In which I play plagued to save Christmas.

Today I join the ranks of cut-throat deal shoppers. The annual Warehouse toy sale is today. This means ridiculously cheap brand name toys and 23847293487293423428792873 shrewd and heartless Moms & Grammies.

Normally, I hate shopping (and don't get me wrong, I still hate shopping), however..... for the past few years, I've managed to get allllll the Christmas gifts for the kids for under $300. Thus, I have to do it. Biting this bullet ensures that I will not have to step foot in even one mall in December and THAT is a beautiful thing. This toy sale is brutes, though. SOMANYPEOPLE. You have to have a contingency plan, I've found. The year before last, waiting in the 3 hour line was like playing survivor. You have to choose the correct line & form alliances with other people so that you can go to the bathroom sometimes and be willing to step over people who have died, or you will never get out. The more friends you make in line, the faster you get to the cashier. You divide and conquer. I have a new strategy. I am ready.

I've put on my protective gear, practiced my contagious sounding cough and painted red around my eyes.. because nothing makes people back the #$%& off like a really contagious looking sale-crazed woman. "Um.. maybe we should come back later.." they'll say as I am writhing & drooling alkaseltzer bubbles from my mouth in front of the 2010 Holiday Barbies. What this conveys is, "Back off people, I'm going to be first in line here. If you want one of these Barbies, you'll have to go to your car and get your hand sanitizer first", leaving me a large enough window of time to get in, get my shiz and get. out. Or maybe they'll call the police. Who knows? You have to take risks if you want your holiday season to be truly wonderful. I need to find some way to spurt fake blood around.

K, gotta go do my warm ups.

____________________

UPDATE:

Oysters, Cat Rumspringa, Pee. Three important topics in one blog.

1. I ate a raw oyster. I was peer pressured. I thought it would be the devil, like cooked oysters are, cooked oysters are the tiny little taste-like-sweat devil... but I sucked it up. Get it? Sucked. It. Up. Like you do with oysters. Not funny? Okay.

I treated it like a little oystery jello birthday shot (which was kindly). Anyhow, turns out that I like slimy, saucy, little grey globs of flesh. The point is that once again I have to take back all the libelous slander I've expressed about oysters the same way I had to backtrack on sushi being yucky... which it isn't... if you don't order it in Northern Alberta at a place called, "Prairie Sushi". What is happening to me? I'm mutating or something. I'm all wild and adventurous.

2. My cat, Smarties, is back from her rumspringa. Her coming of age event where she snuck out and left for two days of sinning. The little ho. Thank the two year old for mangling the screen door so she could get away from the house. Anyhow, she was missing, during which time I knew that if she came home, she'd be pregnant; because she's in heat every 8 seconds. See how that works? So now I've been eyeballing her accusingly every time I walk past her.

"NAPPING, SMARTIES??? ARE YOU?? HMM???? TIRED FROM BEING A TOTAL PREGNANT WHORE?? Huh?? I see you came slithering back home. Make some poor choices did you? If you're pregnant, expect no help from me. You made your bed, cat. Do you even know who the father is??? Probably not, right? What's your next move? Cat welfare?? (Wait... do they have that? Because $$$).... OR maybe you want to go to the doctor and y'know... take care of this....? You could still get your life together, smarties. What about community college?? Was it the feral cats at Parliament, Smarties? Huh party girl? Couldn't resist, eh? Whore."

No really, is there such thing as cat abortions? Probably for a million dollars. Also, then I'd live in eternal guilt for forcing that solution upon my cat. Every time she looked at me in the future, I'd have to avert my eyes and bite my fist. Living forever with her leaving cat-pro-life pamphlets on my nightstand.... writing "KITTEN MURDERER" on my mirror in red lipstick, little cat picketers all around my house forever..... watching her try to herd around and mother the kids' stupid, horribly annoying zhu zhu electric hamster pets...... Waiiiiiit..... this could work.....

