Ever notice how it's the little things in life that amuse us so much? More to the point, ever notice how it's the silly little idiocies in life that amuse us more than anything else? Well, this is not as much ''the little blog that could'' as it is ''the blog that enjoys going up the down escalator in your local mall.'' Will it have anything of real importance? No, probably not. But enjoy the ride never the less!

 

Labels: evil has a destiny to suck, Halloween, the irony of boobies

posted by Phillip at 8:01 PM

 

There are, as of this little bit of nowhere, about six days left before school begins. Between then and now, children shall lament; parents will secretly rejoice; and wallets will sob in agony over the price of scholastic supplies (let alone the cost of overhauling one's entire wardrobe, because last year's clothes are, like, so last year!). And somewhere along the way, hundreds of parental units are sitting there thinking, "Gee, only six more days left before they get shipped back off to class and I finally get some peace and...six more...holy crap, I've got six days left to get all their things?!"

This happens more often than you think.

The last week is, in an event that can only be described as "not surprising in the slightest", busy as all hell. Families will swarm our stores over the next less-than-a-week, pillaging and ravaging our merchandise in a desperate bid to get everything their kids want (and sometimes--gasp!--what they actually need) in a single, last minute spree. We will be spending most of our time running around in a mad bid to answer questions, clean stock, process transactions, clean more stock, restock the displays and, dammit, I just cleaned that bunk of lunch boxes and had my back turned for just ten seconds, so which of you ungodly little urchins do I have to skin in thanks for that?!

And I'm rather enjoying it.

Certainly, it's leaving me quite exhausted at the end of any given work shift (and those vastly outnumber the very select few days I have off), and my deader-than-toast shoes are not helping at all. But with the departure of She Who Shall Not Be Named (But Is Still Quite The Royal Bitch), I've discovered something I'd almost forgotten and as a general concept find quite disturbing: that work can, in fact, be almost fun.

Not the running around part, of course. But now that I have the chance to look back, I realize it's been a loooooong time since I went into work begrudging what I was about to do (hey, it's retail, so it's a gimme) but not at all dreading it. I feel a lot more relaxed and enjoy more of my shifts, and more than anything the atmosphere in the store has dropped back to its old, relaxed feel. This is a good thing. This must be continued.

In other news, recent influxes of money due to me had me smiling. An inordinate amount of cash I'd been expecting finally made its way into my account, and for a moment I was fiendishly rich. Then I paid off all my bills (phone, credit card, rent, et all), set aside a large chunk for Shady's impending check-up and vaccinations, set aside another large chunk for future Christmas purchases (and oh, will I need it), and bought a suit for Mel's sister's wedding in September Because, apparently, jeans and a "the flying hamster of doom rains down coconuts on your pitiful city" shirt are not proper wedding attire. (I tried to argue that I was starting a new trend. Then Mel threatened me with a lack of sex. Then I stated that trends are overrated and sometimes the old, tried & trusted ways are better.)

Suddenly I found myself staring down at a somewhat pitiful sum of money, comparatively, but impressive enough to allow me to go out and buy something expensive I usually wouldn't otherwise buy. Did I buy manga and start collecting another series? Did I nab an anime box set? Did I nab any DVD box set?

No, when the time came to make a decision, I went with...interior decorating. One very nice multi-picture frame and a 2-tiered laundry trolley (that's a whole lot friggin' larger than the box made it out to be) later, and I had to sit down. In a month where my shortlist of just-released DVDs was at an all time high, I went with apartment acoutrements. The thought of buying movies, manga or anime barely even registered in my head.

The hell?!

Had I suddenly become one of those dreaded, no-nonsense "adults" when my back was turned? Was I in fact on the verge of ranting about, "when I was your age, we didn't have this high-fangled Internet, we had to sell off our organs to buy a pen and paper in order to send paper airplane messages to our friends across the street, and when that didn't work we had to walk two miles, naked, in the snow, uphill both ways, in order to drop off the gorram paper airplane." Was I about to inexplicably turn anal-retentive and stick my nose up at even the merest thought of staying a child at heart?

Then I looked back at the multi-photo frame I bought, and at the collection of postcards from the Last Exile box set that were nestled within it, and smiled.

