More search term shenaningans

Last December, I wrote a post titled Search term shenanigans. As you might discern from this cleverly named post, I’m going to do a sequel. I am utterly, utterly fascinated how people find this blog from places as exotic as Saudi Arabia and the United States.

And so, here it goes: these terms are, truly and honestly, on my blog stats.

Yup, right now, there might be someone out there Googling something weird and unusual.

And finding me.

have to pee pee —> I’m guessing this was typed by someone who was 4. And had to pee.

make of meaning —> I’m guessing this one was typed by someone who was not a native speaker of English.

could you give me the times beer barn closes at the south shore ex —> The South Shore Exhibition (AKA The Big Ex) happens the last week of every July and one of its star attractions, other than the Ox Pulls, is The Beer Barn. Guess what they serve there? It’s not Sauvignon Blanc. (And I also don’t know when it closes because I avoid the Ex like the plague because midways often smell like the puke of children who ate everything before going on 15 dozen rides. Fun, fun.)

can you give me some information about the ex at south shore —> It smells funny and is dirty. Next.

what happened to the bowater mersey logging contractors —> They are up poop creek without a paddle. (Great. The next time someone Googles “poop creek without a paddle” they’re going to find this blog.)

i am a sick freak —> Why did Google bring up my blog? If I had any self-esteem left, it would hurt my feelings.

how can you tell if your tire is flat —> It doesn’t roll any more.

chickens slippers —> I’ve heard of moccasins made out of deer or moose hide. But slippers made out of chickens? That’s sick. Unless they make a clucking noise every time you make a step.

miss julie torture stories —> Someone must have heard the sun likes to perform torture on me every summer.

do capricorns often swear —> Damn straight.

nude girl change tire —> Sorry, I had to take those pictures down.

flip-flops are cool —> Agreed.

hanging out on top of a gas station —> This just sounds creepy. I hope this person doesn’t own a high-powered rifle.

when your vagina acts cosmopolitan —> I’m not sure how a vagina acts cosmopolitan. Perhaps it involves a mini-skirt and martini.

nova scotia fart slang —> I guess “toot” would qualify for this, but it’s not localized to Nova Scotia. Neither is cutting the cheese.

underwear balcony —> Sadly, I know why someone would be directed to my blog. See here.

don’t have enough money for a data plan —> Welcome to my world, buddy. We also use bread bags for rubber boots around these parts.

Well, there you have it. My fun with Blog Stats for the day. The next time you need to read up on chicken slippers, Google me!

I seriously considered whether I was too embarrassed to blog about this topic

A monumental thing happened the other day while I was attending a professional development institute.

It wasn’t the institute itself, although it was amazeballs in making me think about the whole concept of consequences/punishment in schools. (Please note I am super-excited to use the word amazeballs after hearing it on Masterchef the other night.)

Nope. The monumental thing happened in the washroom.

No, no. Nothing like that. Although I am SURE it will soon be a topic of conversation, given the penchant of older people to talk about bowel movements or urinary incontinence.

Instead, I had that moment: the finding of the first grey hair.

Yup. I looked in the mirror and saw it standing up at attention.

It was a frail hair, old and thick and broken. Maybe at one point it had been a whole hair, but it had become only about two inches long and jagged. The rest must have committed suicide in my hairbrush.

I am going into my fourth decade of existence on this earth and this is the first grey hair I have spotted on my head. I’d finally become accustomed to seeing one sprouting defiantly from a mole on my neck (before being harvested by my handy-dandy tweezers).

Needless to say, I plucked this wayward strand from my head before I emerged from the washroom.

Given that I have never really grown up one hundred percent, I am shocked to find evidence I might be growing older. I still feel like a teeny-bopper, although I try to act my age and blend with the adults.

This week, I applied sparkling white eyeshadow and had to swipe it off because I looked like a fourteen-year-old trying to look like a fairy.

Time to be more judicious with the sparkles.

It’s not that I don’t feel endowed with a sense of wisdom that only comes with age (and the resulting fear that I will never know everything or even a slice of what the universe has to offer).

It’s just that it’s grey hair. And it’s on me.

It’s not that I’m against dyeing my hair. After being red, blondish, many shades of brown, and that unfortunate accidental burgundy black, I’m fairly handy with the dye bottle.

And it’s not that I’m anti-grey hair. Most people look fine with it. Some even look better than they ever did.

But it’s different when it’s me.

I guess tonight it’s time to start measuring my skin to see how far gravity is taking it southward. (I’d start counting wrinkles, but I got my first ones in Grade 6 when I thought squinting to see the blackboard from the back row was preferable to getting glasses.)

