See, it all began with Charles (Beano's resident drag queen) making some sort of suggestive comment concerning my 'ginger bush', and while I knew he was just doing it because, y'know, queens gotta be fierce, I figured I'd one-up him by unbuckling my belt as if I was about to produce said 'ginger bush', but not really, because I was at work, and that's when a customer walked in, so I ended up trapped at the till as a line-up grew, and that's why, for about twenty to thirty minutes last night, I was serving customers with my pants around my ankles.
Don't even. You can't touch this one. It is both awesome and shameful.
But not as awe-inspiring/shame-inducing as watching this:
I swear to god I have no idea where it came from; all I know is that if I had to watch it, then so did you.
(Have you submitted a sentence to The Straw yet? Why not? Do you hate Josh are something? Do you wanna be known as the only internetter who's anti-semite? Don't tempt us, we'll go there!)
I have had too much to drink. Good night.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Wherein Christopher uses the C-word.
A bit of advice to anyone who might be contemplating canning a whole buncha tomaters to keep for the winter:
Don't.
No, really. Don't. The Ladyfriend and the Mom Pack decided to get together this weekend and mug a farmer for his entire tomato crop, split their loot between three different safehouses, then spend close to 72 hours watching tomatoes boil in large vats. I think I was lucky: I was only present for about eight hours of this, during which time I was repeatedly assaulted by a gang of pre-school thugs who all thought it was funny to hit me in the head with wooden toys whilst choking me under the pretext of demanding piggyback rides and telling me that they 'wuvved' me. The end result: 30 jars of salsa, numerous cases of heat exhaustion, heartbreak, depression and disappointment, and a stove that literally cracked in half. I think we lost a few kids somewhere along the line as well, but they were probably deadweight anyway. More than a few of the Mom Pack have foresworn this activity in the future, which is okay with me, as we all know that my preparation for the apocalypse is piles and piles of Hostess food products and a water tower full o' gin.
Still, it was fun. Kinda.
...as opposed to yesterday, when it seemed as though the entire membership of the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club descended on Beano, punctuated here and there by high school kids buying milkshakes and bagels with their parents' credit card - oh, and the guys laying tile in our new bathroom turned out to be crackheads. Fun City, lemme tell ya. An honorable mention goes to the lady who came in and demanded something called (I shit you not) a 'Baby-chino', sighed with exasperation when I asked what exactly the fuck she was talking about, painstakingly and condescendingly described it as basically steamed milk, rolled her eyes when I explained that we refer to steamed milk as 'steamed milk', and then complained about the price with everyone's favourite line, "...it's not how they do it at Starbucks."
Lady: you're a cunt, and there's probably a good reason why your daughter needs to wear a helmet in public.
Oh, and to those guys who wear buttoned shirts with the top button undone, exposing that triangle of orange fake-tanned hairless skin: y'all look like douchebags. Seriously, all I'm seeing there is another vulva, guys, which I'm quite certain flies in the face of your rampant masculinity - although the popped collar and frosted tips makes me think that you might be grazing in different pastures, which is cool, but most homosexuals have better fashion sense than you. All I'm asking is that you do up that button or wear an undershirt; either that, or I start flicking you in the chest to see if a clitoris pops up.
Hey, y'know what doesn't suck? My daughter, who is currently asleep in the classic 'Face Down, Butt In The Air' position, and has recently taken to making a noise when she's upset that's somewhere between a velociraptor and a starving Nosferatu. It's endearing. Really.
(That's all. I just like talkin' about her, cuz she's awesome, so shut it.)
Something else that doesn't suck: one of our co-workers, Graeme, has a made a short film! (Graeme's the one at Beano that kinda sorta looks like that guy who plays Captian Kirk in the new Star Trek, only without all the punches to the face.) His film is called Actor, and you should watch it, if only to watch the protaginist mimic Christian Bale's Batman voice in his audition.
