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I know I’ve said before that I was unlikely to talk about my father very much, and a big part of that is my current frustration with his major flaws and how they affect my life. The other part of that is that he’s funnier than me, and I like to pretend that it’s not true, which is pretty messed up considered I don’t think I’m very funny at all…It’s a vicious cycle.

But then he goes and does some awesome stuff like making this adorable cork board thing for all my mum’s students to sign love notes on. Pretty spectacular.

Or then there’s the part where he swipped a folding screen from someone’s bulk trash just to bring it home and help me remake it into a MOTHERFUCKING TARDIS.

Yea. My dad’s going to make me a TARDIS. That’s fucking full of epic awesome goodness.

Best part, I never even told him I had planned on buying a cardboard one or was thinking about painting a door to look like one. I’ve just infected his mind with Doctor Who (keep in mind, neither of my parents watch it, but could tell you a whole lot about it) by drawing little TARDISes (i? ini?…es. …) in the corner of basically everything I can draw on, that his first thought on seeing this, was “British flag for Renee” and then his next was “Fuck no. TARDIS rocks.”


I’m so damn proud.

And I’m going to have a TARDIS for my new house. This is so fucking badass. My dad kicks your dad’s ass with a folded spoon heated to 350*F and used for a baseball bat in Hell. Or something like that.

I’m going to go learn to Quickstep now. Ta



…First of all, I just have to say…I got bored and looked at my search term stats and saw that someone was directed to my blog by googling this phrase: “where can i find christmas words for my mother”……

I’m pretty sure they didn’t find what they were looking for. I’d apologize, but it wouldn’t be sincere.

So some crazy person asked about my kitty’s constipation. I think they’re crazy (in fact, I know this as a fact seeing as how I know them in real life) but due to the fact that I do actually know this person, and not telling the story could lead to facebook harassment, I’ll concede. My apologies in advance.


Let me start off by explaining a bit about my cat. Her name is Mischief. I originally tried to convince my family to name her “Nyssa” but they weren’t buying it (besides…I thought “Leela” fit better and they didn’t like that either), anyway, her name was Nyssa for about three days until we all thought “Diva” would be better. A week later…we realised the only appropriate name would be “Mischief”. And this was before the birds and the mice started showing up….

So Mau (as I call her. Cause I’m too lazy for two syllables) never hisses. I’ve heard her do it twice. Once when I was putting elf booties on her (punishment clothing for a bird) and once when………something. I don’t remember.

But last Friday I came home around 9ish and she was sitting upstairs which wasn’t very normal for her at that time of night. So I picked her up and went to talk to my mum and she hissed and jumped out of my arms.

The cat. Not my mum.

She ran outside and I’m freaking out because she hissed and my mum suggests that maybe she’s hungry. I try to feed her but can’t find her so I go back to my business, only to find her sitting at the top of the stairs again five minutes later. Rinse and repeat the hissing shit.

Dumb cat that she is ran into my bedroom to sit on my bed as way of getting away from me. I never said she was smart. So fucktard gets home from work and he’s trying to pet her but she keeps jerking back her foot like it hurts her, and then she runs away and is walking funny which makes us think it’s an abscess. She hissed about one more time and I gave up because she was starting to act like a teenager with scary fucking PMS.


The next morning, mum decides that we should take her to the emergency animal clinic because the cat is still all grumpy face, and I’m all for it because if it goes a really long time I could end up not having to see the Uncle-That-Ruins-Holidays. So we’re at the hospital for small things and they take her back and I’m waiting and my ADD’s kicking it like crazy and finally the vet calls me back and she’s like: “I can’t find anything wrong with your cat”. I kinda blinked at her, and then looked at my cat, who had jumped on the counter and started pawing at the cupboards looking for a place to hide. I quickly ask her to get my cat off there because Mau is closing in on the edge and she has the grace of a dog and as funny as it would be to see her tumble off there backwards, I would feel really bad if it happened – especially when she is in pain. In hindsight, I’m kinda glad that didn’t happen because it might have forgone the enema and taken care of the problem itself and then I might have cried. She hands the cat to me, which is perfect because I really wanted a cat burrowing behind me to keep my ass warm. She offers up a couple of options and I ask for the cheapest because dad’ll kill me when he finds out how much this is costing.

