Finish The Sentence

Always keep your words soft and sweet, just in case you have to…use them against someone

Drive carefully. It's not only cars that…can be recalled by their maker.

Eat a apple in the a.m., and the rest of the day you will be… picking apple peel out of your teeth

If you can't be kind, at least…be an enviable bitch

If you lend someone $20, and never see that person again, it was…worth every penny.

It may be that your sole purpose in life is simply to serve as... a pillow for my cat.

Never buy a car you can't…parallel park.

Try not to put your foot in your mouth, because you might have to... suck on sweaty toes, unless you have a foot fetish, then you’ll be ok

When every thing's going your way, you're...obviously doing something wrong

Birthdays are good for you; the more you have... the more you can torture younger people with stories about “when I was your age”

Some mistakes are...necessary.

Don't cry because it's over; smile because… you got a few solid shots in on the way down.

We could learn a lot from crayons: some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, some have weird names, and all are different colors but they all...don’t remove easily from wall paper.

A truly happy person is one who can... totally embarrass themselves in public and not care what anyone else thinks

Happiness comes through doors you didn't even know you left open. Sadness comes through doors you... were too stupid to lock the first time.

When you're in deep water, that's a good time to... hope that the water isn’t shark populated.

Family get together’s are important because... I still can’t make a pot roast.

There are worse things than getting a call for a wrong number at 4 AM. It could be a... Fire alarm.

Think about this: No one ever says "It's only a game" when... they make 5 gazillion dollars to play it.

Be careful reading the fine print when you... sign up for a reality TV show.

The trouble with too many friends is... you feel obligated to be something for everyone.

When I wake up in the morning, after a certain age... I am thankful that I am not hung over.

It is always darkest... in the dark.

There is nothing new... in the world, except the things you do not know.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with...several months of preparation, major inoculations and five days of packing

A committee of three... beats a jury of 12.

If you can't stand the heat... turn the air conditioning on.

Better late than...pregnant

A rolling stone... should’ve over dosed by now. Seriously. HOW is Keith Richards still alive!?

If at first you don't succeed... change your yahoo nick name and come back as your other personality.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Cry...because you can

A bird in the hand is... just waiting to poop on you

Early to bed, early to rise... makes me bitchy and sex deprived.

Two heads...and only enough blood to supply one at a time

It is better to light a candle than... stub your toe in the dark.

A miss is as good as... nothing. It’s a miss.

A penny saved...used to buy 3 mojo’s.

Don't burn your bridges... but always ensure that you aren’t on one that is burning.

Haste makes... completing these questions with originality difficult.

Back By Popular Demand!! *lol*

People that go through the drive-thru at fast food restaurants and take FOREVER to order really irritate the hell out of me. HELLOOOOO! Everyone on this planet has been to a McD's at some point in their life. The menu has NOT changed in the past 15+ years...so what's the problem?!?!?! Before you get in the drive-thru line, please have SOME idea of what you're going to order. There's a reason it's called fast food. If you want 15 minutes to order, then go to a restaurant. Don’t even get me started on the drive thru at KFC’s. That eatery needs a 2 lane drive-thru…one for people that want to take 20 minutes to decide on exactly how many arteries they want to clog and one for people that already know and don’t want to wait another 20 minutes before attempting it.

People that walk 3/4 wide down a hallway and then act like YOU'RE the one in the way really irritate the hell out of me. I mean really!! The hallway is wide enough for 2 trolley carts to race down it (don’t ask me how I know that *grinz*) and suddenly it isn’t wide enough for two people to walk down in opposite directions? Oh hell no. Pissed off co worker meets wide hall walker in an Office Boxing Match…Get your tickets today!!!! Is there anything we can do to clue these idiots in to the fact that WE ARE TIRED of being walked into the wall mounted hand sanitizers, fire alarms, bulletin boards and other random hallway things just so they can have the luxury of feeling like a Mac Truck!?!?

People that you let into traffic and DO NOT wave “thank you” really irritate the hell out of me. I was nice enough to let you into traffic from the pit stop strip mall you just HAD to go buy something at in the middle of rush hour traffic. I could’ve let you just sit there for the next 10 minutes until someone else decided to take pity on you. Show some appreciation you jerks!