Also: Josh is still accepting single-sentence submissions. We're thinking that once we get enough sentences, we'll either publish them as one nonsensical story, or else put 'em all in a coffee can and bury 'em outside the cemetery in order to ward off the undead.
Now I sleep, and if anyone has anything else to say about tomatoes, just keep it to yerself, punk.
Don't.
No, really. Don't. The Ladyfriend and the Mom Pack decided to get together this weekend and mug a farmer for his entire tomato crop, split their loot between three different safehouses, then spend close to 72 hours watching tomatoes boil in large vats. I think I was lucky: I was only present for about eight hours of this, during which time I was repeatedly assaulted by a gang of pre-school thugs who all thought it was funny to hit me in the head with wooden toys whilst choking me under the pretext of demanding piggyback rides and telling me that they 'wuvved' me. The end result: 30 jars of salsa, numerous cases of heat exhaustion, heartbreak, depression and disappointment, and a stove that literally cracked in half. I think we lost a few kids somewhere along the line as well, but they were probably deadweight anyway. More than a few of the Mom Pack have foresworn this activity in the future, which is okay with me, as we all know that my preparation for the apocalypse is piles and piles of Hostess food products and a water tower full o' gin.
Still, it was fun. Kinda.
...as opposed to yesterday, when it seemed as though the entire membership of the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club descended on Beano, punctuated here and there by high school kids buying milkshakes and bagels with their parents' credit card - oh, and the guys laying tile in our new bathroom turned out to be crackheads. Fun City, lemme tell ya. An honorable mention goes to the lady who came in and demanded something called (I shit you not) a 'Baby-chino', sighed with exasperation when I asked what exactly the fuck she was talking about, painstakingly and condescendingly described it as basically steamed milk, rolled her eyes when I explained that we refer to steamed milk as 'steamed milk', and then complained about the price with everyone's favourite line, "...it's not how they do it at Starbucks."
Lady: you're a cunt, and there's probably a good reason why your daughter needs to wear a helmet in public.
Oh, and to those guys who wear buttoned shirts with the top button undone, exposing that triangle of orange fake-tanned hairless skin: y'all look like douchebags. Seriously, all I'm seeing there is another vulva, guys, which I'm quite certain flies in the face of your rampant masculinity - although the popped collar and frosted tips makes me think that you might be grazing in different pastures, which is cool, but most homosexuals have better fashion sense than you. All I'm asking is that you do up that button or wear an undershirt; either that, or I start flicking you in the chest to see if a clitoris pops up.
Hey, y'know what doesn't suck? My daughter, who is currently asleep in the classic 'Face Down, Butt In The Air' position, and has recently taken to making a noise when she's upset that's somewhere between a velociraptor and a starving Nosferatu. It's endearing. Really.
(That's all. I just like talkin' about her, cuz she's awesome, so shut it.)
Something else that doesn't suck: one of our co-workers, Graeme, has a made a short film! (Graeme's the one at Beano that kinda sorta looks like that guy who plays Captian Kirk in the new Star Trek, only without all the punches to the face.) His film is called Actor, and you should watch it, if only to watch the protaginist mimic Christian Bale's Batman voice in his audition.
Also: Josh is still accepting single-sentence submissions. We're thinking that once we get enough sentences, we'll either publish them as one nonsensical story, or else put 'em all in a coffee can and bury 'em outside the cemetery in order to ward off the undead.
Now I sleep, and if anyone has anything else to say about tomatoes, just keep it to yerself, punk.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Know Yr Enemy, Pt. 2
Because someone had to do it. Someone had to bite the bullet and venture where no sane person had any business being, artist Derek Erdman documented his trip to the 2009 Gathering of The Juggalos. There are pictures, and a video, and ohmigod that Faygo drink they're always carrying around is made from a recipe for cake frosting.
Strange, that the Faygo thing is what surprises me the most. It explains so much, though!
I have no words.
Except also: Men At Their Most Masculine.