After the blood work and the x-rays she comes back and tells me that the blood work is fine, but they can do a more expensive one if I want to look at other things in her blood. My brain is starting to hurt. She then shows me the x-rays. She’s pointing out things that could be potential problems, like “your cat’s heart is large, could be a heart murmur”, “your cat’s lungs are weird, she’s going to die of the plague”, “this spot is funny, your cat is an alien and is looking for the mother ship” and “look it’s a big piece of crap that is too big to leave your cat with dignity”. Then she lists of the options: “More expensive ass blood work”, “More x-rays, plus sedatives so my cat can become addicted to drugs”, “contact the mothership for immediate return”, “hop around on one foot and entertain the problem from the cat”, “enema”. The other options were way too expensive or were options I only made up…so I chose enema.

They were nice though. I didn’t have to watch. Though if I hadn’t been there for almost two hours and not starting to lose my patience I might have asked to, because I have a gross fascination for the weirdest shit. But I was thankfully not that weird at that time.

The only hint that they were doing anything was the loud “MREOW!” that came from the actual clinic area of the hospital, and in all my cruel glory…I laughed a little.

But then I took her home and she was fine. She’s back to being a little shit, and we still taunt her about being the constipated kitty, because she can’t fight back. It was mildly amusing and made me very happy that it wasn’t a more extreme problem.

Plus, who doesn’t want to spend Christmas Eve cleaning out their cat’s ass?


This post will make you feel better about any weird things your family does at the holidays. Unless it doesn’t, in which case, please share…

We have a running joke in my family. That we can’t make it through a single meal without having some kind of inappropriate conversation. Somedays my brother will just plop down at the table and say: “Just to get it out of the way: Shit, Fuck, Vagina, Cock (and other variants), this is not that dinner”. I think once or twice we’ve gotten really close, but I think everything is null and void if I talk about work at dinner.

So unless you’ve drunk a lot in celebration, you might understand what I’m getting at. My holiday dinner’s are certainly no exception to this rule. Except for maybe the one Thanksgiving we sat in awkward silence trying to pretend my uncle hadn’t gotten as drunk as he did and behaved so appallingly. But to be fair, my brother wasn’t there to make any rude comments, so we’ll never know what it could have been….

So needless to say, no meal today was ‘that meal’. It started over breakfast mostly because we thought mimosas were a good idea, but once you get alcohol in my mother, it’s a whole different train ride. And my brother’s new favourite word is ‘nipple’. Not a good combination.

This was followed shortly by lunch with my Grandmother, and I’m pretty sure we trash talked our way through the whole thing. And she didn’t even bat an eye. She might be going deaf though, so I don’t know how much stock to put into that.

My new favourite “I’m a complete dumbass with a foul mouth’ moment was at my very Christian and conservative Grandparents’s house, and called my brother a Jackass very loudly for the whole family to hear. And then my fuckass of a cousin proceeded to point out that I had said it a bit above my inside voice. Cause no one was aware asshole. In my credit, I was not mortified, just amused. I kinda bent over pretending to be embarrassed and laughed so hard because of their shocked faces.

They have no reason to be shocked. They raised my father and my uncle. They knew this was bound to happen.

That lunch with Grandma might be off the table now.

In other news, my cat had an enema yesterday which got me out of the awkward family gathering with my white trash relatives mentioned above (in the Thanksgiving bit). I never knew constipation could be such a wonderful thing.


(To be fair, I really love Christmas and the magic it brings. My family is just unique in that we don’t hide our true selves from each other. I know I make it sound like we’re the worst family ever, but we make our disfunction work for us, and it produces some truly awesome moments. Merry Christmas everybody.)

Now, I think I’ve mentioned that I have some pretty fucked up dreams. I think I talked briefly about the one where my beautiful (albeit slightly ghetto) VW Beetle turned into a cardboard toboggan with multiple types of hazard lights…but that’s not nearly as weird as they get. So I thought I’d outline some here so you would think that I’m even more crazy, and also because I need a post where I’m not raving and bitching about everything around me (though those are kinda cathartic…)

I’ve recently been having a lot of stress dreams. I call them this because they’re the companions to a huge onslaught of stress in my life. And recently, between teaching, choreographing a student’s audition routine, working two jobs at the lab for the same amount of pay and trying to find a new place to live…the stress has been eating away at my soul. (What little was left anyway).