On a related note, I also recently found myself looking at the fall selection in various clothing stores, and became sorely tempted to make a few purchases or at least try the items on to see how they looked at me. I'm thinking of combating this disturbing development by buying a pair of boxer shorts with the words "It's sexy time!" written all over them. (Because with my ass involved, anytime is sexy time!)

Now if you'll excuse me, there is laundry to sort...

Today's Lesson - the following combinations do not mix well together in the slightest: a sandwich brimming with tzatziki sauce, chips with onion dip, two cans of Pepsi, and a consumption time of 11:30pm (not an hour before going to bed to boot.)

Labels: back to school, growing older but not upwards, sexy time boxers, sometimes I can go an entire blog without mentioning pants so there

posted by Phillip at 8:55 PM

 


In case you haven’t heard, all hell broke loose at work with regards to the previously mentioned problem worker (who shall from here on in be referred to as the Wicked Bitch of the West) and pretty much everyone else at the store. There’s a lot of back story behind it all, and most of it is long, and even more of it is rather messy. I’m not going to dish it up for a number of reasons: first and foremost, it’s over, done, and said Wicked Bitch has left the store for good, and; second, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of even letting her get to me.

After all the crap I’ve had the (dis)pleasure of contending with, this is the first time where I’ve felt a disturbing and profound sense of peace. Petty backstabbing and Machiavellian antics have plagued everyone even remotely associated with the store (and thusly me) for months now, and a day or two it all got flushed down the toilet.

This does not surprise me, not in the slightest. It was due to happen, and quite frankly I’m amazed it didn’t occur earlier, since there were a few moments this summer where it looked like everything was about to go all Mount St. Helens. There’s collateral damage, to be sure, with the Wicked Bitch trying to draw whatever proverbial blood she can in her wake. As far as I can tell, it’s only serving to consolidate those of us who wave good-bye to her and further reinforce the reasons we’re not going all teary-eyed at her fiery departure.

Despite the impressive confrontation that occurred, I found myself beyond caring. I still do. I feel nothing, and instead of what maybe should be some gut-wrenching sensation, I’ve spent the last few evenings calmer than I can recall in a long while. It’s hard to tell if all the prior stress I’ve endured has left me too numb to feel anything, or if it’s just built up a resistance, or if I have truly entered a new and perhaps frightening state of “I really just don’t give a flying fuck about her anymore.”

I’m not sure if what I’m left feeling is ill-will towards the Wicked Bitch. I certainly think very little of her in terms of her character. Hell, with her gone I plan to think little of her, period. I don’t plan on brooding and fuming over what she’s pulled--though God knows (and believe me, I do not say that lightly) she certainly deserves a cold, calculated vengeance and unflinching, unforgiving demeanour from everyone she’s wronged. By the same token, I do not plan nor expect to see much of her for the remainder of my life. After this post, she will occupy barely a shred of my thoughts, my reflections or retrospections. She will become little more than a passing anecdote, where all her sad, sad antics shall entertain those I mention it to.

This is where I wash my hands of her. I have given her my final act of charity, and only a small part of me hopes she chokes on it. The rest of me does not care one way or the other. She’s earned worse than my scorn. I find everything she is is now beneath me, and as such, I plan to walk away from her forever.

Cold, yes, my final thoughts on this matter might be, but quite deserved.

All in all, it’s best if I end things here for today. Any attempt to toss on a glib anecdote or remark will probably fall horribly flat, and leave a sour taste in your mouth. But don’t let yourself think I’m trapped in a dark, unfriendly place and won’t be getting out anytime soon. (You there, the one about to tell me it's not so bad I need the emo eye make-up!) Both Mel and I will recover, and life will go on. Things can only improve from here on in, now that din-dong, the Wicked Bitch is dead.

I’m sure the next little bit of nowhere you stumbled upon will return to its sunnier skies and whimsical tangents. Until then, as a sign of solidarity and support for what we’ve had to endure here, I ask you remove your pants after reading this and wave them over your head.

(Just kidding.)