Obviously I am not included, as I was freaked out earlier by a vibrating zucchini, but I gotta wonder, what the hell is up with the duct tape mask?
Strange, that the Faygo thing is what surprises me the most. It explains so much, though!
I have no words.
Except also: Men At Their Most Masculine.
Obviously I am not included, as I was freaked out earlier by a vibrating zucchini, but I gotta wonder, what the hell is up with the duct tape mask?
What all the cock talk was about.
It seems I am a Writer again:
Mecha-Godzilla vs. Fascism.
Dear Katie.
Also: Josh is tired of alla y'all lazy layabouts just checkin' out the site and not pullin' yer own weight, so he's put a call out for submissions - but there's a catch: every submission must be one sentence and one sentence only, or as he puts it, "the rules are as follows: the sentence can only have one period. and it can be about anything that you want."
Please note that Josh has used two periods in that sentence.
So, if you fancy yerself a fashioner of words or whatnot, whether yer a pockmarked teenager with bad emo hair and one pair of skinny black jeans, or senile old fart like myself who enjoys ranting about the government playing road hockey on his lawn, send your one-sentence masterpiece to: thestrawbooks@gmail.com
The first twent-five submissions will get a small bucket of raspberries from my own private stash in my backyard, just don't tell Rachel, plus you have to help me fight off the wasps. See? I just made that whole sentence up on the spot! It's easy! Everyone's gotta have at least one sentence in 'em, right? Right.
So, get to it. I'm tired o' seein' yer lazy good-fer-nuthin' butts just sittin' on the couch watchin' cartoons.
Mecha-Godzilla vs. Fascism.
Dear Katie.
Also: Josh is tired of alla y'all lazy layabouts just checkin' out the site and not pullin' yer own weight, so he's put a call out for submissions - but there's a catch: every submission must be one sentence and one sentence only, or as he puts it, "the rules are as follows: the sentence can only have one period. and it can be about anything that you want."
Please note that Josh has used two periods in that sentence.
So, if you fancy yerself a fashioner of words or whatnot, whether yer a pockmarked teenager with bad emo hair and one pair of skinny black jeans, or senile old fart like myself who enjoys ranting about the government playing road hockey on his lawn, send your one-sentence masterpiece to: thestrawbooks@gmail.com
The first twent-five submissions will get a small bucket of raspberries from my own private stash in my backyard, just don't tell Rachel, plus you have to help me fight off the wasps. See? I just made that whole sentence up on the spot! It's easy! Everyone's gotta have at least one sentence in 'em, right? Right.
So, get to it. I'm tired o' seein' yer lazy good-fer-nuthin' butts just sittin' on the couch watchin' cartoons.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Reading In Public Is Thirsty Work.
So. Josh's book launch. We came, we read pretty words from crumpled up pieces of paper, some us played holy-crap-amazing music, Josh sold some books. A time was had. Or something.
You'll have to excuse me; I've had four beers, which at my age means that I should be put in restraints before I do something silly like mow the lawn at one in the morning wearing only my socks. Because Hazel needs more embarrassing pictures of me on the internet.
Anyway: going to bed, because work is only eight hours away, and I need my beauty sleep if I'm to deal with the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club for another week, so here's a six-minute long commercial for Johnnie Walker whiskey, narrated by Robert Carlyle; no, dude, really. It's worth it:
You'll have to excuse me; I've had four beers, which at my age means that I should be put in restraints before I do something silly like mow the lawn at one in the morning wearing only my socks. Because Hazel needs more embarrassing pictures of me on the internet.