You heard it here.

After elementary school, it’s all downhill.

Fifty shades of grey fluff

Needless to say, I love my little dude Jack.

He’s loyal, snuggly, and only bites once or twice a day. I call these “love bites” even though they occasionally bleed, which Jack believes will get me out of bed before 6 in the morning. We won’t talk about how the daggers hidden within his fluffy grey paws make me look like a cutter. (And those scars on my arm are not the relics of a suicide attempt.)

Pet ownership (and I mean this as in Jack owns me, I don’t own him) comes with a few pitfalls even though I adore him bracing against my leg at night as he tries to get comfortable. I also love having him meet me at the door; cats can do this as well as dogs, minus a little tail wagging, just a look of anticipation for a head pat.

If you have ever had a long-haired cat, you can guess where the pitfalls are located.

The bum.

I’m not obsessed with bums even though I wrote about bums the other day. And even included a picture of a wooden bum with a cleverly added rectum. But I digress.

Yes, long-haired cats, when faced with a too-small litter box, occasionally have assidents. (As opposed to accidents, these assidents involve the bum.)

Jack is a big cat. He’s not too heavy (he usually weighs about 11 on the vet’s scales) but very long.

And fluffy.

And so, sometimes, if his poop isn’t so well-formed, you get assidents.

The fix involves scissors and a hasty haircut.

This is a two person job. Any time you give a cat a nail trim, bath, or haircut, it’s advisable to have a team in place: one person to convince the cat that staying still is preferable to doing the Tazmanian devil freak out, and another to do the task itself.

Jack is surprisingly patient during his haircuts. For awhile. Nail trims are impossible unless you’re the vet and can do them so fast, Jack doesn’t have time to swat.

And baths… well. We haven’t tried that one yet. The haircuts seem to suffice.

I get to pick him up.

The trick is to hold him down enough he doesn’t get at the person doing the cutting. However, holding him with too much force freaks him out because he shows signs of former abuse and trauma, and does not brook with any kind of shenanigans.

Any kind.

Once the haircut is over (and this is signalled by love bites on the arm), Jack gets a handful of treats. This is also to help pacify the guilt over holding him down in order to snip the poop off his bum. Since this is an awkward moment for all parties involved, it’s a nice transition time.

Even though Jack isn’t a fan of haircuts, I’m sure he’s happy to have less you-know-what to lick. I don’t know how cats or dogs clean themselves with their tongues. I guess I’m just too much of a princess, needing a facecloth and soap. But I’m sure Jack appreciates the help.

Wouldn’t you, if you looked like this?

You’d be surprised how much of that cat is fur.

Oh Cosmo, how did I ever live without you? (Besides with more self-esteem?)

It’s been a long time since I bought a magazine like Cosmo. Mostly because I refuse to pay $5.99 for a magazine when I don’t have a full-time job.

Furthermore, I can “read” a magazine in less than half an hour. Of course, this is less “reading” than flipping through the pages long enough to lose my self-esteem to all the pretty models who have whiter teeth, shinier hair, and leaner legs than I do.

I have been reading magazines like Cosmo since I was a tween. Which means I’ve thought I was fat ever since I hit puberty. Now I actually am, but even when I was young, I thought I was overweight. I would love to be 140 pounds once more so I didn’t have to hold my head in shame during my physical exam and The Weigh-In.

Darn BMI charts.

I love magazines. Don’t get me wrong: I’m game to go through a Shakespeare play and re-read phrases over and over until I figure out what’s being said.

However, I love flipping through glossy pages of lists and blurbs that require next to no literacy. (I’d like to point out that I had to correct the typo “next to know literacy” even though I’ll be paying back my degrees for the next 15 years. Money well spent. At least I figured out my faux pas, I guess!)

Ever since Helen Gurley Brown died (though it’s my suspicion she’s been dead for the past 15 years and has been propped up by the guys from Weekend at Bernie’s) there’s been a lot of opinion on whether or not Helen promoted the cause of feminism.

Yes and no.

I love that she promoted the idea that women could (gasp! shock!) enjoy sex. The Cosmo girl is not ashamed of sex. Nor should she be.

However, the magazine is all about straight sex. And you have to wonder if women really need to know 456 ways you can win a man with your tongue.

Regardless, I love reading magazines, even if I scoff at them sometimes (most of the time) and my self-esteem suffers a little.