I’ve had numerous flashbacks to college, dreams where I forget that I was taking a class and try to pass the final but I can’t remember where the damn classroom is. Also ones where I’ve been doing the homework and not turning it in, and occasionally forgetting to go to the class. I had one dream where I was freaking out because my brother’s paper was due and he hadn’t finished it yet. Why the fuck I cared about his grade I don’t know, because that kind of mother hening is left up to dear old Mum. (She’ll kill me if she knew I called her that…)

But some of my favourites are those little dreams you have between snooze alarms. For some reason mine are always continuous, but rather choppy because of the constant having to wake up and shut off my alarm. My alarm is the TARDIS (de)materialization noise, so I’d be fucked if The Doctor really showed up in my room…I’d be all like “Fuck off, I need ten more minutes” and then would never travel the damn universe and would hate myself forever, kinda like I hate myself for never going onstage to participate in one of Penn & Teller’s tricks when I was ten…yay for run on sentences and ADD trains of thought. My apologies…wait no…I gave you fair warning.

So my recent favourite was Sunday morning when I decided the snooze button sounded like a great idea even though it was going to totally fuck with my sleeping schedule and I’d probably be way crazy fucking tired come Monday morning. But whatever. And if I had finished writing this on Monday I could tell you the details better, but I’ve suddenly decided that the disjointed version might be way more entertaining. Procrastination working in my favour. Epic Win.

So basically it went like this. I’m in England. This should be awesome right? No. I’m with some kind of group. I think it was a performance group. Maybe my baton students, maybe some group I made up. No idea, that’s where it gets fuzzy. All I remember was that my dad was there, which was a weird detail in and of itself.

So we’re going to this hotel that we’re staying at, but it’s fucking huge and we’re trying to park. Problem is that I’m driving an American style car in England so I keep driving on the wrong side of the road even though I freaking love the fact that I could have been driving on the left. Fail.

So we drive into this clustersuperfuck of a parking lot and get told to go to this specific section (which has two kinds of identifiers, like a floor and a sector. Nothing in England is huge enough for this kind of system. They don’t have the room. Now if it were LA I could see this, but I don’t dream about LA. So I’m trying to find my damn parking spot but there are little houses all over it and strange back roads that aren’t labelled and people are standing on the side of the roads offering mead in large mugs which is probably the worst idea ever. I’m blaming that one on the fact that I’ve been helping out with bringing in DUIs. Thanks work for slipping in there. Hateful.

So I was either on the phone with my dad, or he was in the car, or running along next to the car telling me to hurry up but offering no help in that obnoxious way he does. Then suddenly I’m driving by a windmill/ferris wheel sort of deal and it crashes either killing or wounding everyone riding it but I’m too busy trying to park that I don’t pay it any mind. Yes, I’m a cold heartless bitch in my dreams. I try to make up for it in my life though, I swear. So yea.

Whoever’s slipping me the drugs, I don’t know whether to tell you to stop or give me more. I’m disturbed, but it could be way more interesting.


This was supposed to be a post about how my dreams lately have felt like someone is slipping me LSD in my sleep but I forgot to email the beginning of it from my email at work where I started it.

So instead it’s a lame post saying it was supposed to be awesome and that I’m an idiot.

My apologies.


I fucking hate grocery stores.

Not just hate, but like FUCKING HATE.

I used to work in one if that helps with my homicidal anger over god damn grocery stores. (Which I should never mention at work ever again how they make me homicidal. I get enough weird looks already but that one might get me in trouble. I know my boss looked at me funny for about a week after that comment…)

So we’re grocery shopping, and for the most part it’s not too bad. Not so many dumb fucks flying around corners or parking their damn cart sideways across the aisle the second they see me entering the aisle and proceeding to pretend they don’t see me….in fact it was kinda fun. I ran around smacking into my dad’s cart insulting him when he pushed mine and generally scaring strangers. It was a good trip.

