Marvelling at the sheer fucked-up-ed-ness of it all

coffee is the answer to every questionFamous asshole beats the crap out of women, and in the quiet heat of the shower, women think, “Dodged that bullet. But I was never pretty/smart/interesting enough to be picked out of a crowd, anyway.”

Video showing a woman being harassed on the street goes viral, and sitting alone on the commuter train, women think, “This never happens to me. Did it ever? Have I let myself go? Was I ever desirable?”

Women huddle in the corner of the coffee shop, alternately confessing to the above and marvelling at the sheer fucked-up-ed-ness of it all.

Not all women, sure.  But more of us than you’d think.

One man’s turtle

This was the sign in my neighbourhood that provided inspiration for yesterday’s goofery.

Okay, to be fair, not so much the sign (phone number redacted) as P’s observation that a counter-sign saying “Found SOUP!” would be pretty funny.  I am 97% sure he was joking.

This is not sugar syrup

Full story below the photo, but if you want the short version, here it is:

Foreground: my cute kid, reading a beat-up book in a favourite local café.  Very sweet way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

You know what’s not sweet?

That stuff that is not sugar syrup.

I thought it was.  I mean, it’s lined up in the frickin’ Aisle O’ Sweetness, sandwiched in between the granulated sugar and the honey, and it has the same kind of slightly yellowed tint that sugar syrup can sometimes have, and there’s a spoon in it, obviously for self-service.  So, it’s sugar syrup, right?

Remembering that last time I tried it, the few spoonfuls I put in my iced coffee didn’t seem to make much of a difference, I took the lid off my drink and poured in a good two or three tablespoons’ worth.  Then I walked back to the table, and then this happened:

P:   What did you just put in your drink?

Me:   Sugar syrup.

P:   I don’t think that’s sugar syrup.

Me:  Well, if it is, it’s not very well made because I poured a crapload in and I can barely taste it.  *sip sip sip*

P:  No, I mean, I think that’s just a little jar of water that you’re supposed to put your dirty spoons in.

Me:  Well … fuck.

Oh, sure, it’s funny now.  It was even mildly funny when P went to the cash and bought me a new, non-boogered drink.  But word to the wise — if you’re going to stop in at Cake Town Cafe, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t, it’s lovely — just know that the little jar of liquid is not sugar syrup.


Seve is feeling kind of under-the-weather.  He has a very phlegmy cough and this morning he actually hacked so much he threw up, poor pup.  The fever was legit, though, so we skipped first ballet class (boo!) and have laid low today.

Not that you’d know it from his ceaseless, worried, bordering-on-yelled exclamations.  They all start out the same way: “OH NO, MAMA!”  Sometimes he mixes it up and tosses out a “OH NO, WHAT HAPPEN, MAMA?!”  And all day long, because he’s sick and I can’t be right at his side and still wash dishes, run laundry and pee, I end up running, worried that he’s thrown up again, or Juno is choking on something, or, really, anything has happened that merits that kind of alarm.

To date, Seve’s “OH NOs” have focused on the following:

  • that our tree was sick;
  • that he is eating a peanut butter sandwich;
  • that Juno took his fire truck (okay, that borders on fair reporting, I guess);
  • that the mail carrier hasn’t come yet;
  • that the mail carrier already came;
  • that Santa didn’t bring any presents for the Big Bad Wolf (thanks for that one, Toopy and Binoo);
  • that there is no more snow.

It’s like living with galdarned Nancy Grace.

If you think I’m talking about you here, yeah, you’re probably right.

If you think I’m talking about you here, yeah, you’re probably right.