I’m just so glad Wal-Mart now sells magazines 3 for $10. I am back in magazine land. Cosmo, First, and Chatelaine have been flipped through in utter happiness and satisfaction. After all, how could I live without the following headlines:

• 6 Foods that Blast Belly Fat
• Double Your Metabolism
• When Your Vagina Acts Weird After Sex
• Turn Him On From Across the Room
• Wow Your Man With These Moves Inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey
• Frozen Yogurt in 10 mins!
• Hot Style Finds Under $100

I challenge you all to figure out which headlines came from the Canadian magazine. I dare you.

I broke into the old apartment. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

After digging up pictures to illustrate the recent post about on the old gas station, I unearthed pictures of my old apartment from university.

Who cares about Shark Week when it can be Julie’s Memories of Wolfville week?

Even though it was the most dreadful building known to humans (okay, not quite that bad), I still remember parts of it fondly.

Like the black mold colony that lived on my door.

The smoke that used to fill my bathroom from the downstairs tenants who did not always smoke cigarettes.

The way the wind blew the curtains in winter without the window even being open.

Ah, apartment life when you’re a student. Good times.

The exterior of the building was the worst. It looked like there should’ve been police tape around the scene.

This was Old Blue’s spot in the parking lot. And yes, the Tempo was named after the guy from Old School.

Don’t lean on the stair railings or you won’t make it.

Normally the clothing DID NOT hang from the balcony: this was a joke for my 25th birthday. The landlord didn’t get the joke and asked me to take the laundry down. Because I always hang 25 pairs of underwear and bloomers out on the line…

I Martha Stewarted up the inside with some paint and tiles. My cousin donated a carpet end to cover the mustard stuff that contained enough dirt to possibly contain Jimmy Hoffa.

Life is better without mustard carpet.

The table containing all of the plants came from the junk pile; I think another student used it for a desk (it’s actually a sewing table).

This was my bedroom (half of which was my office/library):

Where the essay magic happened!

Okay, I’ll be honest: as much Facebook magic happened as thesising. However, you can see my big arse dictionary has been fixed with duct tape. That’s hardcore.

And, of course, here’s the water closet.

Pink made my skin look better in the mirror.

Of course, the old apartment wasn’t ALL bad.

I had my own garden:

The herb garden.

And the superintendent was always game for a conversation (even though, bless her heart, she wore her nightdress 98% of the time) and often gave away free homemade food. Which, for a student, is like gold.

Also, I felt very worldly having international students make up the other 98% of the tenants (can you tell I’m making up my statistics?). There were many interesting odours which wafted into my apartment, most of them through the bathroom because of the faulty exhaust system of the building which I’m 98% sure exhausted into the attic, thus to my bathroom.

Building codes are more like guidelines, really.

After all, I totally had more than one route to escape (if flinging myself out through the second floor window counts).

And those stairs were not rotten—just the nails.

And those wrought iron railings?

Totally safe! You could lean against them and they wouldn’t wobble, no sirree. They would’ve held a sumo wrestler.

Oh, those memories.

Bless you, student apartment, for the chronic nasal drip I enjoy thanks to your mould and cigarette smoke. You were a girl’s best friend. If by best friend, I mean a vortex that sucked $340 plus utilities out of me every month.

Where would we be without student apartments?

What I did yesterday in point form (because it’s late and Manic Monday has tired me)

• Let the alarm clock blare for at least one whole minute before realizing it would not stop without my intervention.
• Made my bed.
• Tinkled.
• Brushed Jack.
• Et toast with my jelly.
• Drank coffee while floating around the internet, reading my morning news and checking Facebook.
• Scooped litter.
• Bathed in Kiss My Face soap.
• Dressed for work in white pants so I wouldn’t fry despite air conditioning.
• Made my lunch—aka took a microwave mac and cheese from the freezer.
• Filled three bottles of water to stave off dehydration.
• Drove to work while singing at the top of my lungs to old country songs.
• Unlocked office.
• Turned on air conditioner.
• Cursed at office internet. Frequently.
• Did confidential stuff.
• Ate mac and cheese for lunch.
• Did more confidential stuff.
• Drove home—too tired to sing any great amount, so just cranked tunes until the subwoofer picked up lots of base.
• Enjoyed pretty flowers in garden.
• Finished frying rice with soya sauce and green onions to go with cream and Started supper.
• Jack begged for petting.
• Finished supper.
• Ate the rest of rice for dessert, along with a spoonful of Nutella (eaten at separate times, I might add).
• Had company.
• Sat at computer, desperate to blog with a blank mind and wandering attention span.
• Searched for blog ideas.
• Found blog idea.
• Wrote blog posting.
• Watched Masterchef before getting ready for bed.