Anyway: going to bed, because work is only eight hours away, and I need my beauty sleep if I'm to deal with the Mount Royal Trophy Wives Club for another week, so here's a six-minute long commercial for Johnnie Walker whiskey, narrated by Robert Carlyle; no, dude, really. It's worth it:
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Free Nude Celebs
So, apparently some of y'all took me seriously when I talked about having another party this weekend, as last night the Mom Pack descended onto our house with the intention of drinking all of our leftover alcohol and exchanging racy secrets concerning their man-friends - or at least that's what I gathered, as I wasn't really paying attention, as large groups of giggling females make me nervous, as they tend to be giggling about something I've done or said or maybe it's just my Aquaman t-shirt but anyway...plus I had special important INTERNETTING work to do, so I'd sequestered myself away in this corner with a couple of glasses of gin & tonic and the headphones playing the sultry strains of Assjack (which, y'know, is awesome, but y'all know that, right? Right. Good.), so my attention was a little diverted, to say the least, until of course I ran out of gin, which mean I had to cross the open space known as the Kitchen, and then it turned out that the bottle of tonic water had somehow been shaken up so it exploded all over me when I opened it, and that's when I heard somebody say, "...weren't we just talking about blowjobs?".
Which, ya gotta admit, is kinda funny.
And is also the reason why large packs of giggling, slightly inebriated women should be avoided at all costs. Wimmins is crazy.
Anyways: the reason I'm diverting precious non-baby time from my usual agenda of productivity (read: video games and comics and silly Facebook applications) is to tell you about how the one and only Joshua Barsky, barista excellente and all-around sharp-dressed man, has published his first book, and that we're holding a launch for it at Tubby Dog tomorrow night at around 7:oo. Josh will be there, signing autographs and kissing babies, and apparently there'll be readings by Mr. Barsky himself, the illustrious Micah Stone, and, well, Someone Else, as well as performances by Siezure Salad, Indiensoci (please don't ask me how to pronounce that) and Free Nude Celebs. The book is called 'C', and I'm about forty pages into it so far, and while I have no idea what it's about, I'm certainly enjoying it; so come on by, drop $20 on his book instead of whatever Dan Brown cumstain you'd originally planned on picking up, have a beer and punch someone. That's an order.
Oh, and check out Assjack. It's Hank Williams III doing good ol' fashioned Texas punch-in-the-face rock'n'roll/metal/skullfuckery. Plus it's pretty on the ears, so there ya go.
Which, ya gotta admit, is kinda funny.
And is also the reason why large packs of giggling, slightly inebriated women should be avoided at all costs. Wimmins is crazy.
Anyways: the reason I'm diverting precious non-baby time from my usual agenda of productivity (read: video games and comics and silly Facebook applications) is to tell you about how the one and only Joshua Barsky, barista excellente and all-around sharp-dressed man, has published his first book, and that we're holding a launch for it at Tubby Dog tomorrow night at around 7:oo. Josh will be there, signing autographs and kissing babies, and apparently there'll be readings by Mr. Barsky himself, the illustrious Micah Stone, and, well, Someone Else, as well as performances by Siezure Salad, Indiensoci (please don't ask me how to pronounce that) and Free Nude Celebs. The book is called 'C', and I'm about forty pages into it so far, and while I have no idea what it's about, I'm certainly enjoying it; so come on by, drop $20 on his book instead of whatever Dan Brown cumstain you'd originally planned on picking up, have a beer and punch someone. That's an order.
Oh, and check out Assjack. It's Hank Williams III doing good ol' fashioned Texas punch-in-the-face rock'n'roll/metal/skullfuckery. Plus it's pretty on the ears, so there ya go.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Breakfast With The HILJ
Okay, so, I want eggs for breakfast, but I don't like them hard-boiled anymore, now I want them scrambled, but they're a bit too hot so while they cool down you better give me some kiwi, but since it takes you at least a minute to peel and cut up the kiwifruit, you better give me some cereal just to tide me over until the fruit and the eggs are done, but now I see that Mom's eating some other kind of cereal so I want that instead, and oh! Look! Blueberries! I want them ALL, but it doesn't matter what you feed me, it all gets shoved down underneath my butt in the high-chair, but it's okay since you won't really notice it for a few hours yet until it turns into this hardened paste that you have to scrape out of the seat using a spatula and in the mean time I'm still hungry but I don't want to sit in my highchair so I'll just scavenge whatever scraps I find on the floor and that's why I threw them onto the floor in the first place and if you alter my itinerary in any way I'll make this noise that resembles the sound of a dying chihuahua and WHERE ARE MY BLUEBERRIES I MUST EAT ALL OF THEM.
