Bacon, it’s the New Bread.

I used to sugar coat things more, to avoid unnecessary confrontations or arguments. I also used to allow myself to be walked on and spoken to as if I was less than human. I’ve changed, and I think for the better. I don’t go out of my way to be malicious or anything like that, but you best believe if you spew bullshit at me, I’m going to at the very least question it. 

Social media has give voice to every misguided, stupid or misinformed Joe on the planet, and now they share this information on Facebook, twitter, etc – wherever anyone will listen. When misinformation is pointed out, however, it often causes a negative reaction from that person. Often I just ignore it and move on to save the breath but sometimes it’s just not possible. 

Today’s “debate” was caused by my statement that 7-8 slices of bacon was not a suitable healthy replacement for bread on a sandwich. Erm, what’s better, I was told the best way to lose weight was to cut carbs because they’re “fake energy” and eat fat, this was the argument used to say that eating half a pack of bacon is fine because it’s *ahem* in moderation. Again. HALF A PACK. 

I also must remember that this person (a male) once complained his ovaries were hurting to my boyfriend and their other friend… and not as a joke. 


Stick a Needle in Your…Thumb?

So, I’ve been using my sewing machine less than a week and I’ve already felt its fury. One distracted second and I had the needle two-thirds of the way through my thumb, straight through my nail. It happened in the middle of a zig-zag stitch, right through my thumbnail. Yes, I’m an idiot. One with a rather small looking boo-boo for how much it hurt. 

Now, on to making dresses and perhaps some purses. I’ve thrown myself into several artistic endeavours this weekend, I’m hoping to get my storenvy storefront re-opened by the end of March, and perhaps get my etsy store up and running finally. 

Right now my fingers are covered in glue and glitter and I have the first of a zombie pinup painting series started. This is the most stuff I’ve gotten accomplished in some time! 

Feeling Crafty

Today I took my (new) sewing machine out of its box for the first time. Now, it’s new but I bought it a while ago and just didn’t have space to set it up permanently – because I want to make myself clothes and improve my sewing skills. I even bought some awesome Doctor Who fabric to make a dress from as my “beginning” project. Yes, I’m one of those people who would be caught dead in strange prints, especially geeky ones.

This desk will also be my work space for everything from zombie ponies to hair accessories and necklaces, as well as demented dolls, artwork, and whatever else my brain can come up with. This is the beginning of something good, I have been needing this outlet for some time.


Orwell Was Right 

As a Canadian, I am quite astounded at the progression of the “presidency” of Donald Trump. I mean, let’s face it – this guy is gearing up to be a dictator, there is nothing presidential about his behaviour so far. 

He’s insulting world leaders left, right and center – but is confused why the world is angry at him and/or making fun of him. He’s slowly removing people who don’t believe in what he does and says (Hitler did the same) and is using executive orders as his own personal vendetta-issuing service. 

What is going to happen to the U.S.? I have American friends and I am genuinely worried for each and every one of them, because what I see happening is the beginnings of a dystopian novel, except this is very, very real.

Why, Yes I Am.

I’m pretty fortunate, the coffee shop I work at has plenty of decent customers. I don’t deal with a lot in the way of nasty people – occasionally though, they do come out of the woodwork.

Today was one of those days apparently. A customer dumped his trash in the garbage can before the speaker in our drive thru, then hastily sped through and to the window, blowing past the speaker. The fact he did this, then pulled up to the window demanding we take his order after laughing at his own stupidity wasn’t quite bad enough I guess. While he was pulling up to the window I had already taken an order from some wonderful soul who understands how drive thrus work – then my headset started to beep again. I explained to the guy that I couldn’t just take his order at the window because a line had formed behind him, and it wasn’t fair to them to have to wait. He first laughed like he didn’t believe I was saying “no” to him, then he drove away fast, shouting “WHAT A FUCKING BITCH!” I was annoyed, however I replied without missing a beat “Why, yes I am!”

Two orders after that, as it turns out, was him. His attitude at the window was completely changed, however, he even gave me a sorry not sorry apology. I explained again to which I got more complaining and “I just…”

Hey, folks? Not a good idea to insult people making your food/drinks.

Samuel Would be Proud

My ladylike vocabulary goes way back to my preschool years.

I mean, ideally I would blame my parents, but they had specific “go to” words they used, and I would like to believe I’ve taken it to the next level, especially if I’m really angry.

I have this memory of when I was approximately three or four years old, one which my father remembered far more clearly than me (because I don’t recall the swearing part). My neighbour (who had the wisdom of a whole other year on me) and I were climbing up into my tree fort – which, by the way, was pretty sturdy. The method of getting up the tree, not so much. The crotch of the very large maple tree was probably eight-ish feet high *in kid terms though, this was more like thirty*. The “ladder” (Haha safety, shmafety. I was an eighties kid) was a two-by-six, with board scraps hammered across it horizontally. Whether the top of the ladder was attached depended on the week. Sometimes it actually was, until it popped out again. I didn’t always tell Dad to fix it, simply because I was too busy trying to break my neck.

However, I digress.

My neighbour was trying to climb the ladder, and I was at the base, attempting to steady it. Enter my father. Well, not really “enter” per se – he stayed in the chicken coop and listened in, admittedly for his own entertainment value. It went something like this:

“Lisa, would you hold the goddamned ladder straight?”

“Jesus christ, I am holding the goddamned ladder straight!!!”

My Dad apparently decided to come help us at this point, pretending he hadn’t heard the swearing – and also trying to stop laughing. At least by then I could say “L” properly, because it would have been “goddamned wadder”. Not sure Dad could’ve kept himself composed for that.

Oh and as a side note, a picture from those years, same neighbour and I decided to cut each others’ hair (the night before school pictures, even). It went smashingly, as you can see. Mother was not pleased. Dad, well, I never got his take on this one – but I know he probably laughed – both at the cut and how hopping mad my mother was.