The last and final thing I will complain about in terms of losing weight, is that you realize what your face really looks like. For some reason I thought if I lost weight everywhere, that my giant, bulbous nose would also share in the action and shrink. But no. It just looks more giant on my smaller face. Well nose, looks like me and you are stuck together for life. Unless I become a celebrity and then I will fuck you up with surgery and come out looking like a demented cartoon pig nose.

I wonder how I can add “massaging raisins” to my resume. One of my jobs gives me the best/worst job of sitting in the back packing bulk food into containers. It’s the best because it’s a quite place, with no customers that allows me to focus 100% on the menial task at hand. Packing into perfect clean containers make me happy, gives me a good sense of satisfaction and is easy. Also I can make stupid faces and no one sees me. But it’s also the worst job, for two reasons. One is, it actually hurts my wrists to massage raisins (every time I write this I wonder which of you will immediately think old man testicles). You see, you must break up the raisins that have been vacuumed pack by satan into a tiny raisin cage of slavery. I get so frustrated. I pretend I am a scientist breaking up animal turds for science, because that happens in real life you know. Stirring peanut butter makes my sad, weak, dainty wrists turn into carpal tunnel joints from hell. It’s just the worst. Secondly, it’s bad because it gives me the quiet time I don’t usually afford myself, to think about my life. So as I am stirring the peanut butter, with my wrists killing, peanut butter everywhere (on my clothes, in my hair) I think of how I got to where I am now. I think about where I need to get myself to, in terms of having a career. How I need to make this happen. How hard it’s going to be. How I want to punch my degree into this peanut butter, let it get covered in oil then take it out and light it on fire for giving me false hope. No just kidding (not really). I have these same elitist fits of quiet rage all the time. When I am trying to serve someone a brownie at one of my jobs and it get’s stuck to the plate and I think, I am wrestling with a brownie. This is where my life is at. How did I get here? Did I drink too much in university? Did I choose political science because I thought it would make me sound smart at parties? Was I in political science because it was mainly boys in that subject and I wanted to get laid? Am I wrestling with a brownie because I HAVE MADE ACADEMIC DECISIONS WITH MY VAGINA? Well this explains everything.

I knew I hadn’t been out in awhile when I tried putting tights over socks and then had to stop and think about how this is really supposed to be done. Like I needed a moment to go over the logistics of wearing tights. After I finally got them on properly, I decided they were sucking my will to live and I remembered that is the reason I stopped wearing tights a million years ago. Wearing tights always remind me of being in Scotland, working as a waitress in a hotel. They were part of our mandatory, sexist, plaid skirt uniform. I permanently looked like a Scottish air hostess that summer. I would rip at least one pair of hose every day trying to put them on. Then on the way to work I would get mauled by midgies and once at work I would scratch so much that I would bleed, then rip the leggings and ruin yet another pair of hose. Tights will aways bring me back to the Scottish torture of cheap hose and midgies. I only call them hose if I am in my Minnesota accent. There are some words I can’t say without it. One summer, after Rob and I had watched Drop Dead Gorgeous a million times we decided to adopt the accent. I was working at a bar at the time and people starting asking me where I was from! It was hilarious! After awhile I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Accents make any situation just a little more fun. Especially when people ask you where you are from and you say Almonte.

This is my homage to Drop Dead Gorgeous…

My Grandma told me, that for her 95th birthday party, to please make sure it says Best Wishes Only on the poster. I looked at my Dad and explained that I didn’t get why that was necessary. He said that it meant no gifts. I was shocked. I completely thought it meant no dicks allowed. LIke it was a clear warning to assholes that they could not come and give out any of their bad wishes on this day. BEST WISHES ONLY! My Dad looked at me like he wondered how I had the brain function to get dressed in the morning. The more you know 🙂

Doesn’t scrolling through the bookmarks on your internet browser remind you just how scattered and weird you are? Mine look like…

Ottawa Motorcycle Safety Course
Flourless Cranberry muffins
Masters in Social Work – Carleton University
International House Sitting
Moist Chocolate Cake
Green and Natural Bath and Body Care Recipes
Dancing Ben – youtube
Gwyneth Paltrow’s Cleanse Recipes
Chocolate Buttercream frosting recipe

Like what the hell is that? It makes me look a little bipolar in the eating side of things.

Omg I just read a study that said if you think your partner is awesome, you will most likely have a successful marriage. Thanks tips. Hope that was not a government funded research initiative.