Labels: drama-llama, the untimely but much celebrated death of the Wicked Bitch of the West

posted by Phillip at 5:35 AM

 


The one problem with watching the Muppet Show, season 2: I have a sudden and overwhelming urge to go back and listen to the old Elton John songs. Not only because in his heyday, Elton was (Captain) fantastic, but it's also somewhat nostalgic. My Dad, being the fan that he is of rock& roll, raised me on the songs of Elton John, along with the likes of Kiss, Meatloaf, the Stones, Bowie and Alice Cooper.

That said, I must extend fondest birthday wishes to Kevin. Yea, despite the greyish days and wet lawns, there is a glimmer delight and happiness for a day as monumental as this. For your birthday, I shall bestow upon you perhaps the greatest gift I know: for the remainder of this blog--nay, for the rest of today, I shall keep my pants on.









...the week has seen its ups and downs, and thus far things may have reached a turning point in the form of a two week's notice handed in by the employee who has been giving everyone in the store (and subsequently me) so much grief. With the ball rolling the way it is, I have about twelve days left before there's a collective sigh of relief. (And possible a night spent with parades of insults, toasts over her departure and much liquor.)

The catch is: there's a lot of damage that can be wreaked in those twelve days, and with our store being as inevitably busy as it will become, I may spent a lot more time mopping up the proverbial messes she leaves in her wake. Mind you, that means I'll probably have the opportunity to dismiss with extreme prejudice, and that entitles me to cheerfully sign "Do Not Rehire" on her termination papers.

For now, all we can do is wait and see. I'm not holding out hope that she won't pull a stupid stunt or two, but I've effectively reached a point where I'm beyond caring if she tries to sic anyone on me. The only reason I haven't walked away myself was out of respect for my district manager, and knowing that if I left at the peak of Back to School, I'd be screwing her over in ways unimaginable.

There will be other bits of nowhere between then and now, to be sure. But check back with me in 2 weeks. You might see some streamers hanging from the rafters, and a punch bowl set up in the corner. If that's the case, feel free to raise a glass wherever you are and toast with me.

And while you're at it, raise a glass right now and toast to Kevin. He's earned it. And it's probably a much nicer gift for him than the pants girding my loins. Though mine will garner a greater appreciation over time, especially on those frequent occasions I'm running loose without them on. Come to think of it...there's a Dr. Seuss story about pants running amok, isn't there?

Labels: Elton John and other childhood melodies, Muppets, pants are birthday lurv, the politics of work and its inherent stupidities

posted by Phillip at 1:13 PM

 

Sometimes, no matter how unpleasant the day has been, all you really need is a cold beer, a book (or fic) you really enjoy and Louis Armstrong singing "What A Wonderful World" in the background to make it all go away.

This does certainly beat getting pissed drunk to make it all go away. Mostly because of the inevitable hangover and mysterious half-smoked cigar that both appear the next morning.

Labels: making the bad things go away

posted by Phillip at 9:46 PM

 


In an unprecedented event, today saw Mel working at the store and me staying home. (And even then, I was still up and showered before her. Go figure.) I was already pleasantly buzzed from Saturday evening's shindig in Stratford with Kevin & Dana and Dana's parents, wherein I learned that ground beef made into sausage-like shapes whose names I now completely forget are frighteningly tasty and addictive.

And so while Mel was away, the baka...spent most of the day cleaning and cooking, funny enough. There was a brief blitz cleaning on the front hall and living room, and from thereon in I was joined by my "old friend and zombie shooter-in-arms" John for an afternoon of simple relaxation.

Food ensued.

With the full intent on surprising Mel with a fancy dinner when she came back (because with the way work's been lately, such dinners have been few and far between), John & I set out with a menu and grocery list. By the time Mel returned, we had prepared two different breads--an Irish wheat bread John made from scratch and cooked in the stove, and a generic white bread I cheated & used our swanky breadmaker for.

(Sidenote: I very much heart homemade bread. The smell alone remains in my top food three scents, and reminds me of easy-going summer spent at my aunt & uncle's cottage where every morning began with a fresh, homemade loaf of bread for breakfast.)