Pre-cream lettuce. The red leaf variety has grown the best this year.

Soapy coffee—at least it’s better than perfumed candy.

Most normal, rational people never consume either soapy coffee or perfumed candy. I’ve had both. And I’ve had soapy coffee more than once. (I’ve even had a needle in peanut butter balls, but at least it wasn’t a razor blade. And it was an accidental needle, not an intentional Halloween-candy needle put in there by a psychopath.)

The other night, deciding my coffeemaker was looking a little dirty, I scrubbed it down like a Martha Stewart wannabe. Obviously, I did not rinse it sufficiently.

As you might suspect, lavender and ylang-ylang soap detergent don’t make the world’s best coffee flavour. Caramel, yes. Irish cream, maybe.

But not ylang-ylang.

Yesterday morning, when I really needed my Starbucks brew to generate enough consciousness to drive, I could only muster half a cup.

Yes, I drank half a cup of lavender and ylang-ylang coffee yesterday.

As I was drinking it in my usual morning stupor, I thought it tasted a bit… unusual. Since it was still quite hot, I couldn’t quite tell. Maybe I was just hoping for Starbucks’ strong brew to impart its magic on my blurry eyed vision and general morning sloth.

Once it began to cool, I realized the coffee really was tainted with some kind of floral detergent undertones.

Another taste. Then another.

Yup. Decidedly soapy.

By this time, the mug was half-empty and I finally decided to pick up a cup in town. It tasted delightfully non-soap.

In a past life, I think I was a wine taster.

FYI: When I was in junior high, the perfume in my bookbag once spilled over my candy stash without my knowledge. Until I ate the candy. Perfume does not taste as good as it smells. And it actually gives me a headache. Effin perfume.

FYI 2: I attended a function years ago where they had peanut butter balls. They’re dipped in chocolate. The cook used a needle for this process and left the needle in the ball. Then I put the ball in my mouth. Peanut butter usually doesn’t contain metal, so I decided not to swallow. This prevented me from having emergency surgery and choking on a big needle.

Please. No “that’s what she said” jokes.

The best and worst things about being an adult

Now that I’m over 19, I must admit to being an adult of some variety. I’m growing older, not necessarily growing up.

I thought I’d compile some of the best and worst things about being (gah!) an adult.

The 10 worst things about being an adult

1. Bills.
2. Knowing that eating chocolate chip pancakes won’t necessarily give you a tummy ache, but may contribute to heart disease and stroke.
3. No longer having the energy to stay up until the wee hours of the morning.
4. Being too chicken to admit you still have a beloved teddy bear who may or may not be named Love-A-Lot.
5. Wrinkles.
6. Having the metabolism of a hibernating turtle.
7. Being on Grey Hair Watch.
8. Watching beloved friends and family grow older and frail.
9. Knowing better when you do something stupid and having nothing to blame it on but yourself, not your age.
10. Bills.

The best things about being an adult

1. Staying up late without anyone nagging you about school the next morning.
2. Having mad money to spend on anything you want as long as your bills are paid.
3. Feeling as though you have some sort of wisdom to give the younger generation.
4. No curfew.
5. Dating or marrying anyone you want.
6. No longer having to fit in with the cool crowd, buy brand name duds, or know all the latest slang. Fo shizzle.
7. Making whatever you want for supper, including chocolate chip pancakes.
8. Getting IDed makes you feel like a god/goddess.
9. Life experience means you tend to make fewer mistakes thanks to already having done them when you were younger.
10. No exams.

I will not admit to snuggling my teddy bear on dark nights.

Dead Mr Johnson, you won’t regret hiring me

It’s 8:23 am. Even though I have a day off, I’m up and at’em.

It must be the sun. It’s been a perfect week and sunny days are forecast for another week. (Cue contented sigh.)

How can I complain? I have a day to myself. A whole day. Sure I have cover letters to write for September, but I have a whole day to do nothing. Nothing at all.

I could cook! Write! Rearrange my basement rooms! Blog!

The possibilities are endless. (Except they are because pay day isn’t until tomorrow.)

 

Finally, the school board has posted open round teaching jobs for September. There are a few permanent positions, which these days are like Holy Grails. I can’t imagine I would qualify for one of these gigs given my dearth of experience. (Though occasionally, I can use words like dearth.)