I swear to god: I'm gonna stick a feedbag on her and set her loose in the back alley, where she can frighten the neighbours and keep the hobos out of the recycling.
Currently she is sitting on top of her drum. This is one of her favourite activities of late, this Sitting on Things, especially things one normally does not really choose to sit upon, such as musical instruments, matchbox cars and other children. I'm not too concerned about it, as there a number of occupations out there where sitting is considered a skill. It's just that sometimes I feel like I'm babysitting one of Rachel's clients, y'know?
Yes, I did just compare my daughter to an adult with developmental problems. What?
So, you might not have heard, but we had a wedding reception at our house last Friday. I find it hard to believe that anyone didn't know about it, as it seemed as though everyone in the world and their 3.5 children turned up to bring us food and alcohol and make us dress up in tiaras (true story; I have pictures. They're not pretty.). We expected about thirty people, and ended up with about three times that number (although I may have counted some of the children two or three times, as they all look the same when you're yelling at them to stay out of your gin...), including a few witches and the odd transvestite, and the best part is: they all cleaned up after themselves, which meant that the Ladyfriend and I were able to consume more alcohols and smush cake into each other's face. Which, apparently, is entertaining to everyone except for our daughter, who thought she was on Intervention: Domestic Violence Patrol.
(Now she is wearing three shirts, a diaper and one shoe, lying face down on the kitchen floor and singing softly to whatever lives beneath the floorboards. Normally, I'd say she was singing to Bryn, as he is the Creature That Lurks Down There, but he's at an actual JOB, so I can't even guess at what she's doing.
Let's just say that our child has a Rich Inner Life.)
I'm pretty sure a good time was had by all, as no one complained (except for some of the kids, but really, who listens to their children these days anyway - and we still have ample amounts of alcohol, so we're thinking of getting married again this weekend, just to see of people come by one more time with more presents for us. Oh, and if you didn't get the invite or didn't know the party was going on: not my fault. This thing was planned by some very evil individuals who took our house hostage for a night, so blame them.
Must go; Hazel thinks the garbage can is her new friend. This does not bode well.
I swear to god: I'm gonna stick a feedbag on her and set her loose in the back alley, where she can frighten the neighbours and keep the hobos out of the recycling.
Currently she is sitting on top of her drum. This is one of her favourite activities of late, this Sitting on Things, especially things one normally does not really choose to sit upon, such as musical instruments, matchbox cars and other children. I'm not too concerned about it, as there a number of occupations out there where sitting is considered a skill. It's just that sometimes I feel like I'm babysitting one of Rachel's clients, y'know?
Yes, I did just compare my daughter to an adult with developmental problems. What?
So, you might not have heard, but we had a wedding reception at our house last Friday. I find it hard to believe that anyone didn't know about it, as it seemed as though everyone in the world and their 3.5 children turned up to bring us food and alcohol and make us dress up in tiaras (true story; I have pictures. They're not pretty.). We expected about thirty people, and ended up with about three times that number (although I may have counted some of the children two or three times, as they all look the same when you're yelling at them to stay out of your gin...), including a few witches and the odd transvestite, and the best part is: they all cleaned up after themselves, which meant that the Ladyfriend and I were able to consume more alcohols and smush cake into each other's face. Which, apparently, is entertaining to everyone except for our daughter, who thought she was on Intervention: Domestic Violence Patrol.
(Now she is wearing three shirts, a diaper and one shoe, lying face down on the kitchen floor and singing softly to whatever lives beneath the floorboards. Normally, I'd say she was singing to Bryn, as he is the Creature That Lurks Down There, but he's at an actual JOB, so I can't even guess at what she's doing.