People that go power-hungry in positions of authority really irritate the hell out of me. Yesterday I took a walk at lunch so I could buy myself a sub. The order: a 6-inch club on wheat. As my sandwich was shaping up quite nicely on the other side of the spot-free sneeze guard the craziest thing happened. The most diligent assistant manager (DAM) in the history of diligent assistant managers happened by. Stopping dead in her tracks, the DAM spun on her heels, made a beeline to where my smartly-dressed, courteous sandwich builder was honing her craft and proceeded to lift the top off my now completed sub. My first thought was maybe the DAM is simply making sure my sub is up to company standards, but that wasn't the case at all. The DAM lifted the lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and green peppers off the lower bun and began counting the slices of processed meat.

This wasn't about me at all.

This was a sandwich audit. Angry with the results of the sandwich audit, the DAM yanked one single slice of processed turkey off my sandwich and slammed it back into the bin with its heavily processed turkey brothers and sisters while muttering angry words to my now embarrassed sandwich builder.

Unbelievable.

Even if today’s sandwich audit had been to ensure this glorious little 6-incher was up to my not-real-high sandwich standards, I would have been bothered by the DAM violating my sandwich in front of me. But, like I said, today’s sandwich audit wasn’t about me at all. It was about the company. And really, is one slice of meat so valuable that it’s worth embarrassing an employee over in front of a lunch time crowd? More importantly, is one slice of meat so valuable that creating an awkward moment for a paying customer is the only solution?

[HAPPY INTERMISSION MUSIC AS CHRISTINE REGAINS HER COMPOSURE]

[SORRY YOU’VE GOT TO HUM YOUR OWN ELEVATOR MUSIC WHILE YOU WAIT]

People who work as Telemarketers really irritate the hell out of me. Sure that sounds harsh but I can no longer mask my true feelings when it comes to unnecessary interruptions on the telephone while I'm busy trying to enjoy my free time at home. Family? Friend? Acquaintance? Phone me, that's perfectly fine, but when it comes to telemarketers I have officially been pushed to the very brink. I am now perched in the mental clock tower, sweat beading down my forehead, trigger finger twitching. An over-the-hill cop just days from retirement who is “getting too old for this” is dressed in an ill-fitting suit, tie loosened, and is now attempting to reason with me but I’m too far gone.

Click…

For the past two weeks I have received no less than 12 calls from (***)***-****. If that's not annoying enough, when I pick up the phone and answer, there is nothing there. Perhaps they're using an auto-dialer and a convict…err…I mean, a fine, upstanding, courteous telemarketer… who will be on the line any moment now, but still nothing. I've even waited on the line barking, "Hello? HELLO!? HELLO?!!?!?!?!?" into the phone for 3 minutes waiting for something, somebody, ANYONE to give me the slightest clue why they’re phoning me over and over and over again. Holy crap.

In this day and age when government at all levels is spending hundreds of millions of dollars to ensure we all have our privacy, why are unsolicited phone calls still legal? And you can’t tell me this has nothing to do with privacy. My phone is in my home—my private space - so you can see that this does, in fact, have everything to do with privacy. I have a phone for my convenience and enjoyment NOT so I can be hounded on a daily basis by God knows who selling God knows what. I pay my phone bill, on time, every month so I can enjoy the benefits of being connected to the outside world when I see fit and not so you can call me, say, 12 times in two weeks to have me scrambling for the phone so I can enjoy the silence on the other end of the line. For God’s sake, I was enjoying the silence WITHOUT having to sprint through the house looking for the phone.

Now there are going to be those lovers of telemarketing that say things like, “Well, just don’t pick up if you don’t recognize the number.” That’s bullshit. Picking up is the easy part. The hard part is running in from the garage or having a pleasant conversation with my neighbor cut short because you want to inform me that I’ve been pre-approved for a Platinum whatever card with just 23% interest or you want to review my telephone features for the seventh time this year. You know what? I do want to review my telephone features and I want the one that sends 50,000 volts down the phone line whenever the words, “Could I please speak to Christine *****” come out of the person’s mouth at the other end of the line.

I don’t want to hear any of the bullshit solutions or reasons for telemarketing because I simply don’t care. Don’t answer your phone, ask them to remove you from their call list, they’re just trying to make a living, that’s how they fundraise, get rid of your phone, etc., that’s all crap. The only real solution is to make telemarketing illegal and not by means of some doomed-to-fail national Do Not Call List. That will never work because there is no international law to prosecute companies that choose to call me from outside the country. How about a DO Call List? When I feel I’m ready to be hounded in the middle of sleeping, reading, clogging, meditating, crying or watching TV, I’ll let you know. Until then, piss off.