But my parents are checking out and their DUMB FUCK of a cashier is trying to scan one of their wine bottles, but it’s in a box and the box’s barcode won’t scan. The boy is completely perplexed. RAWR. Never mind the fact that he had just scanned an identical bottle of wine, but he didn’t have the common sense to think of scanning the one on the bottle inside the box by rotating the damn bottle. He looked at me in complete wonder when it worked and said “Do you work here?” (I thought he said “You should work here” but either way it makes him sound like a moron)…like only a magic cashier could figure out that maybe you’re scanning the wrong fucking barcode. REALLY?!?! Not rocket science asshole.

Now here are the dangers of working in a grocery store. Danger…it’s really only one.

You are surrounded by douchebags and asshats. It doesn’t matter if they are customers or coworkers they are bound to make you want to die inside.

No really, I don’t care how hard up for cash you are, if you are allergic to fucktards find a different job. For your own sake.

It was seriously the worst nine months spread out over a year of my life….yes you read that right, I was smart enough to quit and dumb enough to go back because I hate myself beyond all reason.

There’s absolutely no benefit in that job. Restaurants have food perks, retail has discount perks…grocery stores give you ten percent of generic items (because paying 36 cents instead of 40 for a jar of crap ass tomato sauce makes a huge difference. There’s a lot of disbenefits though. Shitty bosses….asshole customers that hate you but come into your line anyway because on some messed up level they hate themselves so they have to come to your line to rag on you to make them feel better about yourself (but you’re like a semester away from finishing the college education they could never hope to afford or be smart enough to get so fuck them)…

Deep breath…I’m okay.

I did enjoy parts of it. Like fucking over drunk ass college frat boys when they were making the last run of the night. I’d make sure they’d scan their munchies first so that by the time they scanned their alcohol it was past 2 and they were locked out. I always had such a hard time not laughing in their face everytime…Meanwhile I’d help the nice customers (yes, some existed and it was like a breath of fresh air) and make sure they knew to scan their alcohol first so that they were able to buy it. I’m evil but I like to think I was making things a little safer.

I really don’t have any good way to end this post but I think it’s for the best before I scream with memories that I have tried desperately to repress over the last three years (they’re enjoying their time chilling with high school memories…) so I’m just going to leave it with this wonderful sentiment:

For your own mental safety, just fucking order groceries online.


No really, I just totally saw myself on TV.

They’re doing that special on the 85th anniversary of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and they showed a clip of a group I performed with in Herald Square (which is fucking TINY, sorry to ruin your childhood, but it totally scarred mine, so I’m just evening the score here). And I totally ended up slowmo-ing the clip until I found myself and then watched it about four more times cause I’m weird.

One day, I’ll detail that experience, when I’m in the mood for bitching. But I thought I’d just pass on the fact that I am freaking famous, if only in my household.

Yea, I kick ass


Today is my birthday. It is also my mum’s birthday (yes, I was that mean child that decided I was the perfect birthday gift. Most days she disagrees).

So I feel the need to tell you something about my mother but I’m not entirely sure where to start, because, well, I love my mum but she can do some crazy funny shit.

She also taught me how to swear, so if you ever are offended/impressed by that, blame/thank her.

So I need to preface this so no one thinks I’m being insulting and rude about the birthday girl. I fucking love my mother, she’s amazing. But sometimes she does things that just make me go: “Hold on. Keep doing that while I fire up my camera.” Like the time we threw my uncle a surprise party and the whole family’s in the garage waiting to surprise him and my mum gets down on the ground, ass in the air, to look under the door’s tiny crack to see when they’re there. Totally took a photo.

But to be honest, my favourite instance of this would probably our trip to St Thomas. We had gone there for vacation, but it was also my parent’s 25th wedding anniversary and they wanted to go back to where they honeymooned. It was pretty, but really awkward if you thought about it too hard.