Let's just say that our child has a Rich Inner Life.)
I'm pretty sure a good time was had by all, as no one complained (except for some of the kids, but really, who listens to their children these days anyway - and we still have ample amounts of alcohol, so we're thinking of getting married again this weekend, just to see of people come by one more time with more presents for us. Oh, and if you didn't get the invite or didn't know the party was going on: not my fault. This thing was planned by some very evil individuals who took our house hostage for a night, so blame them.
Must go; Hazel thinks the garbage can is her new friend. This does not bode well.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
So, Um, Yes.
This 'marriage' thing.
Some of you might've heard a little rumour that's been circulating here on the Internet, popping up between sessions of Mafia Wars and checking to see if the Jonas Brothers have updated their Twitter feed ("Last night Kevin said the F-word! Prayer circle!"), so lemme clear everything up by saying: yes, it's true.
Last night, the Ladyfriend made an honest woman out of me.
It's not as sudden as y'all might think; we've been discussing this on and off for about a year and a half now, and while I'm aware that most people set a date and plan a big event and hire clowns and whatnot, once we'd decided that we were gonna do this, there just didn't seem to be any point in waiting.
Which is why yesterday a sombre man in a very smart suit came to our house, sat down amidst a doll house and stuffed toys and creepy electronic singalong devices, explained the process to us, performed the ceremony in our kitchen in front of Miss Amy and Bryn and Gobbler (then once again when Jen and Chris and Marley showed up afterwards; our fault, that - we kinda jumped the gun and got hitched before everyone we'd invited showed up, because we are Bad People...), and then put on his shoes, went out back and inspected our raspberry bushes.
I kid you not. Dude was excited about those bushes.
Here's the thing: we'd already made this commitment to each other when we decided to have Hazel. It was never solely about providing for our daughter; it was all about seeing this through as a family, making sure that our compromises and sacrifices were for the betterment of each other as well as Hazel. As far as I'm concerned, the ceremony is for the spectators; not that it lessens the implications of the vows spoken in any way, nor the impact such a ceremony has on those involved as well as those witnessing - but I could care less about who's watching me get married, whether it's a church full of extended family and friends, or a living room packed with a menagerie of toddlers all fighting over same broken Tonka truck; it seems simply a formality, a necessary step to take so that Rachel and I can get on with our lives together, as we watch Hazel systematically destroy everything we own by coating it with saliva, testing her new teeth on it and then flushing it down the toilet.
I don't think this will be easy by any means, but I think we've both been ready for each other for a while now, whether we were aware of each other or not; I think we recognize a strength in each other that we can rely on, if need be, as well as a complete and willing openness with one another, one that's refreshing and, quite frankly, a little scary. I know I've found a partner who's not afraid to push me when I need it, who's able to back off when I need to be headstrong, who's smart when I'm dumb and vice versa, and who's been willing to accept the worst parts of me from the very beginning.
Plus, I kinda like her, 'cuz she's really, really cute. Like, HOLY CRAP cute, y'know?
So, um, yeah. There you have it. We is hitched all proper-like now. We is The Janzens.
...that sounds SO friggin' weird.
On that note: apparently the creature who lives in our basement (Bryn) and the inimitable Lindsay Bysterveld Ross (holy heck that's a mouthful) have planned a potluck/reception for us on Friday night. We have been told soundly that we have no choice in the matter, so at the risk of having hundreds of people show up and trample Rachel's zucchini plants: this is me inviting you. If you wanna stop by, feel free to do so, and I promise I'll only flinch once when you say congratulations, and only then because it's all SO WEIRD.
Some of you might've heard a little rumour that's been circulating here on the Internet, popping up between sessions of Mafia Wars and checking to see if the Jonas Brothers have updated their Twitter feed ("Last night Kevin said the F-word! Prayer circle!"), so lemme clear everything up by saying: yes, it's true.
Last night, the Ladyfriend made an honest woman out of me.