Oh yeah, Primus Canada called me today--from Baltimore, Maryland. You know, in the USA.

People that believe that the McDonalds campaign is REAL really irritate the hell out of me. You know the campaign I am talking about…”At McDonalds we take care of our employee’s” and then there is a statement saying “Ben Franklin, Suzie Mitchell wants you to ask her out” or whatever. Well, today on the way home this complete moron went OFF about this poster that said “Jada Carlson, once again, your locker combination is 12 24 36.” This raging idiot actually thought this advertisement was real and she wanted to get in touch with this oh so wronged employee and convince her to SUE McDonalds because her safety and well being has been compromised. Lord help us all if this chick ever procreates.

People that misrepresent themselves really irritate the hell out of me. The other day while driving I pulled up near a locksmith van with the words Lock Surgeon emblazoned down both sides. At first I thought nothing of it, but then I started thinking about how offended I would be if I had spent 10+ years at university training to become an actual surgeon while this gentleman in the dilapidated van bills himself a “surgeon” with four weeks of part-time study in the locksmith program down at the community college. And what about the guy in the ill-fitting dress shirt and greasy tie with the vacuum that calls himself the Rug Doctor? I hardly doubt the Lock Surgeon and the Rug Doctor are playing golf every Wednesday afternoon down at the country club.

I don’t want to downplay the importance of noble professions such as locksmithing and cleaning puke and blood stains out of carpet, but perhaps the title of doctor and surgeon should be left to those with a minimum of medical school, or at least a doctorate.

There is far too much misrepresentation is today’s world. Not just lock “surgeons” and rug “doctors”, but what about Liquid Plumber? If I were a plumber I would find it tremendously insulting that a liquid—a liquid that I am all but certain did NOT spend four years going to school and apprenticing—would have the balls to call himself a plumber. Let’s see your ticket, Liquid Plumber. Let’s see your ticket. That’s right, you don’t have one. You’re Liquid Handyman at best.

People that state “I have a life outside of the chat room” and then proceed to spend their entire lives talking about the chat room really irritate the hell out of me. I mean really!! How hard is it to get off your ass, move away from your keyboard and actually go DO something with your life??!?! Maybe you could pay attention to the children that you spend all your time in chat bitching about. Maybe you could go to the gym and actually lose some of the weight you are constantly complaining about. Maybe you could make a DR’s appointment and determine once and for all why you are consistently on your death bed. Maybe you could take up a hobby and find some fulfillment and satisfaction and self worth outside of the chat room and away from the random strangers who feed into your narcissistic “woe is me, I am such a victim” routine by telling you what a delightful cam whore or what an amazing 1-900 phone slut you are. Maybe, just maybe, you could actually HAVE a life instead of just pretending to.

Wow…*laughs* Today’s entry wasn’t supposed to go QUITE in this direction…but it was fun! I highly recommend it! What a feeling of absolute bliss to whine about the irritating things that people do to drive you insane that you are always “too polite to comment on” when the moment actually happens.

Maybe that’s a tactic…screw being “too polite”…maybe we should all just say “hey! You’re being an ass because…” and then they would be the ones all worked up about their stupid behavior, not us.

*grinz evilly and rubs my hands together* that just might work

Random Things That Irritate The Hell Out Of Me.

My inside voice filter is MIA again, so I figure I better make use of this while I wont have any residual feelings of guilt *grinz*


People that don’t know how to WALK irritate the hell out of me. You know the ones I am talking about. Imagine this…you are walking through the mall on a busy Saturday afternoon dodging kids, strollers, random insanity, and then all of a sudden a pack of women suddenly stumble out of a store right in front of you. In one hand they are clutching their latest shopping bag, in the other they are holding their still smoking credit card and they have this completely tuned out glazed over look on their faces and they just stand in the middle of the “walkway” of the mall making people dodge them and crash into each other to avoid walking right into them. Well screw that. No more Miss Nice Mall Walker. I am going start crashing into these idiots. I can’t remember a time when I have EVER walked around without noticing my surroundings, or been completely oblivious to the entire world around me. It’s time to take back the walk areas from the people that don’t know how to walk!! Maybe if they get run over enough times they’ll realize THEY are the problem.


