Monday, May 23, 2011

Constable Douche serves and protects.

Remember the story of my rearview mirror falling off? I remember writing that post and thinking about other fun memories of me terrorizing my car that I could tell you guys. Like when I drove into a house. Or when my tires exploded on the highway. But instead, this one came to mind, and became very relevant after yesterday:

It was about three years ago, and I had just finished a long closing shift at Starbucks. I get into my car, not being able to wait to crawl into bed, only to have to get up 43 minutes later to come back to work (and I wonder why I have bags under my eyes 24/7...). I start my car, put it into reverse, turn the wheel as I back out of my stall, and *CRACK*, my windshield now has a nice spiderweb, veiny crack in it. I may or may not have forgotten to take my club off my steering wheel. Oops. I didn't even care. All I wanted was bedrightthisverysecond.

As the past three years have passed the crack has only gotten longer, wider, taller, bigger. It sometimes is in my line of vision, but not enough for me to worry about me being a hazard to anyone on the road because I can't see anything. Except the one time the sun hit the crack at the exact spot where I was momentarily blinded and couldn't see anything in front of me (or, for that matter, anywhere in my vicinity because all I saw was spots for a good 10 minutes after). It's the same as driving when my windows are still frosty in the winter because I need to be at work in the next 36 seconds and I know my route well enough that I don't need to be able to see anything while driving. Watch out fellow drivers.

In the past three years I've been told more times than I care to remember to "just pay the deductible" and get the glass fixed. Last time I checked I didn't have a spare $200 laying around to get my windshield fixed. And if I did, please let me tell you it wouldn't be spent on my windshield. I could list tens of thousands of things that I would rather spend $200 on. At the top of my list? Makeup, DVD's, pepperoni caesars, BACON (which I used the last of in the house yesterday making bacon chocolate chip cookies, so I do actually need more). But not a new windshield.

Up until douchey, regular-customer cop pulls me over yesterday. I should have known that Mexican and my witch powers would come into play when we had JUST been talking about how if we got pulled over by a different regular-customer cop that he would let us get away with anything. WHY COULDN'T IT HAVE BEEN HIM THAT PULLED ME OVER? I sometimes hate subconsciously predicting the future.

I'm just driving alongside a cop car, minding my own business, blasting 'Island in the Sun' by Weezer, talking to Mexican about the sushi we're going to eat, when all of a sudden I get the feeling this cop car is out to get me. I wasn't speeding, I didn't have drugs on me, I was wearing my seatbelt, I was abiding by all laws, but I just knew he was thinking of something to pull me over for. So I turn down the next street to lose him. Home free. Or not. I habitually look behind me and HE'S BACK! I'm still not speeding, I still have no drugs on me, I'm still wearing my seatbelt, but he turns his lights on anyway. I obviously burst out laughing, because of course this is happening. My laughter quickly turns to anger as I see what cop steps out of the vehicle. Well lookie here, look who it is...

Fast forward what felt like three hours, being pulled over on the main street in Abbotsford, where I'm sure 27 people that I knew drove past Mexican and I, who probably automatically thought we were criminals (or thought I was speeding because I might do that every once in awhile), and Constable Douche comes back to my window giving me a Notice and Order to have my windshield and burnt out taillight fixed in SEVEN DAYS. Let's keep in mind that this is a Sunday, and tomorrow's a holiday, so I have FIVE DAYS to fork out a $200 deductible AND prove that it's fixed to the police station. Five days and no time. I suppose I could try and find the silver lining of this situation and look at this fix as increasing the "value" of my car for when I have to sell it and get a new one, but right now it's just a giant inconvenience. Why couldn't he have given me 14 days? That would at least give me another pay period where I could pay for it comfortably.

Let me add that knowing my luck, as soon as I get my windshield fixed a giant rock will hit the nice, shiny, brand spankin' new glass and chip OR crack it all over again, and we'll be back to square one. If I have that expectation I won't be disappointed, right?

Monday, May 16, 2011

I brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack.

I'm just trying to gain a bit of self control with my bacon ranch dip before I can write this post. If it makes you feel any better, I'm dipping peas and carrots into it, not just eating it with a spoon, as I'm positive some of you are thinking I'm doing. I heart carrots a lot. Real carrots. Not water-logged baby carrots. I even take the time to peel and cut up real carrots. That's love. Scoops dips into dip. I felt this slight bit of nutrition was necessary after what I ate this past weekend. Note: weekend eats contained zero nutrition.