It's not as sudden as y'all might think; we've been discussing this on and off for about a year and a half now, and while I'm aware that most people set a date and plan a big event and hire clowns and whatnot, once we'd decided that we were gonna do this, there just didn't seem to be any point in waiting.
Which is why yesterday a sombre man in a very smart suit came to our house, sat down amidst a doll house and stuffed toys and creepy electronic singalong devices, explained the process to us, performed the ceremony in our kitchen in front of Miss Amy and Bryn and Gobbler (then once again when Jen and Chris and Marley showed up afterwards; our fault, that - we kinda jumped the gun and got hitched before everyone we'd invited showed up, because we are Bad People...), and then put on his shoes, went out back and inspected our raspberry bushes.
I kid you not. Dude was excited about those bushes.
Here's the thing: we'd already made this commitment to each other when we decided to have Hazel. It was never solely about providing for our daughter; it was all about seeing this through as a family, making sure that our compromises and sacrifices were for the betterment of each other as well as Hazel. As far as I'm concerned, the ceremony is for the spectators; not that it lessens the implications of the vows spoken in any way, nor the impact such a ceremony has on those involved as well as those witnessing - but I could care less about who's watching me get married, whether it's a church full of extended family and friends, or a living room packed with a menagerie of toddlers all fighting over same broken Tonka truck; it seems simply a formality, a necessary step to take so that Rachel and I can get on with our lives together, as we watch Hazel systematically destroy everything we own by coating it with saliva, testing her new teeth on it and then flushing it down the toilet.
I don't think this will be easy by any means, but I think we've both been ready for each other for a while now, whether we were aware of each other or not; I think we recognize a strength in each other that we can rely on, if need be, as well as a complete and willing openness with one another, one that's refreshing and, quite frankly, a little scary. I know I've found a partner who's not afraid to push me when I need it, who's able to back off when I need to be headstrong, who's smart when I'm dumb and vice versa, and who's been willing to accept the worst parts of me from the very beginning.
Plus, I kinda like her, 'cuz she's really, really cute. Like, HOLY CRAP cute, y'know?
So, um, yeah. There you have it. We is hitched all proper-like now. We is The Janzens.
...that sounds SO friggin' weird.
On that note: apparently the creature who lives in our basement (Bryn) and the inimitable Lindsay Bysterveld Ross (holy heck that's a mouthful) have planned a potluck/reception for us on Friday night. We have been told soundly that we have no choice in the matter, so at the risk of having hundreds of people show up and trample Rachel's zucchini plants: this is me inviting you. If you wanna stop by, feel free to do so, and I promise I'll only flinch once when you say congratulations, and only then because it's all SO WEIRD.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Sunday Morning Comedown, Yo.
There is a Gjerdrum and a Popiel in our house. This is not really a bad thing at all, but I just feel as though it's the neighbourly thing to do to let y'all know that Those People From Victoria have arrived. They've also brought that kid whut they made, which is awesome, as it gives Hazel something else to abuse.
Apparently there was a gaggle of Womenfolk at the house last night (that word comes from the German 'vimmenvolk', a term used in the 15th century to describe groups of women that would disappear into the woods to dance nekkid and bake pies with evil spells in them. It's true, I looked it up and everything.) who were all drinking various fruity alcohol beverages, so I half-expected the house to be covered in unfinished crochet projects and pictures of naked men when I got home; as it happened, all I found when I got home was my daughter.
Awake.
At 1:00 a.m.
Staring at me. In that way, y'know? That way that asks, who are you and what are you doing in my house and where is my shotgun?
Anyway: today is that Rock The Bells show, featuring almost EVERY HIP-HOP ARTISTS EVER. The funny thing is that everyone I know who's going is planning on taking their kids; I can only imagine what RZA or Nas or Cypress Hill will think to look out over the audience and see nothing but an ocean of strollers and diaper bags.
Breakfast awaits. Breakfast, and NAPS.