People that wear MP3 players and don’t take the ear phones out of their ears to talk on their cell phones irritate the hell out of me. Anyone that has ever taken public transportation during rush hour can commiserate with this. These asshole teenagers with clothes that are either painted on their bodies, or clothes that are so big they have to hold them up with one hand while “posing” on the bus/train get on the transportation systems and not only are they in herds, they all have to compete to be the loudest. This morning this little punk that I privately have fantasies of wringing like a chicken, gets on the bus listening to his IPOD at a volume that was literally concert arena loud. To top it off, his choice in music sucked ass. So while we all suffered through this horrid disruption he some how notices that his cell phone was ringing. He answered it without turning down his IPOD and stood on the bloody bus screaming “Yo Dude! I can’t hear you man! I’m on the bus!” over the psychotic volume level of his IPOD…like it’s the buses fault that he’s putting out more noise pollution than all of the Rolling Stone Tours put together.*bangs head and screams*


People that clutch the “stuff” divider bar like its some holy grail of the grocery shopping line irritate the hell out of me. What do these people really think that divider bar is capable of? In reality, its capable absolutely nothing…Just ask the random people who went home with copies of Archie magazines, gum, batteries, and whatever else was handy at the check out because they so rudely slammed that stupid bar down with a withering dirty look because I didn’t put the divider bar down BEFORE I put down my arm load of groceries. I mean seriously. WTF?!?! DOWN WITH DIVIDER BARS!!! DOWN WITH DIVIDER BARS!!! Hey!! That’s an idea!! Maybe they should have lines WITH and WITHOUT divider bars. The seriously neurotic and idiotic ones can all get in the check out line with the bars and maybe with their “premier shopping point plans” they can order divider bars with their names on them in different colors. The rest of the world that can keep their stuff together without some psychotic divider bar swinging glaring moron breathing down their necks can get in the other checkout line.


People that section people off into neat little groups (example: lifestyle friends, ‘nilla friends, spiritual friends) and never the two paths shall cross irritate the hell out of me. How self absorbed and pathetic do you have to be to NOT realize that every single person has their own personality regardless of what kind of life they live. They can’t all be lumped together depending on how they relate to your life like trash bags tossed on the side of your driveway. Many spiritual men and women do not like the Dalai Lama, but according to this kind of person, the Dalia Lama is just like her/him because she/he is “spiritual”. Give me a fucking break. On top of it all, how much an insensitive ass do you have to be to only give public recognition of friendship to one specific type of group of your neatly labeled friends because the risk of offending that one specific group is so high. To anyone that has neatly labeled me this, or neatly labeled me that, all I have to say is a giant FUCK YOU, and I mean that from the deeply spiritual place that my soul is in *smirks*


People that don’t know how to chew with their mouths closed irritate the hell out of me. Why on earth the rest of the world has to suffer through watching you eat is beyond me. Have you ever seen yourself eat? You look like a cow in a field. All that’s missing is the green grass drool. Seriously. SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH ALREADY.


…wow…I didn’t think I would get this excited…in a really scary way, this experience is really liberating *lol*


That’s all I can think of at the moment…I know I will come up with more…


Now here’s the fun part….what irritates the hell out of you? *grinz*

Ninja Pooper

Some jobs are way lamer than others. In my opinion, the job that is truly the cherry on top of the lame job sundae would have to be the one where you are selling vinyl windows in the middle of the mall. Next time you’re in a mall scout out the vinyl window kiosk. Trust me, they’re in every mall in North America. Now check out the salesman. I’m going to guess that he’s not even remotely aware that you are staring at him. Clap your hands and shout, “Hey!” Now, snap a few dozen pictures utilizing flash photography. Nothing, right? The mall vinyl window salesman is completely oblivious to everyone and everything around him. He’s really kind of like an amoeba in a vinyl-clad Petri dish: you see him but he doesn’t see you. Perhaps he is not even aware that he exists. Now that you’ve got the mall window salesman in your sites, I’m going to guess that he’s reading The Sun, The Journal and likely one (or both) of our national papers. By the end of his shift he will have read all of the newspapers from cover to cover including each and every international story and the religious stuff that no one reads from the Saturday paper without so much as glancing up from the news to see if there is a customer in need of attention.



This is a day in the life of the mall window salesman, the MWS.