Oh fine. I'm going to hell for talking about cat abortions. I get it. Stop glaring at me through your fancy cd roms. She might not actually even be pregnant. Maybe she really listened to the talk I gave her about the facts of life. Maybe I'll just make her wear a scarlet letter.



3. Don't you think it would make more sense if the old fairy tale was, "The Princess and the Pee"? Because a pea? PEA? No... but if you pee in my bed, I'm going to get really princessy and cranky with you.

Me: OH EM GEE. Did I just feel something wet?
Bed: Yah. I'm peed. Everyone is waiting to see how you react
Me: WHAT? Everyone who?
Bed: The prince.... well Neil. He won't marry you if you're not grossed out.
Me: What?
Bed: Yeah. But you passed. You win.
Me: Do I? Do I really win?
Bed: Yep. There is only one loser here and it's me.
Me: Ha. Jokes on you, bed. I'm going to go sleep in the guest room
Bed: Yeah... Guest bed is a little starved for attention... you might not like what you find there. It took it to the next level so to speak... to see if you're a Queen and stuff. Think "princess and the corn".....
Me: Ooooh... nooooo... Oh man, Bed, you've always got my back. Can I get you anything?
Bed: Yah. A towel and some purell.
Me: Sooooo sleeeepy......glaughhhhhh
Bed: Yeah but could you... just...
Me: Crashing in 3.....2..........1
Bed: Hey... pssst.... wakey wakey.....about that towel?.... Hey! *shake shake*
Me: *snore*
Bed: please?

That's what I was thinking about as Barney the dinosaur sang to kids about the importance of getting married as soon as possible on tv... or something (Ha. tell that to SMARTIES *zing*). I wasn't paying that much attention, as I was imagining what I would do if someone peed in my bed to find out if I was a princess or not- rather than just ask.

Well aren't you going to ask? If you don't ask, I'm just going to go ahead and sleep on the couch.

Michelle's get rich quick plan #49587394

Realistic pinatas.

Holy Smokes. Sock beast redux.

His name is Gossamer. He's the Streetster bunny-Get it? *laughing ensues* He's the Smoking Bun *people are doubling over from that hilarious joke of mine* Perfect for that new baby. He is made of a brand new sock and his cigarette is organic & cushy soft with no small parts, no choking hazard here, it would make a perfect gift for that new little bundle of joy.

I know, I know.... Hell.
Sewing is soothing & fun, though.

AllllLLlright. I'm still here.

Nag naggy nag.

So it was Christmas. Honestly, I have been holding out because I want you all to savour the horrible, horrible, horrible, horrid, unspeakable, vile, horrible, offensive, wonderful new 4th installment of the annual Traditional Ugly Christmas pants that I got for Neil (Click here to see the past three pairs). Truly, there have never been worse pants ever made. Whoever is responsible needs to be found out and crowned the Evil Pants-Master of Christmas. They are the sum of our nightmares, in fact I'm pretty sure they are responsible for world hunger AND Nancy Grace's personality. The worst thing is that they were the last ones. This means that several other people also bought the same ones.. possibly as serious gifts for people... or maybe someone saw them and thought, "OoOoooH... This print is going to work perfectly for hiding that extra holiday weight I've put on!" Or perhaps someone bought them all as a Holiday kindness and burned them. WELL. They missed a pair. HehehEHHEheheheh!

This is the fourth year running that I have searched far and wide to find the most offensive roadie pants on the planet. Every year, I feel that I've outdone myself and then every year- Eureka!! I find worse. This year, it was like Rudolph shone his glorious spot-bat-light on them in the ugly pants paradise store. I left the place clutching my plastic bag to my heart while giggling like a maniac. Oh I am a HORRIBLE GENIUS!!!!!

The thing is... he hasn't gotten them yet. Our family is having our late Christmas tomorrow morning and I decided to have him wait until then. I just know he's bubbling over inside with foreboding willies anticipation.