Apparently there was a gaggle of Womenfolk at the house last night (that word comes from the German 'vimmenvolk', a term used in the 15th century to describe groups of women that would disappear into the woods to dance nekkid and bake pies with evil spells in them. It's true, I looked it up and everything.) who were all drinking various fruity alcohol beverages, so I half-expected the house to be covered in unfinished crochet projects and pictures of naked men when I got home; as it happened, all I found when I got home was my daughter.
Awake.
At 1:00 a.m.
Staring at me. In that way, y'know? That way that asks, who are you and what are you doing in my house and where is my shotgun?
Anyway: today is that Rock The Bells show, featuring almost EVERY HIP-HOP ARTISTS EVER. The funny thing is that everyone I know who's going is planning on taking their kids; I can only imagine what RZA or Nas or Cypress Hill will think to look out over the audience and see nothing but an ocean of strollers and diaper bags.
Breakfast awaits. Breakfast, and NAPS.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Kimmy did NOT name her kid after a 90's stoner-rock band.
We are currently awaiting the arrival of a Hiplet and her brood.
(FYI: a Hiplet is like a hippy, only shorter; thank you Jay Wilson.)
Yes, Kimmy Gjerdrum and family are coming to stay with us this weekend; some of you might remember Kimmy as the one I used to fight with behind the counter at Beano, going so far as to actually put a crack in one of the walls while having her in a headlock (we're kinda proud of that one...); since her auspicious Beano days, Kimmy's moved to Victoria with her fella, dropped a turtle-shaped kid and pretty much became The Reason Why The West Coast Is Evil. It's true; check Wikipedia.
Once they get here, we plan on tying pillows to our kids, handing them sticks wrapped in barbed wire, and just letting them go at it in the back yard. Also: I plan on making good on the threat of shaving Kimmy's head in her sleep, so I'll soon have single-use authentic dreadlocks for sale for those of you wishing to rid your house of evil spirits, bad smells and unwanted hobos.
Stuffs:
1. I feel that I must share this picture with y'all. I don't know why, I just feel compelled.
2. Tiny skyscrapers made of staples. Which is probably the name of a new Modest Mouse song.
3. OHMIGOD WARREN SPECTOR VIDEO GAME GENIUS IS WORKING ON A NEW GAME! Dystopian steampunk version of Disney's magical kingdom? Yes, please.
Now I must go shower, for I have slept all day in a hot room, and there are no geisha girls to bathe me. I asked Rachel to pretend fo a day, but she just laughed at me.
(FYI: a Hiplet is like a hippy, only shorter; thank you Jay Wilson.)
Yes, Kimmy Gjerdrum and family are coming to stay with us this weekend; some of you might remember Kimmy as the one I used to fight with behind the counter at Beano, going so far as to actually put a crack in one of the walls while having her in a headlock (we're kinda proud of that one...); since her auspicious Beano days, Kimmy's moved to Victoria with her fella, dropped a turtle-shaped kid and pretty much became The Reason Why The West Coast Is Evil. It's true; check Wikipedia.
Once they get here, we plan on tying pillows to our kids, handing them sticks wrapped in barbed wire, and just letting them go at it in the back yard. Also: I plan on making good on the threat of shaving Kimmy's head in her sleep, so I'll soon have single-use authentic dreadlocks for sale for those of you wishing to rid your house of evil spirits, bad smells and unwanted hobos.
Stuffs:
1. I feel that I must share this picture with y'all. I don't know why, I just feel compelled.
2. Tiny skyscrapers made of staples. Which is probably the name of a new Modest Mouse song.
3. OHMIGOD WARREN SPECTOR VIDEO GAME GENIUS IS WORKING ON A NEW GAME! Dystopian steampunk version of Disney's magical kingdom? Yes, please.
Now I must go shower, for I have slept all day in a hot room, and there are no geisha girls to bathe me. I asked Rachel to pretend fo a day, but she just laughed at me.
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