclipse of the Heart!! I wonder what my #1 hit song is?”

Me: “What year were you born?”

Friend: “1991”

Me: “…. God I am old… I am pretty sure I have a top hits of ’91 tape… oh god, you probably don’t even know how to use a tape player… or how to use an HB pencil to rewind one when they…. . . never mind…”

And that is the story of how I am far too old for any one’s good. And then I drank more.

I never did get my straw — talk about shitty service.

 

 

 

The modern world according to my mother — why we need to continue allowing old people to inhabit the technological world

Let me begin by reiterating that the title of my blog has nothing to do with my mom. She does not in fact have the face of any colour cat. Go back a couple posts and read the origin of these words.

Secondly, let me explain to you how
a) my mother is slightly nuts (not in the cute “oh mom, you are so silly”, no, she is probably borderline call the crazy-home and get her a spot in line) – she is, and has always been, the classic dumb blonde as well.
b) the world is a giant conspiracy and everyone is out to get you (and people wonder where my lack of positivity comes from?)
c) on numerous occasions she has left voice mails on my phone that are actual conversation with the machine – no joke, a full on monologue including poignant questions (I wonder if she gets concerned when the machine doesn’t answer back?)
d) some how, by the grace of baby jesus, she was taught (by I can only assume a Saint) how to text on her cell phone — I know, she has a cell phone, it baffles me too.
I guess the answer lies in my father, who has always been enthralled with technology – This man knows more about today’s advancements in computers than I do – I think he might possibly be more intelligent than Bill Gates on the subject (Not that is hard after you try to use Windows 7 for a day and decide to become a Quaker because not only do they have fine rolled oats, they also do not have to deal with the bullshit of Windows 7)… I digress… I can only assume my father was high on his meds and decided to teach her how to text. Bless his soul.

Now, my mother LOVES to text – not that she does it well, as she starts every single text with “Hi marie, its mom”, or sometimes a variation along the lines of “himare itap moom” – as she seems to think that you can’t tell who is texting you unless they tell you — often she also asks if it is a secure line and if anyone else can see her messages (like I said, conspiracies everywhere). This lady  texts as much as a 14-year-old… and they all to me, because I have too much of a heart not to reply. And the entertainment value is generally worth the pain of navigating through what I can only assume is how her mind works.

the excitement can't be overshadowed by the fact she has no idea what any of those things are

Strewn between her rambling 4 page long texts and blank empty texts (I don’t even know how she sends a text with nothing in it), are a few gems that can only make you agree that old people should definitely be allowed to continue to roam the world spreading joy through their views and excitement of technology they don’t even understand.

the terrible tale of the finger moustache

Let me start off by explaining and interesting anomaly that occurs every single year here in the cold cold north – I like to call it idiot drivers who forget how to drive after a summer without snow on the roads… also delightfully referred to as “first snowfall of the year”. It isn’t as if we DON’T have a winter here – we do, every god damn year, and it is usually significantly and exponentially worse in snowfall amounts and temperature each year. I wish I was exaggerating, I really do, but every year I live here it seems as though nuclear winter is ever looming. The other interesting fact about this first snowfall of the year is the fact that is always seems to happen on a monday — always. I feel as though statisticians could collect the date and conclude the same: someone out there in control of weather just loves a good laugh, I can’t blame them, because from afar it is pretty funny watching all the cars whose owners were too lazy or in denial to put their winter tires on slide around the roads like curling rocks while the idiot next to them is polishing the ice while flooring their gas pedal in belief that magically this extra power will help get them up an ice covered hill. It really is a comedy in itself to watch UNLESS you have somewhere to be.

(on a side note, I am also that idiot who had put off putting my winter tires on my car, thus I have been driving Ron Burgundy just to be safe)

After heading to the gym at lunch and realizing I definitely didn’t bring my runners with me after getting dressed, I had to take the walk of shame back out to my car. At this point, a few flakes had started to fall – glad I took the truck today.