But the very best thing about this wonderful Christmas tradition is later in the year when I see a stranger at a gas station, mustache wafting in the breeze, scenting the air all around with beef jerky and red bull, wearing the very same pants that I got for Neil. It just makes my whole year. I suppose I'll never know if anyone else has last year's identical lime green and red Portugal underpants that I bought him to match his generic beerpants... But one must always hold out hope.

Just look at the love for me in his eyes last Christmas! Everyone loves Portugal Underpants! Especially Scottish Men like my Neily. I thought they would be so dashing under his kilt! He's so lucky to get to live with me and all of my magical holiday ideas.

I'll post a picture of the wonderful moment tomorrow, so you'll have to wait until then to see them. I just know that you will probably not even leave your computers. You are just dying for your eyes to take them in and imprint onto your brain they way that they have imprinted onto mine.

Dammit.

Look what I just got in my email.

Finally.

Seeing Beer Dogs for the Criminally Insane.

You know what gives me a red rump? There is no bud light lime in any of the stores in Ottawa anywhere. Everyone is sold out. Which one of you is buying it all??? Huh? Get some help, eh? Stop using up all my beers. Sure- I only looked in one store and then just went home, but I'm just going to go ahead and assume by the condescending smirk the beer store clerk gave me when I asked if they had any while pointing at their giant poster of it, that nobody has any. Nobody. Well maybe the french do, but Gatineau is alllLLLllllll the way over there. Also, I am not pleased that the Canadian beer geniuses haven't come up with a Canadian version of lime infused beer, or if they have, they've forgotten to send me a registered notice about it in the mail. It had better not be Kokanee, either. Ew. Not that I would normally touch a regular budweiser with a million bazillion foot pole. The lime kind is A-OK. The only thing more depressing than this whole scenario is reading Post Secrets.

All this after spending the afternoon at the Canadian seeing eye dog farm. I'm not joking. We went for a tour because hey, free donuts and water! Also educational stuff for the kiddies. But it was blistering hot out and all I could focus on was all the bud lite lime I was going to purchase on my way home. The dogs were pretty nice, though. I thought about putting one in my vehicle, because hey... it's not like anyone would see anyway, right? Plus they said that the dogs are totally free, and I think only giving them to the blind is discrimination against the visually unimpaired. Oh man. That was kind of a tactless joke, eh? I'm a jerk. Sorry visually impaired people. If it makes you feel better, I owe money on my taxes. Also, FYI, I put money in the plastic dog and everything, don't write me hate letters, k?. The universe has rebalanced itelf. No bad Karmel for me.

What I should have done, though, if I'd have only known about this whole no lime beer shenanigan, was stop at every beer store on the way home until I found my lime beer. I need a lime beer finding dog. A seeing lime beer dog if you will. I would name him Beery the Beerdog, or Fender.... or Mister Sprinklybeer or Limey Beerstard.

The End.

PS.. check this out. Radioactive, Conjoined, Mutant Strawberry!:

Awesome.

ThE FiRsT InsTaLLmeNt oF............... Dial Meow for Murder.

Episode: Things Fluffy-Sparkles the Cat has massacred on my property.

I say first installment, because we usually get maybe one day per week off from walking outside and nearly stepping on the corpse of some poor little creature. I would like to drive home the fact, straight away that my yard is roughly the size of a generous postage stamp. Each day, the kids skip happily outside and without fail, they declare the death of yet another cute little snow white movie extra, like frolicking little coroners.

"Whatcha playin', kids?!? Looks FuUUuuun!"
"We're playing the I jumped over it and you ate it game!"
"Oh how creativvvv---AUGH!!!!! NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. Dead animals are NOT hackey sacks!! GET in here so I can dunk you in antibacterial wash... do you feel swine-fluish? How about Bird Fluish? Rabid? When did we get a raccoon skin hat???"

On with the graphic, sadistic, macabre photographic evidence:

Yeah, that's our welcome mat. I suppose we have this coming.