The meal itself was a pork tenderloin grilled briefly in a saucepan and then broiled in our crockpot for a few hours. The original plan had been for it to be a Carribean Jerk flavouring...but then we managed to utterly forget to buy the jerk sauce despite going to 2 different places for ingredients. Oops. But we switched to a Mediterranean flavouring, with the pork loins being marinated in a Greek lemon sauce and some rosemary sprigs, and some small white potatoes fried up with olive oil, red onion, garlic and some sort of spice that starts with "f" and tasted a little like licorice.

I think it was fennel seed. I have vague recollections of my Dad serving the fennel vegetable a while back, and the distinct licorice-ish aftertaste. I could be wrong, and for all I know it was cumin.

We had also been hoping to make a chocolate mousse, but all the counterspace had already been used up by the crockpot and the bread machine. That, and I feared plugging the mixer into one of the already-used outlets and blowing a fuse.

Oh well.

I may not be the grandest of chefs, or even the most ambitious of amateur cooks (refer to Gary for the infamous "electric kettle" incident, or to Mel for the "chocolate milkshake in the blender" mishap), but I can't help but sit back with a quiet sense of pride in having helped out with a rather delicious meal.

Don't worry--I'm not going to make countless posts from here on in about what I made for breakfast every day. (I usually can't even remember what I had for breakfast by the end of the same day anyways, so we're all safe.) But today remains one of the best days off I've had that was spent just lounging around the apartment. And even if you've skipped everything just to get to today's lesson, this is a good way for me to bookmark the memory.

But in the wide world of random tangents:

http://www.howstuffworks.com/swearing.htm - an intriguing if not technical look into swearing, best viewed in conjunction with the Penn & Teller's Bullshit episode on profanity.

http://obakemono.com/ - gacked from Jen's LJ originally, I think. The Obakemono project is a samll but still very informative database of common Japanese spirits & beasts found in folklore and mythology. (Great if you need to find something to viciously devour your Mary Sue.)

http://cabinet-of-wonders.blogspot.com/ - I first discovered this site courtesy of Gaiman's blog. It's in essence a very cool, Internet version of the old "Cabinet of Curiosities": private collections of strange artifacts, a concept which in turn evolved into museums as time went on. The best part about this site is that nothing is a simple "this subject only" post. A single entry will flow from one topic into another, and by the end you'll be still be educated and entertained. Highly recommended reading.


...and I think that's everything. If you need me, I'll be curling up with Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things short story anthology.


Today's Lesson: fennel seed is much cheaper at a Bulk Barn, than if you bought a prefab jar of it at any standard grocery store.

Labels: Cabinet of Wonders, How Swearing Works, I can't believe it's not fennel seed, Obakamono Project, you blog what you eat

posted by Phillip at 8:32 PM

 



In an inevitable yet highly amusing weekend not so long ago, Potterdammerung slammed into the HP fanbase with great pomp and the sound of wank hitting the fan. I somehow managed to dodge any and all spoilers on Deathly Hallows…mostly by avoiding the Interwebs altogether. Which is perhaps just as well, since I got to experience a few days where, as far as I was concerned, random spambots--er, people were not Emailing me to discuss the size of my penis or insist I attend DeVry University.

A week has now passed, and the final book in the Harry Potter septology (is that even a valid word?) sits on the coffee table, its covers closed and its pages read. In a completely avoiding of spoilers sorta way, I really enjoyed the book. It had many unexpected turns and Rowling didn’t pull many punches.

But you didn’t come here for a book report, did you? Thusly I would like to present:





1) The last of Voldemort’s Horcruxes was not the One Ring (though it would be pretty cool to see who would win in a fight: Dementors or Nazgul?)

2) during the last climactic battle, Severus Snape did not suddenly remove his face, revealing that it had actually been IMF agent Tom Cruise the entire time, and would Voldemort like to hear about the Church of Scientology?

3) Snape was not in fact a vampire. Nor was Draco a Cylon. Nor was Harry a naughty tentacle monster. Nor was Ron a sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania.

4) Guest appearances were not made by any of the following individuals, alas: (Captain) Jack Sparrow, Sephiroth, Mork, Indiana Jones, Marty MyFly, Piglet or Egon Spengler.

5) Rocks did not fall and everyone did not die. (But half the fandom did implode. Joy?)