Here’s my theory on the mall window salesman. The MWS used to be the best. He routinely met and bettered company sales projections. He won sales contests, he received letters of praise from satisfied customers and was even seated at the sales manager’s table at the company Christmas party for two consecutive years back in the mid-nineties. He had a beautiful wife, gifted children, a late-model domestic and an eighth-share in a set of Oilers season tickets. Then, the wheels fell off. Customers discovered do-it-yourself centres like Home Depot, Rona and Totem. They discovered that choosing their own windows and installing them was really nothing to fear. The salesman’s numbers plummeted. His wife left him for the lumber manager at Home Depot. His children no longer speak to him because he can’t buy them the designer jeans and $95 t-shirts they demand. Now he lives a life of squalor in a dilapidated house boat down at the marina. He drinks too much and his sales are soft because of it.



Fast forward to the present. Soon a crusty old window salesman from the past will wander past his booth in the mall. The old man will stop dead in his tracks, squint, and have a flashback to when he was the king of the vinyl window game. He too will have lost everything at one point in his life, but dammit, he’s not going to see it happen again. He will take the current day mall window salesman under his wing and demand nothing but perfection. They will train 18 hours a day down at the old man’s vinyl window dojo and through careful tutelage and age-old vinyl window sales wisdom, the MWS will once again rise to the top of his not-so-glamorous field. Sadly, however, the old man will not witness the younger man’s triple-glazed sales triumphs for he will succumb to an incurable disease that he has kept a secret for he does not want sympathy, only respect.



Later that year at the company Christmas party the younger man (now in his mid-forties) will dedicate his Salesman of the Year title to the old man.



The End.

Yesterday I took a walk at lunch so I could buy myself a sub. The order: a 6-inch club on wheat. As my sandwich was shaping up quite nicely on the other side of the spot-free sneeze guard the craziest thing happened. The most diligent assistant manager (DAM) in the history of diligent assistant managers happened by. Stopping dead in her tracks, the DAM spun on her heels, made a beeline to where my smartly-dressed, courteous sandwich builder was honing her craft and proceeded to lift the top off my now completed sub. My first thought was maybe the DAM is simply making sure my sub is up to company standards, but that wasn't the case at all. The DAM lifted the lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and black olives off the lower bun and began counting the slices of processed meat.



This wasn't about me at all.



This was a sandwich audit. Angry with the results of the sandwich audit, the DAM yanked one, single slice of processed turkey off my sandwich and slammed it back into the bin with its heavily processed turkey brothers and sisters while muttering angry words to my now embarrassed sandwich builder.



Unbelievable.



Even if today’s sandwich audit had been to ensure this glorious little 6-incher was up to my not-real-high sandwich standards, I would have been bothered by the DAM violating my sandwich in front of me. But, like I said, today’s sandwich audit wasn’t about me at all. It was about the company. And really, is one slice of meat so valuable that it’s worth embarrassing an employee over in front of a lunch time crowd? More importantly, is one slice of meat so valuable that creating an awkward moment for a paying customer is the only solution?

I've said it a dozen times: some ideas just make good, good sense. For instance, who knew that they sell beer and wine in the IKEA cafeteria? I sure the hell didn't until this past Saturday morning and that discovery, my friend, will go down in the books as one of the single greatest discoveries EVER. I liked the idea of drinking at IKEA so much that I actually wrote "Blog about IKEA beer" on one of those little order forms they keep next to the free golf pencils so I wouldn't forget.



Think about it. Being able to get your wobble on at IKEA works well on so many levels. For the parent at the end of their rope I suggest making the most of the free hour of IKEA smalland babysitting. Simply drop your kids off in the care of complete strangers, head right up that escalator and proceed to drown your cares in 11 domestic beers in 60 minutes while you bask in all that fluorescent light atmosphere. Too boozed to make it back before your hour of free babysitting is up? Go have a nap in either the living room or bedroom department. I'm sure that there are laws that prevent smalland from ejecting your kids into a busy parking lot, so relax and enjoy the bed spins on the all-new NORESUND. Trust me, your kids will still be there when you get sober.



For the frugal shopper, I suggest a trip to the IKEA cafeteria before you begin shopping. Seriously. A gallon of red wine and a few beers later, and the next round of KLIPPAN loveseats is on you.



And do I even need to mention the starving student? Hell, even if a beer is $4.50 that’s more than manageable when you just paid $1 for breakfast.



I used to dread our all-too-frequent trips to IKEA, but to be completely honest with you, I now look forward to them. A few dart boards, a pool table, a karaoke machine and a big screen would be nice, but I’m not going to complain. I’ll just hoist my glass, a SVEPA (or it might be a POKAL) and say, “IKEA: Swedish for let’s get drunk and go shopping.”