It all started on Friday when I was baking BFF bubblegum cupcakes. When I bake, well, anything, I'm a batter-eater. Especially cake batter. If any of you know me, cake batter anything is my weakness. Along with bacon, fried foods, and a few more select items that are anything but healthy. Okay, food is my weakness. I try not to generalize. Anywho, my cupcake baking went a little something like a scoop for the cupcake maker, a scoop for my mouth. *Repeat 24-26 times* I cheated and used store bought icing. I haven't mastered the making of icing yet. Mine always turns out too thick, or too thin, or too sweet (I didn't think it was possible), or too buttery, or too something that is NOT perfection. And I'm all about perfection. In most aspects of my life. Parallel parking not included.

After cupcakes are baked I go to FatBurger for dinner. The hour and a half long wait in traffic (I'll spare you the rant on my hatred for semi-truck drivers and the hassle they cause for everyone else on the road when they [more than likely] fall asleep at the wheel and overturn into a ditch) was worth it for my burger and poutine. I'm sure there's a reason it's called "FatBurger". I'm just not sure I know what it is. *shifts eyes around uncomfortably*

Then comes Saturday. Oh, Saturday. How I love thee. How I love thee even more when I know I'm getting mojitos, pepperoni boot caesars, and a Latin burger. And shots of Jack Daniel's. I refuse to think about it, as the relationship between Jack and I is becoming more and more like the relationship between tequila and I. NON-EXISTENT. After mild harassment from BFF about my cupcake carrier (how else am I supposed to transport said cupcakes to Vancouver aside from holding them in my lap? We all know they would be eaten by the time I got there. Cupcake carrier = BFF's BFF. Trust me.), and a parallel parking incident, and a beer (note: still not a fan. I try so hard.), we make our way to HAVANA!!!!!! I LOVE Havana! It provides oh so many memories, and provides the BEST mojitos! Have you ever had a mojito? Does the combo of lime and mint freak you out? But do you like refreshing drinks? Or giant wooden spoons in the pitcher? Don't just order a mojito from anywhere and think that's what a mojito should taste like. That's wrong. Go to Havana. I'll even be okay with you ordering just one mojito. I understand not everybody is an extremist like I, and orders pitchers or two or four of drinks just because they can.

Havana also has a burger called the Latin burger, that, even though the menu has changed since the last time I was there so the burger was different (we all know how well I do with change), is amazing. It has a beef patty, bacon (obviously), and now a turkey sausage patty (it used to be chorizo sausage). Then it has cheese, guacamole, some sort of mayo spread (obviously), and comes with the cutest shoestring fries. It was better with the chorizo, but it's still delicious. I will still order it. Always.

After Havana is Local. Home of the pepperoni boot caesars. The place that holds my heart. Well, except when creepy middle-aged men try to pick up BFF and I. I sometimes wish that people knew exactly what BFF and I are like together as soon as they see us. But only sometimes. The rest of the time I get excited at the thought of our capabilities to shut someone down and make them feel approximately one inch high when we're together. In my defense, when someone starts talking about when they worked for BC TEL (for those of you who don't know, that's Telus before it was Telus - circa 1976, I swear), that's a good indication of their age. Also, when they find out you're from Abbotsford and they ask you if you know where McCallum Road is, that's another pretty good indicator that they're either a) from a time when McCallum  Road was the only road in Abbotsford, or b) from a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Plus his eyes bugged out of his head like his eye sockets were too small for his eyeballs. And he wore a pendant that resembled the Superman logo. Did he think he was Superman? My guess is yes. Anyway, after using his "I just got my heart broken" line, and not getting any sympathy from BFF or I, he put on his tie-dye Adidas jacket and mosied on out.

The night did not go until 6:00 am this time. And I did manage to get the fitted sheet on the pull-out couch this time. BFF even wore pajamas this time! I, however, only half wore pajamas. There is nothing wrong with wearing pajama pants and the shirt from the night before. Even when said shirt has pokey flowers along the collar that stabbed me all night. It wasn't worth the effort to change. I plan on going back May 28th. Does that work for you, BFF? My body has become obsessed addicted in need of accustomed to pepperoni soaked in caesar.

Sunday was spent on the couch. I watched two and a bit movies and finished season 3 of Full House. Then got a text from a fellow inadequate-amount-of-human-contact-that-day friend, and we decided human interaction would be good for us, so we met for cookies slash french fries dipped in a Wendy's Frosty. I bet you can't guess which was mine.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Full House and caramel sauce and a fridge full of food makes me a happy camper.