3pm – the snow is just coming down hard. great. I have to drive home in this with every other idiot on the first snowfall of the year.

4:20 – sneak out of work “early” in hopes of beating the rush… apparently everyone else in the area had the same ingenious plan. Start driving and realize by the first set of lights as my massive ugly truck is barreling and sliding towards traffic that the snow has created a sheet of ice on top of the roads. There are cars and trucks sliding into everything. It is greasier than Lindsay Lohan’s panties out here. Traffic congestion though, not too bad! Until I hit the city.

4:40pm – my usual 5 minute jaunt to the city I make it to the intersection by the Wal-mart and dead stop. I wish Wal-Mart sold liquor in Canada.

5:15pm – text my boyfriend – I have moved less than 1 foot per minute, I could crab walk faster than this. Our appointment down town for 6pm isn’t looking hopeful, but maybe the rest of the city is ok!

5:20pm – text again – I am about to ditch this bitch and start jogging towards home. Call the appointment and say we may be late.

5:30pm – ditch the truck down a side street, slam the door, started jogging down the peaceful white residential streets and meet boyfriend in his car a few minutes later.

When I said I was going to stay positive and get to my appointment on time, was I ever wrong, and this is why I am never positive – it just makes you angrier – true story.

Traffic into down town was at a stand still – the steep hill into the valley was like a luge track, and I couldn’t count the number of dumb shits who thought “hey my front wheel drive prius with bald summer tires will totally make it up this sheet of ice! why don’t I just step on it and go?”

6pm – traffic is not moving, although it is entertaining watching trucks scrape the guard rails and flooring it over the bridges at 3km/h. Every lane but ours seems to be actually moving – I don’t dare mention it to the boyfriend who looks as if he could snap any second and has had about a full pack of smokes since we started out.

Me: this is how I imagine the zombie apocalypse will be like. Everyone trying to get the fuck out of here but grid lock everywhere. And more zombies. I swear that homeless man is a zombie. He’s eyeing me up
Him: You would legitimately get eaten and die
Me: You are probably right.

7pm – FINALLY make it to the street of our appointment and arrive 20 minutes later after dodging an accordian bus that has jack-knifed in the middle of the road.

7:30pm – 3 HOURS on the road, 1 eye-twitching raging man and 1 and a half hours late. Luckily, the tattoo artist and shop is amazing and were just happy we made it (Crimson Empire Tattoo)

I would love to stay and chat, but I really "moustache" - har har

And that is how the finger moustache came to be in all it’s glory
(All proceeds go to fund prostate cancer research, and I fucking love moustaches)

 

My mother has the face of a brown cat

As I was driving into work this morning listening to the radio from my fantastic ’88 DAAadge ram guesstimating my speed based on the angry faces of those passing me as my speedometer definitely does not work, on the radio came a discussion about a laundromat/bar located in godknowswhere Saskatchewan. Not only was it a place to bring your dirty ginch AND drink while you wait; it also had a feature where a light would go off above your bar stool when your laundry cycle was done.

Okay, before we continue I must explain about my truck and clear my name slightly as I am not truely a redneck (ok, only some times I wear a trucker hat and plaid shirt while I drive it)… it is a winter beater — and the more disgusting and horrendous the vehicle, the more street cred you get for having the balls to be seen in public driving it. Clearly I am a regular pimp of the beaters.

"Ron Burgandy" - pretty much the most awesome truck on the planet

As they were chatting about this spectacular sounding bar where chores meet drinking problem, the radio guy took a call from a listener who called in to say that this place is still around! And I quote (well, kinda quote as best as I can remember for 7:45 in the morning) “this place is still operating in all it’s glory… my mother has the face of a brown cat” *click*

Both the radio guy and myself must have sat staring at the radio for a couple seconds before bursting out into tears laughing.

I don’t know why but this statement just made my day. And that is the story of how this blog got it’s name.