Earlier today, I went to the washroom to urinate. I sat there in my own little cubicle, whispering and then talking (out loud) to myself. I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was not alone. It wasn’t until I was standing at the sink washing my hands that I caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of shiny black shoes in the mirror. Those shoes were directly behind me in one of the stalls. What the? How the? No sound, no smell...oh my God…it was a Ninja Pooper.



Now, I figure I was in the washroom for at least two minutes, maybe three, and did not have a clue that there was a stealthy pooper lurking in the shadows. It was the strangest thing. There were absolutely no signs that an office pooper was nearby. No smell, no sound, no “How’s it going, eh?” chatter, no nothing. This particular pooper didn’t even announce his occupancy with the perfunctory courtesy cough, overly exaggerated yawn, or the simple but effective “River Dance”. I was in the vicinity of the elusive Ninja Pooper.



The Ninja Pooper lurks in the shadows and will defecate without so much as stirring any one of your five senses. It is my theory that a Ninja Pooper is so adept at the office poop that she/he poops while simultaneously releasing a fresh potpourri scent/white noise combination to further conceal their occupancy of a washroom stall. This, combined with their ancient controlled breathing methods, allows them to stealthily poop without blowing their cover.



Later, as I wandered the hallways inspecting my coworker’s shoes in the hopes of finding the true identity of the Ninja Pooper, it occurred to me that this particular Ninja Pooper is so good that she keeps a spare pair of black shoes in her desk and only slides them on when an office poop is inevitable as not to jeopardize her deep cover. To that I say, bravo, Ninja Pooper, bravo.



All hail the Ninja Pooper.

Skating Anyone?

For some unknown reason to me I really seem to enjoy buying things that I can potentially severely hurt myself on while attempting to use.

When Lance and I first started going out he told me he really like to rollerblade. I said “oh cool, I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that”….fateful words…so Lance and I went to Sports Check and I bought these really hot super duper top of the line K2 rollerblades.

My Rollerblades. Aren’t they pretty?!?!?! *lol*

The day I bought them the sales guy at Sports Check asked me if I had ever roller skated, I said “oh yea, my roller skates had ice cream cone laces and rainbows on them. I remember dancing on my driveway in them.” Sales guy then said “ok, then you’ll have no problems on rollerblades” …fateful words…he then let me get off the sticky mat thingy to try them out around the store. I was so excited.

I cruised around the store like some kind of rollerblading super hero. I only had one minor problem in the store. Someone decided that putting a pyramid of boxes in my way was a good idea…and no, it doesn’t matter that the pyramid was there before I even thought about buying rollerblades…I crashed into the pyramid like the Kool-Aid Guy and hit the ground HARD. I wasn’t so excited at that point. Everyone was laughing at me. Lance was torn between laughing his ass off at me, making sure I hadn’t broken anything and being somewhat thrilled that his girlfriend appeared to be trying to have some skill at rollerblading

We drove over to his sister’s house and I put my blades on, still somewhat all happy and excited. I figured that I had learned from the crash in the store and I wouldn’t repeat that mistake…bad thought process...I laced and strapped myself into my blades and attempted to stand up. It’s really not easy to do without a sticky mat underneath you so the wheels don’t roll. I finally managed the feat of standing up and I hobbled to the back alley where Lance was waiting for me.

Despite the fact that it took me almost 10 minutes to stand up from the chair I was in when I put them on, I was still pumped to get out and skate. We “practiced” going up and down the back alley until I got the hang of the back break thing. On roller skates the brake is a big blob on the front of the boot, on roller blades they put the brake on the back of whatever foot you feel comfortable having it on. You have to drag your foot behind you like some kind of idiot to stop yourself. It’s really not that easy.

Lance figured that I’ve got the brake thing understood and we decide to leave the safety of the back alley and head for the bike trails. We went down the back alley and when the alley reached the street it had this teeny tiny little hill. Well I went down this little hill like I was rocket propelled. All I really remember is screeching “I can’t stop!!!!!! I really can’t stop!!!!!! Lance!!!!!! I seriously can’t stop!!!!!!!!!” with my arms waving above my head like a panic struck psychotic dragging my brake foot behind me before lance tackled me like a football line backer and took me down about 2 feet before the street reached a busy road. I looked up and saw a truck roar past on the busy road and then I realized I would’ve been on the grill of that truck. I made an executive decision at that point to stop rollerblading for the day and we head back to his sisters house…the long skate back…the whole block and a half away. I managed to make it back to his sister’s house on the blades without falling down again partially because I walked on the grass and clung from tree to tree and partially out of sheer luck.