I didn't mention it ever, but for the past, oh I don't know, gazillion days, I've needed to go grocery shopping. Not clothes shopping, or baking accessories shopping, or even DVD shopping (these all took precedence to groceries - since when can I survive without a fridge full of cheese and a cupboard full of cinnamon sugar pita chips?). And I adore grocery shopping. Like, love it a lot. But this time it sounded like a giant chore to me. It could be because since I had put it off so long, the bill would be anything but minuscule, and my bank account would hate me. So I waited more days and subconsciously hoped that I would come home to a fridge full of all the ingredients necessary to make the 17,000 meals I wanted to make (I think I wanted all these meals because I was starving always and kept thinking of things that would be delicious to make, but I didn't possess anything to make any of them). I survived on granola bars, diet root beer, and leftover Easter candy for days. Then felt disgusting and set off with my TWO PAGE grocery list. Oh dear.

A cart was necessary for this grocery shopping trip. I can usually suffice with a basket, but I felt like my arms would fall off from nerve damage if I tried to do this with one. Unfortunately there were quite a few items on my list that were those things that you only have to buy once in awhile because they'll last you forever and they're expensive (ie: chicken, cheese (just kidding, cheese doesn't last awhile in my house. Unless three hours is awhile?), condiments, BACON (only because I can never just buy one pack, I need four)). I kind of felt like I was doing the I-just-moved-into-a-new-place grocery shop. How does one person go through an entire bottle of bacon ranch dressing in such a short amount of time? [I like to dip. Everything.]

I normally go through the self-checkout when I grocery shop because it brings me back to my 6.5 years of working at a grocery store (I'm not sure why I always want to be reminded of that). But not this time with my cartful (is that a word?) of groceries. I leave the store with, and I'm not kidding, NINE BAGS OF GROCERIES. Wtf?! I'm one person! However, my mood swiftly changed from depressed to excited as I neared my house because now I get to choose what I'm going to make. This? or this? I settled on the cake (mostly because I had been meaning to bake it for approximately three weeks but didn't have sour cream in the house and it was too much effort to buy some, but now, somewhere in my nine bags of groceries, I had some), and guacamole. Maybe shrimp tacos. Maybe six litres of salsa. I couldn't decide. Mexican was clearly my theme. I don't think anybody has the time to listen to me go on and on and on about my love for Mexican food. If you've ever spent any amount of time with me, you will know how much I adore it. Mostly because within the first 30 seconds of meeting me you will more than likely become aware of my love for food. Then after about 90 seconds I narrow it down to Mexican. If you don't share the love our conversation will slowly dwindle to nothing. Just kidding. Kind of.

Anyway, I baked the cake. It required homemade caramel sauce. It was to.die.for. I impressed myself. The cake took an hour in the oven. And that was after the fight I had with my blender because it wasn't doing it's job. In the end I won. I always do. Take note. But an hour in the oven? I guess that's three episodes of Full House, but patience is not my strong point. I thought repeatedly opening the oven door to "check" it would make it go faster. Again, patience is not my strong point. Plus, I was toying with missing the heart-to-heart father-daughter chat between Danny Tanner and DJ by going to the kitchen to check it. After an hour it had to cool before I drenched it in caramel sauce. And by drench I mean drizzled what was left after I ate it all while watching Full House and waiting for the cake to finish baking. Moral of the story? The cake was a success. I obviously took it out of the oven a bit too soon because I couldn't wait any longer, so it was doughy still, which is my FAVE. Come to think of it, I should have brought it all some to work today. To eat in front of all the people working out at the gym.

Unfortunately between baking the cake that took the most amount of time ever, and prepping my weekly lunch contents, I ran out of time to actually make a meal, so tonight I think I'll make my salsa and shrimp tacos. This time I bought the big taco shells so I can still have six, but they will contain mucho (Spanish reference anyone?) more stuff inside. I'm hoping when I make enough to feed a small family because I anticipate bringing them for lunch the next day, I will end up with enough to bring for lunch the next day. Let's be honest, it's not likely.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

There's nothing hilarious about this weather.

Remember a few months ago when I was obsessed with this blog? My few and far between posts may not have given that impression, but I talked about it all the time. To one person. You know who you are. My lack of internet proves a hindrance to blogging 24/7, so I used to microblog on my phone with random ideas of something to write about for my next post, the next time I was around an internet connection (aka work). But then that slowly dwindled away due to obsessions of other things, like sleep. Now it's come to the point of me sitting, staring at a computer screen willing an idea to come to me. And that led to me being depressed about the lack of excitement in my life. I could go on and on and on about work (boring), or my obsession with food (not interesting to those NOT possessing a similar obsession), or I could find numerous things to complain about (which, trust me, is annoying, then no one would read my blog and that would depress me more than not having anything to write about). So, in light of this tremendously gorgeous weather we're experiencing here in the Fraser Valley, I'm going to talk about summer!