So for those that haven’t been to the island, it’s way super easy to get lost. Our directions to the hotel included the direction ‘turn at the red building/former police station’. It failed to mention that the building was like 5 minutes from being condemned and a sun-bleached pink. We ended up on some strange journey into the scary parts of the island and I got yelled at a lot. Didn’t help that you drove on the left side of the road in an American set up car. It’s weird. Trust me. You feel like you’re doing everything wrong and just want to pull off to the side of the road and cry.

Which segues perfectly into what this whole story consists of. But to be fair there will probably be some pit stops along the way.

Let me preface by saying my mum HATES to let my dad drive. She thinks he’s out of control (he is) and unsafe (just a tad) and likes to do it herself. So it says something significant when I say that she was so uncomfortable driving on this island that she made my dad do it. There was more than one time I told her to turn right and she totally turned left – almost into a car. It stressed her out so much that she gave up entirely and let dad drive.

This is where it all goes sideways. So we are heading into “town” (read: tourist central) to go have lunch or shop at the kiosks or whatever…I forgot the details because the journey there was so damn scary/hilarious/scary that I forgot what happened after I took the picture of my mum at the end of it. We end up somehow on this upward slanting road trying to find a parking spot and eventually curve around, realising that we’re on top of a mountain and now we must head down.

Also, there’s no parking.

So we head down this mountain, at probably at 50-60 degree incline and slowly begin to realise that this is a one way street on this side of the mountain. And we’re going the wrong damn way. There were two instances where we had to pull over and back up so that the car going the RIGHT way could go around us, but the one that nearly killed my mother was when we had to back up about ten feet, take a 90 turn onto a driveway, and head up a 70 degree-ish incline. Yea. Can’t believe we didn’t die.

Best part, dad kept going the wrong way down the mountain when we finally got out of that situation.

And the whole time my mum is swearing that when we get down she’s going to kiss the ground for letting her live.

And she totally did. It’s on my “Mum’s greatest hits” picture reel…okay, if I had one it would be…

She was kinda pissed I made her hold it so long, but I’m pretty sure it only made her seem that much more grateful…


PS. If you’re ever wondering why I don’t really talk about my dad, it’s because he’s funnier than me and I don’t want you to feel cheated. Sad, but true.

Have you ever looked down at the supplies for a craft project that you want/have to do and know that somehow, someway, you’re going to fuck it up beyond comprehension….?

Welcome to my life. I have absolutely no artistic talent. I have always blame this on the fact that my parents decided to have a second child.

No there’s logic here, hear me out!

When I was four and five, we lived in a three bedroom house, and the third bedroom was my art room. This room because fucktard’s room when he was born. He can draw and all this artisty shit and I blame it on the fact that he sucked all the artistic talent from that room that I would have had if he wasn’t born.

So now you know why the following story happened. I can’t do crafts and asking me to will end in disaster. Or as I decided to call it “Tim Taylor-ing the whole thing”.

Okay here’s the set up:

We use these dryer things to dry swabs before sending them to DNA. They have trays that you put the swabs in and then slide them in. They’re probably a great set decoration on CSI somewhere. Since they are used for DNA purposes we clean them with bleach to kill any DNA that could possibly be behind it. Bleach is corrosive. And I don’t care how strong the glue and plastic of these things are, things are bound to get cocked up. This is why we can buy more.

I also have a moronic supervisor (thankfully not my immediate…she has no power over me, it is kinda awesome). She has no common sense whatsoever and a terrible memory and I can’t stand her.

Add these two things together? Welcome to last Friday.

Dumbass is cleaning the tray and the bottom falls out. Had I seen it I probably would have laughed out loud and gotten myself into trouble. As it was I was dealing with our Biohazard Trash (which will probably contribute to the cancer. YAY!) and all I heard was her saying my name the second after it happened. (A) WTF why is something breaking automatically by fault? I have no (B)….She hands it to me asking me to fix it after just saying that it could probably just super glue it back together. I blink at her a bit, and thank god she couldn’t see my jaw hanging wide open under my mask cause I couldn’t believe she couldn’t glue it back together herself or how the hell this was my damn problem.