I ended up in the hospital with a minor concussion and Lance ended up in a panic stricken state. Come to think of it, that was the night that he said “I think I love you”…my reply to that? “Lemme know when you are sure” *lol* I haven’t been on the blades since. That was last June…or was it July? I dunno…I got a concussion, I am not supposed to remember *lol*

Fast forward to around September of last year. Lance was all excited about his “beer league” hockey league starting. He asks me if I have ever skated. I say “yea, I used to skate when I was a kid, it was fun. We went to Hawrelak park and always had hot chocolate when we were done” he says “cool, have you ever played hockey?” I say “yea, in elementary I was on the floor hockey team, we kicked ass, we won the championship!” he says “sounds fun. Do you want to play hockey with us?” I stop, vaguely remember the rollerblading incident, decide to ignore it, and say “yes! That would be so fun!”… fateful words…

The “boys” skates.

We instantly rush out to West Edmonton Mall buy skates. I got a pretty hot pair of “boys” skates. They felt good, I didn’t wobble around in them, my heels didn’t lift…the sales guy at Sports Check told me they were a perfect fit. I beamed at the sales guy and lance kissed my forehead and took them over to the skate sharpening booth to get them all ready. West Edmonton Mall has a skating rink in it. We were just going to go directly from the store to the ice rink. Lance tied my boots up for me at the rink and I hobbled over to the door in the boards. I stepped onto the ice and HOLY SHIT who put the rocking chairs under my freekin feet!?!?!? I only had one foot on the ice and I went down like a sumo wrestler. I hurt my butt. Everyone was looking at me and laughing.

West Edmonton Mall is a HUGE tourist attraction…all these Asian people come from all over these Asian countries to see this mall...I stood there and watched them cruise around the ice and thought “well gheesh, if they can do it so can I!”… bad bad thought process…but with that thought, I actually made it out the door this time and had BOTH feet on the ice…and no, the death grip I had on the boards doesn’t matter…Lance was skating around in circles waiting for me to move my feet and actually skate.

I push off. I land on my butt. I crawl back up the boards and push off again. I move a whole 3 inches. I push off again and glide another foot. At this point I am still clinging to the boards and Lance is still skating around in circles encouraging me. All the Asian’s are still zooming by me. I take one hand off the boards of the rink and decide “OK, I can do this!” and push off and away from the boards. I weebled and I wobbled, but I didn’t fall down!! Yay me!!! *lmao* I am about a foot away from the boards and I push off again and BAM!! I fall down and almost take out a little kid wearing a helmet. *sighs* I crawl back up the boards and push myself along them and make it half way around the rink to the hockey team players benches. I stumble head first into the benches and rub my butt and instantly start whining that my skates are too tight and they are hurting my feet. *smirks* a pretty good lie on the spot I thought!

At this point I think Lance was feeling a little sorry for me because he said “ok hon, I’m gonna skate around a bit, you loosen off your skates so your feet don’t hurt and then we’ll go around again”…like I had even made it around the rink once… I sat in the benches and watched Lance turned Wayne Gretzky zoom around the ice, dodging kids and Asian’s the whole way and thought “damn he’s good” and figured with the brilliant female logic “if he can be that good at it, I can be better” *sighs* and I hopped out of the players benches and onto the ice. Just a tip guys…DO NOT HOP ON ICE!!!!

Lance zooms back over to me, helps me up and kisses my forehead and then says “baby, you have to get to the other side of the rink if you want to stop skating.” I look at him like he’s some kind of alien who has taken the place of my kind hearted boyfriend who should offer to carry me across the ice and say “fine!” with that tone that says “it is SO not fine” and push off on my skates and amazingly I made it around the rest of the rink without falling again. I get back to the area where I started this skating nightmare and step off the ice and take a look at myself. My jeans are SOAKED. My hands are turning blue. I am just not a happy camper. Then I realize “dammit! I have to pee! “

The person that designed this skating rink really didn’t have a good idea. They put the bathrooms down about 50 stairs. Lance looks at me, looks at the stairs, looks back at me and says “please be careful.” I wonder if he was thinking that I was just gonna attempt to slide down the railing or something. Gheesh. I looked at lance and muttered “I CAN walk down stairs without falling ya know!” in that female snitty tone and started down the stairs…and then I fell. It was like doing a cart wheel with sharp pointy spears on. I took out an Asian guy coming up the stairs and we landed in a heap at the bottom of them. *sighs*