And in other news…um, in other news…

Let’s not sugarcoat it: work hasn’t exactly been on the “happy fuzzy puppies frolicking in the afternoon sunshine” side of things. There’s no need to go into great details (lest perhaps this be used against me as potential motives if/when some employees mysteriously go missing), but suffice to say I’m saddened, angered and generally baffled by how much junior high drama seems to manifest itself in a store filled with people decidedly not in junior high.

The rather caustic phrase, “Remind me again why I love my job?” seems to be repeated more and more often lately. That and, “Why oh why am I not allowed to arbitrarily use tasers on anyone who vexes me?”

Last week’s entire Chernobylesque situation was not helped by the peculiar ailment that seized upon me Thursday and didn’t loose it’s figurative, perhaps even literal, grip on me until the end of the weekend. I use the word “ailment” because I’m not entirely sure if what happened could be described as either an injury or else a malady (though it’s safely neither vegetable nor mineral).

You see, when I woke up on Friday morning, me entire chest was filled with an incredible amount of unpleasantness. I felt horribly sore all over and was nauseated to the point of making a brief gagging and then following that up with a great deal of bile and stomach acid. I keep telling Le Dieu De Porcelain that I’ve already paid homage to His Whimsicalness this summer, but he won’t hear anything about it.

By now, you’re certainly wondering just what afflicted me (and probably wishing my little bits of nowhere wouldn’t always let you know every little time I must vomit), and the truth is I’m not sure myself. I could eat well enough, and aside from the initial upchuck session that morning, I was fine gastronomically-speaking. My entire chest, the abdomen area especially, was still remarkably sore.

Much to my bewilderment and chagrin, I can only come up with one possible, working explanation: despite being asleep, I spent a greater part of Thursday night flexing my abs. You may laugh at your leisure.






Better now?

Okay. Back to the abs: spending the entire night subconsciously flexing my six-pack so far is the only reasonable (though silly) explanation I can come up with. As the days passed, the soreness subsided, but it definitely wasn’t the stomach, nor was it some sort of bizarre flu.

Granted this does beg the question: why did I feel the inherent need to tone my figure while I slept? Is my subconscious telling me that my definition is failing, and thusly my bringing-sexyback-o-meter is starting to crash? Was I suffering from a nightmare where I was trapped in a gym, and the beefcake trainer felt I had not felt enough pain/gain? Or did I just really have to pee?

Such mysteries may never be solved. Even still, I really don’t want to repeat that again in the near future. Or far future. Or alternate future, for that matter…unless it meant I’d wake up with sore abs, but I’d get my own Gundam for my troubles.

But that’s not to say everything has been absolutely horrible the last while. The Project has gained some surprising momentum, much to my delight (and fear that the over shoe will fall, and it’ll all come grinding to another halt). Mel and I have also been binging on Battlestar Galactica, which for better/worse means there’s another DVD series to add to the “buy” list.

And an impromptu raid on the nearest library branch ended with me securing the first 5 tankobans of Claymore. And as an added bonus, I got to reaffirm my love for both Alice Cooper and Neil Gaiman courtesy of their collaborative graphic novel The Last Temptation. My love of Ray Bradbury was also rekindled, since this is right in the vein of Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Which reminds me: no more going into bookstores. My empty wallet sighs in relief, but my heart cries when I see more intriguing books to add to the “buy” list. (And more to the point, titles not in our library yet.)

All right then, what have we learned so far in this blog? Aside from creepy facts & dysfunctions about my physiology? Hmm…you’re right. We’ve learned absolutely nothing. Oh well, it’s not all that bad. I could have spent this entire blog asking you if you wanted to increase your penis size, or would you like to enrol in DeVry University, or perhaps you’d like to hear more about the Church of Scientology?




Today’s Surprise Discovery: the series pilot for the Stargate SG-1 TV series has full frontal nudity in it. I have to wonder if/how that got past the censor boards when it was picked up for broadcast. (Mel’s still lamenting about how it wasn’t Michael Shanks who was fully frontal, which makes me wonder if, after seeing that the man does have a better six-pack than me, dammit, that’s what set off my subconscious.)

Labels: Harry Potter book 7 ridiculousness, more reasons to quietly continue the job search, nocturnal ab crunching

posted by Phillip at 5:16 AM