So I set it aside and ignore her like I normally do, but when she leaves at the end of the day she tells me that she’s going to email the person the swab dryer ‘belongs’ to (yea she’s fucking up OTHER people’s equipment) and let them know what happened so she doesn’t freak out (she was going to freak out anyway…) and that she would probably MacGyver it back together….if I even knew who that was…


Plus two lines of glue really isn’t MacGyver’s style. It’s totally beneath him. To be honest it’s totally more Tim Taylor’s style. So I took it upon myself to fix it just to prove a point…it’s not like we don’t have kick ass super glue at our discretion….

So yea this is where I fuck up. Since I don’t use our super glue EVER I didn’t know how fast it was going to come out so it ended up pooling all over the bottom of the tray, not just on the two grooves I needed it on…SO…..I put the tray where it should go and try to clean up the extra glue which is now all over the counter and my fingers and almost ending up gluing the damn thing to my hand…now my fingerprints are on the damn thing in glue…there is just no denying this one. So I kept trying to make it better, simultaneously making it worse and finally deem it relatively okay and go get the rest of my work done.

About an hour or so before leaving I decide that the tray is dry enough and that I should probably put it out on the analyst’s counter so she knows it’s done. Fifteen minutes later…it’s glued itself to the table.

Thank you Tim for teaching me how to royally fuck things up. Cause that one was spectacular.

Although I was quite amused by the outline of the tray on the counter. I guess I always leave my mark!


….So….I’ve been meaning to write about this for a while…I think the plan was to write it last Saturday (read: a week ago, damn I’m behind) but I was busy being all immobile and such.

So…There are certain things about my job that make me realize that I’m kinda insane and no one finds this shit and funny as I do. Except possibly HCT cause she started it. Poor thing has to go and fingerprint criminals and decided to practice on me last Friday. This was a dumb move because I decided to be ornery the whole time so she would be ready to deal with whatever bullshit inmates were to throw at her. She was pretty good at it too; she totally caught me when I tried to run away (although where I was going was a mystery seeing as how she was blocking the exit from the lab…). But I swear that I was helping. By running away. And making it super hard to print me. And having shitty fingerprints. Totally all me trying to be difficult. I am awesome…

I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to kill me yet, or just flat out stopped talking to me. Maybe because she’s using me for Bones info…I feel cheap and used now.

Anyways, in true “I work with fingerprints, therefore looking at patterns is entertaining” fashion, she notices something I never did.

My right thumbprint has a Superman ‘S’ in its core (the part in the middle that is the generally at the centre of your fingerprint, it’s also where the ridges get much closer together. I dunno how to explain it. Google it you lazy bastards!

Side note: the lights in my house just flickered…either my mum is ironing or we have a demon. I’m hoping for demon, I could make my own movie series….Does anyone know where I can buy cheap, but efficient video cameras? Anyone want to loan me theirs? I’ll give you like a percent of my profit. That may or may not be negotiable.

Another side note: my cat is too damn adorable. She heard the garage go up and perked up from a deep sleep like “FOOD?!?!?!?!” Then she moved to where I sleep on the bed just to piss me off…scratch that adorable thing…

ANYWAY (wow I have issues and should not have caffeine after 7. I’m like a Gremlin only less cute. And furry. Which is a good thing)

So we decided at that point to name my fingers after Super Heroes and Super Villains. Of course, this was after a heated debate about mixing comics and whether that was okay and if Batman counts as a Super Hero (and if he doesn’t, are we still allowed to use his villains? I don’t know if that came up but it should have).

So now my right hand is the forces of good. My thumb is Superman and my index finger is The Invisible Woman (I looked it up HCT, we were wrong). That one is named because when she printed it numerous times, the core kept disappearing and it was pissing her off. I was cackling with amusement. 😀

My left hand is the villains. The thumb is Two Face because of the pattern type (look up Double Loop if you’re curious to understand why we named it that way. Explaining it would be boring and then you would never listen to my ramblings again…and I would CRY…). My index finger is The Riddler because it forms a question mark when printed. It’s AWESOME (only because it was the only one I named).

Yea that’s right, I have so little control in my life that I can’t name my own damn prints (not that that’s a normal occurrence or anything, but still). All I have to do now is convince her to name the others, because they feel left out and are starting to rebel.

And on that note I leave you because I have to stop a finger riot. Or sleep. One of those.