I'm stoked for the summer. Well, assuming we actually get weather that resembles something to do with summer. I'm no longer interested in this rain slash cold slash wrecking-of-my-hair weather. Currently at work (between both jobs) I have a set schedule, which makes planning a whole lot easier in terms of weekends away and drinking of pepperoni caesars. I've made a pretty decent impact on my new car fund, which makes driving to other country's to see fellow Contiki friends a whole lot easier (next month, K, next month). Roomie and I are 98% seriously considering a trip to Vegas because it doesn't make sense not to go because it costs like, $30. In saying this, I hope I return safely, with no criminal charges because I'm afraid of roomie's capabilities when it comes to legalized drinking in the streets with $1 margaritas in hand. Just in case, one of you guys will bail me out of jail though, right? And lastly, since apparently everyone I know has never been to Penticton, and since I've recently developed an obsession with the place, I feel as though weekend trips there are completely necessary, even if for attempts to make other people obsessed like I am.

Now I just need my tattoo to heal so I can start tanning again without fear of it fading to nothingnness, then I'll look like I belong in Penticton (nobody likes a pasty, white visitor from the west coast). And I need it to stop raining so I can start running outside again (running in a gym is bor-ing) and be physically prepared to walk around Vegas in July in 57 degree weather. And I need my money tree to start sprouting so I can purchase my new vehicle and actually do all of these rad summer 2011 plans. For now I suppose I'll continue sitting at my desk, sipping my iced coffee, and anticipate the day when I don't need the heater under my chair and don't have to wear 36 layers of clothing to stay warm.

Monday, May 2, 2011

I still have it.

This past weekend I challenged my youth. I won. You see, I normally get an average of 5-6 hours of sleep a night. So when I got 12 hours of sleep on Friday night, I was ready. to. party. on Saturday night. And party I did. I consistently drank for 12 hours, closed down a bar, and continued until the sun came up. And not until the sun was peeking to what we would call dawn, but until the sun was so bright it didn't make sense to go to bed at all. Oh hi there, 6:00 am. BFF and I got to the bar early to get a table to watch the game. Drinks begin at 5:30 pm. I order a mojito that I was convinced was made with tequila. Tequila and I are not friends. In any sense of the word. Then I saw a caesar that came in a BOOT. With PEPPERONI. Umm, yes please. The caesar was deliciously spicy, it had sour cream in it (sounds strange, but was NOT. AT. ALL.), and the pepperoni was soaked in caesar, which is now how I will probably have to forever after eat my pepperoni. Thanks, Local (the bar we were at). The following caesar's were requested to have 3 sticks of pepperoni instead of the pepperoni, spicy bean, olive combo. And 3 sticks of pepperoni I got.

The game was slow, as I'm sure every one of you knows. And it was long. Two OT's? I was over it. Then we lost. Not okay. Time to change tables. To a booth. Let's just say that sitting in a booth when you're not the one on the end is a bad idea when drinking. I heard the words "I need to get out" and "can I get out?" and "excuse me" more than I wanted. Our party slowly dwindled to enough people that we could move tables. Again.

Oh hi there, New Zealanders. You're pretty. Fast forward two more hours, some more drinks, a game of musical chairs, and a snap show at the creepy Spaniard, the lights come on and we move the party onward continue to sit at our table. "Can we order food?" Uhh, no, the bar is closed. No food will be had.

We all end up back at BFF's apartment (approximately 3 steps away from said bar), to drink beer/wine, snort salt (well, one of us did. Not me.), draw whiskers with eyeshadow on those that pass out, download random apps on phones, close curtains because we are in denial of the rising sun, and then go to bed still in our clothes because it's 6:00 am.

Now, to be fair, I ended up getting my usual 5 hours of sleep, but I woke up soooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired. BFF comes out of her room still in her dress. We're both probably still drunk. When did this couch get pulled out into a bed? Where did this mostcomfortableduvetintheworld come from? Why am I sleeping on a bare mattress when there's a fitted sheet sitting on the table beside me? So many unanswered questions. Moral of the story? I may or may not be spending a significant amount of time at BFF's this summer.