That's a wee mouse's arse end, displayed on the skull & cross bones. This might be nice stuffed and mounted in a teeny tiny living room with a teeny tiny fireplace and little teeny wing chairs. Maybe I'll surprise Libby with a new feature for her barbie house.

Poor Dudes. I was only kidding when I was talking about a Vlad the Impaleresque display on my lawn to scare off the noisy spring birds, I SWEAR. Althouuuuugh......

Not pictured:
*The dead mother mouse' head, surrounded in a semi circle by her little pink babies. Like a dead-mouse-family flower mosaic.

*The head of the mouse who's arse is shown, which was on the back step instead of the front.

She's a very creative kitty.

Dear Birds,

I realize that you are all madly in love and busy with spring procreation, but how on earth can it be that there are 238720987529384723 different species of you outside, competing for the loudest and most obnoxious, deafening song? This is Canada. You were supposed have frozen to death and I'll be damned if I've even seen ONE penguin quietly rolling it's egg anywhere. Just raccoons, squirrels and bazillions of twitty birds. It's so unfair.

Now don't get me wrong, Birds of my neighborhood, I love birds as much as the next guy- but I have to admit that am forced to consider constructing a Vlad the Impaler-esque plastic bird arrangement on my front lawn so that you can write letters to your neighborhood bird association- complaining of my hateful display, demanding that something be done with your little bird petition to make it more livable around here for you. Then, when the letter is finally processed by the bird bureaucracy and slow moving legal system due to the uphill battle you'll have to fight against social stigma regarding Bird tolerance, so much time will have passed that you'll all have given up and moved to my arch nemesis's neighborhood instead to drive THEM insane enough to burn their own house down just to make you go away, (killing 2 birds with one stone) because too bad, Birds, you have no human rights. Just the flimsy bird rights which that hippy, Pamela Anderson fights fruitlessly for.

After all, the bottom line is that you're all delicious on toasted paninis with a little rosemary, sea salt and olive oil and your bird babies are just the right size to fit into tasty little birdy samosas. I might even make a little cash if I set up a stand at the bus stop selling these baby bird samosas. I'm thinking $2 each would be a good price. $3 if I decorate them by having your little birdy legs poke out of the pastry edges with little tiny unstylish shoes on.

Love

Chelle.

Yep.

So I went and had my hair done the other day. That was pretty much a nightmare. I really hate trying to find a new stylist. It has been 7 months since I moved away from the best Jennifer who bossed me around with my hair and made all of my dreams come true (except the reocurring one where my sister's father in law is a rampant serial killer and I have to stop him with only dental floss... still haven't resolved that one- if I were ever willing to apply myself the way those women in the movies do when they have dreams like that, I might blow open the biggest case of serial murder that Northern Alberta has ever seen... except that he's not actually a serial murderer at all. He's just a guy who brought my brother in law into the world so I'd better not put him behind bars for good. It would make Christmases pretty awkward. Elephant in the room, so to speak). So I've been putting off getting my hair done at all costs, which is basically a train wreck since I insist on being an unholy shade of blonde- and that is a commitment unto itself.

By the time I'd itemized my list of demands to the quivering woman prior to her butchery, I could see her actual mind blowing. That really should have been the first red flag indicating that I should have bolted out of there faster than an epileptic speed freak (offensive? doesn't even make sense? huh?)... but I stayed. I decided not to be judgemental against her for juuust long enough for her to ruin my life. STUPID. ALWAYS go with being judgemental.

I'd show you the end product, but someone might google search it and think I'd done it on purpose. It was somewhere between circa 1996 A&W team member and captain of the scrap booking soccer mom club (or SS). It wasn't punkish, saucy, feminine, respectable or ahead of the trends AT ALL. So I pushed her down, told her that her kids were ugly and left.

Anyhow, luckily, my hair is naturally curly and I can easily hide all the haircut flaws by letting it go into it's organic state of depraved steel brillo pad.

The End.

Let me take a break from pantyhose crafting for a moment to bring you this..

The worst looking biscuits I've ever made.