Thanks to my extensive university education (AKA avoiding adulthood for a decade), combined with employment droughts, I can write a mean cover letter. (Well not mean. I’d get no jobs then. I’m terrified of the typo that makes “Dear” actually “Dead” because I am quite sure I once did this in a rough draft. Thankfully, I caught it before some poor employer got a letter that started “Dead Mr. Johnson: Please hire me for this position. You won’t regret it.”)

I have until Friday to apply. Stay tuned.

 

My vegetable garden is in. Better late than never. (With the exception of planting it in October.)

It’s a small patch. You could only bury about two or three Mr. Johnsons in it.

Over the weekend, I bought me some cow manure (I feel citified having actually paid for composted cow poop when there’s free cow poop just down the road) and started planting.

Lettuce. Beans. Radish.

Dill. Basil.

I’m hoping the skunks won’t dig up the seeds, the raccoons won’t eat the seeds, or the deer won’t discover the produce once it’s grown. Stay tuned.

Seeds.

Ground.

 

Moth balls have fixed The Skunk Problem. (FYI, when I use the word “our” I’m referring to me, my mother, and my cat. I’m underemployed, if that explains anything.)

Yes, toxic naphthalene seems to discourage skunks from digging out all the trees to find the tiniest scraps of bone meal. While many people prefer to use lead to get rid of skunks, I think moth balls are much safer than me trying to learn how to use a gun when I still haven’t mastered the DVD player.

 

I missed my calling as a wildlife rescuer (or roadkill chef). On my way home from work yesterday, I saw a critter in the road, paws pointed to the sky. I drove for a kilometre or two before turning and going back.

Yes, the patron saint of roadkill strikes again. I will toxify the yard to get rid of the evil, smelly skunks, but by gum, I’ll move random animals from the road so they aren’t pulpified by cars.

Yesterday, it was a ground hog. I felt especially bad because the ground hog looked pregnant.

I wish Lunenburg County had a roadkill crew that purposely went out to move critters so bleeding hearts like me wouldn’t have to.

Obviously I can’t move every single critter every single time; I wouldn’t get anywhere. And there’s enough drivers who go 20 under the speed limit during the “rush” hour to help with that.

 

Finally, I hope you enjoy my site redesign. Again. I can only imagine what my blog looks like while I’m test driving all the themes, red ones included.

Bleeding heart #1.

Bleeding heart #2.

Bleeding heart #3.*

* Never trust photographs. This one has been altered. Only because my tank top was really low and I looked like I was moments away from a wardrobe malfunction. Bless you Photoshop. Bless you.

Things that befuddle me (sadly, there are many)

Perhaps I can blame it on those philosophy courses I took in university. Philosophy can really mess a person up. I still don’t know if something is moving or if that’s actually a line. (And what if the world is just made up of my perceptions and doesn’t really exist?)

Some things puzzle me. Maybe you can help me out by responding to my questions and concerns. That way I’ll sleep better tonight. I mean, I sleep like the dead anyway, but I’m sure I would sleep more soundly having some of these things cleared up.

Why is grilled meat 600% better than any other kind of cooked meat?

• Why is almond milk called “milk” when there is no lactating involved? Wouldn’t ground up almond liquid be more accurate?

• If cars are never allowed to go faster than 110 legally, why are they made to go 200 km/r?

• Why does my cat hate expensive toys and prefer cheap things like pajama strings, yarn bits, and balls of his own fur?

• On the subject of cats, why is catnip okay, but marijuana illegal?

• Why do they bother putting those chewy candies in the can of Quality Street? Can’t they include more of those purple ones?

• If you get your coffee in a travel mug, why does the coffee shop sometimes waste a paper cup measuring out the amount before they put it into the reusable container?

• If you get paid minimum wage, why can’t you put in minimum effort?

• Why do people say snow tires cost too much money when summer tires/all seasons last twice as long?

• How do governments and companies expect the economy to improve when educated people are getting paid $10 an hour, the same wage a 16-year-old gets paid to squeeze the special, pre-measured sauce onto a burger?

• If I buy a can of sodium-reduced soup, why does it still have 10,500 milligrams of salt in it?

• Do gerbils go to heaven? And if they do, are their amputated tails there waiting for them?

• When I see my local weather is being delivered by a “weather specialist” is that code for “not a meteorologist”? And is that person qualified to point at a green screen and read a Teleprompter? Does this mean I can go to a “tooth specialist” to get a root canal?

• How can politicians work for a couple of years, then get a pension for life? Why can’t this be the same for the rest of us?

I’m an educated person, but sometimes, things just confuse me. I think it’s because I dyed my hair blonde once.

Some of them already put in the minimum effort.