Lance runs down the stairs…my isn’t he clever? Not only can he stay upright on ice, he can run down stairs too!...and unfolds me from this poor man that I almost killed. I apologize to the guy and bolt to the bathroom. I held my butt up to the hand dryer so my jeans would dry off and I ran my hands under hot water so they wouldn’t look like I was dead anymore and came out of the bathroom. Lance was leaning against the wall, still in his skates, looking at me with that twinkly little smirk he gets when he’s trying really hard not to laugh and doesn’t say a word. He just grabs my hand, kisses my forehead and walks with me back up the stairs.

This is the point where I start whining that I need a toe pick to be able to skate. I start in with how “girl” skates are flat and “boys” skates are sharpened like they are rocking chairs. I actually had myself convinced that it was the skate’s fault that I couldn’t manage to stay upright. Needless to say, I didn’t play hockey in the beer league last year. I haven’t been on the “boys” skates since.

Fast forward to today. Lance’s hockey beer league starts tonight. He decided that he needed new skates because the skates he has are about 12 years old. Off to Sports Check we go…are you starting to notice that I really don’t make good decisions when I go to Sports Check?!?!!?... and while Lance is browsing in the “boys” skate department I venture over to where the “girl” skates are displayed and I see this super cute pair of “girl” skates with …ta da…a TOE PICK!! The answer to my prayers!! I try them on. The sales guy tells me they are a perfect fit. I was so proud of myself. Lance finds a pair of skates that he likes, I am super happy with my “girl” skates that come with these really super cute fuzzy skate protectors that match the boot of the skate and Lance is smart enough not to say a word. We buy our skates, get them sharpened, and leave Sports Check.

The “girls” skates with the toe picks and the super cute fuzzy skate protectors.

We go back to the West Ed Mall skating rink and I get into my skates. Lance re-laces them for me because I couldn’t get them tight enough and off we go. Remember, I seriously thought that because I have used “girl” skates my entire life that it would be like riding a bike. The other skates were bad because they didn’t have a toe pick…REALLY bad logic…I step onto the ice and am instantly attacked by a swarm of Asian people who weren’t any better on skates than I am. We all go down in this giant mass of twisted legs and arms and sharp pointy speared feet. Lance is still standing inside the boards, not on the ice yet, laughing his ass off. I glare at him from the bottom of the skating dog pile that I managed to create and he comes out in true rescue hero form and pulls me to my feet.

This time I managed to skate around the ice for about 20 minutes only holding onto the boards when the swarm of Asian people was zooming toward me again. I got brave and decided to try going up the middle of the ice, completely away from the boards, and away from the zooming Asians. I made it to the middle of the rink and then…well…I truly wish I knew exactly what went wrong, but I ended up doing this warped pirouette and I landed on my head. I looked like I was trying out for the figure skating team for the Special Olympics. I sit on the ice, Lance skates around me in circles desperately trying not to laugh. I am still sitting on the ice wondering how the hell I am going to stand up without the boards. This little girl skates by me in a frilly figure skating outfit, stops, looks at me, and decides that this is her perfect moment to attempt a double sow-cow jump. She landed on me. *sighs*

This little girl’s mother comes raring out of the “shoe’d” area onto the ice in her flip flop sandals screaming like some kind of lunatic. She gets about 5 feet away from me and then she slips. It was like watching a cartoon. Her feet went over her head, her butt hit the ice, and she came crashing into me and her little girl. At this point everyone that was walking around the mall, everyone that is skating on the rink, the employees, Lance…EVERYONE…was pointing and laughing. I am once again on the bottom of a dog pile and Lance is once again trying to disentangle me from the chaos.

I get on my feet, wrap my arms around Lance and he tows me to the “shoe’d” area and I get off the ice. I take off my “girl” skates, put my runners back on and just sit there. Lance is smart enough to not say a word. We come home, I peel off my soaking wet jeans and then Lance says “wow babe, nice bruises!” *sighs* It hurts to sit down. I may just get back on the “girl” skates. I didn’t do too badly on them. This time I was upright more than I was on my butt, that’s progress right??!!

I truly don’t know what keeps possessing me to buy things I can really hurt myself on. I keep making an ass out of myself. At least I am good entertainment.

Does anyone want to buy a pair of skates? They are all size 8. *lol*