I really hate Christmas.

The ubiquitous, nauseating holiday music.

The co-workers' cubicles adorned with so much tinsel, garland, ornaments and other cheap, Christmas crap that it looks like some dime-store Martha Stewart is conducting a "You can't have too many tacky decorations!" seminar.

The constant queries..."Got your holiday shopping done?" "Ready for the holidays?" "Is that a carrot in your stocking or are you just happy to see me?"

The endless holiday specials on television...Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Santa Drank My Imodium...etc...

All these annoyances pale in comparison to the proverbial straw that broke the Christmas camel's back..an incident that shall henceforth be known as...

THE CAROLLERS IN THE CAFETERIA

Yes, you read that correctly.

Outside the cafeteria in my office building today, there was a quartet of Christmas carollers regaling us with all the Christmas classics, in four-part harmony, attired in period clothing straight out of Dickens!

For a split second, I tried to revive myself, assuming I was trapped in a horrific nightmare.

But, alas, it was, in fact, really happening.

I couldn't help but wonder*, how did my company find this musical combo? I've never seen an advertisement for "Carollers for Hire," have you? It's really got to be tough to make a living at this in, say, April....

*"I couldn't help but wonder..."....my homage to Carrie Bradshaw's patented segue...she uttered this phrase at least once in every single episode of "Sex and the City"....

Only 13 more days until Christmas...praise Dionysus, all hail Bacchus...pass the vino...I'm gonna need it..

Four-Piece Carolling Combo for Hire

Available for weddings, birthdays, funerals, Hanukkah parties (not recommended), retirement parties, boat shows etc.

Familiar with all Christmas carols; yodelling, tap-dancing and/or lap-dancing available upon request.

Diet Coke vs. Diet Pepsi

Yes, I am so desperate for a blogging topic that I am resorting to "cola wars" to fill the space...

I was a Diet Coke fiend for many years, as are/were most of my girlfriends.

In fact, my friend Gill is so adamant about the supremacy and superiority of DC (as we lovingly called it), that she angrily reconsiders our friendship whenever I mention that I now prefer Diet Pepsi.

But why do I listen to Gill? She smells bad. And lives in hell..er..L.A...What does she know?

Anyway...I loved Diet Coke and believed I always would.

When I started working for a (now-defunct) movie theatre chain back in '01, I was disheartened to learn that they were a Pepsi company. All of their pop machines were stocked with Pepsi products. Whatever was an aspartame addict with a penchant for Diet Coke to do??!

I could have ventured out to procure Diet Coke, or I could have brought it from home, but I was enticed by the relative proximity of the Pepsi machine and the allure of paying a mere 50 cents per pop--a great deal! As a result, I grudgingly started drinking Diet Pepsi...I wasn't happy about it, but I will admit to enjoying all that extra change jingling around in the bottom of my back-pack.

One day, a few months into my tenure at this company, we ordered lunch from a pizza place that served Coke products. Huzzah! Diet Coke for Julesy! Woot-woot!

I was breathless with anticipation.

When lunchtime and pizza arrived, I hungrily threw aside the pizza boxes and tore open the plastic bag--cruelly tied with an impenetrable knot--that entrapped the beverages.

The satisfying "fzzzt" when I cracked open the Diet Coke was almost orgasmic.

*glug*glug*glug*

Something was horribly wrong. The Diet Coke tasted AWFUL!

"Something is wrong with this Diet Coke! It tastes like ass!" I cried in terror.

One of my co-workers took the can of pop from my hand, took a whiff and then took a tentative sip.

"There's nothing wrong with this pop. It tastes just like Diet Coke," she pronounced quizzically.

I frantically grabbed another one from the bag, opened it and took a drink. It, too, made me retch.

The realization that I had slowly become addicted to another brand of pop washed over me like a carbonated, low-calorie, tidal wave.

Years later, Diet Pepsi remains my preference.

Perhaps they use addictive ingredients culled from the rainforest that, if used for good (rather than cola-related evil), could cure a multitude of diseases.

But, for now, I'll just sit back and enjoy an ice, cold Diet Pepsi and try not to think about it.

*$@! You

How do you feel about people who use a lot of foul language?

It seems some people negatively judge others who regularly pepper their speech with expletives (or who seem to rely solely on derivatives thereof for their adjectives and adverbs).

Even I do it...when I hear someone who swears a lot, I think, "Is that really necessary?"

Which is fucking retarded, since I'm as big a potty-mouth as the next guy--if "the next guy" is a truck driver.

Wait--I messed that up--what I *meant* was, I'm as stinky as the next guy--if the next guy is a Merrickville farmer.

But I digress...

Anyway, my point is, that I swear a lot...exemplified by the fact that when I was in Grade 7, my dad told me (and not in a "fatherly pride" type of way) that I had "worse language than a truck driver." And my dad busted truck drivers for a living, so you can be sure he was on the receiving end of more than one expletive-laced tirade from them.

True, swearing is pretty lazy language usage--can't I come up with a more descriptive adjective than "goddamn"? Am I that unintelligent?

Is the judgement based on the fact that swearing is viewed, historically, as the language of the plebs? The vernacular of the uneducated or unsophisticated? Unabashedly uncouth?

Ah, who gives a shit....Vive la pottymouth!

Happy fucking holidays, assholes!

Love,
Julia

Utterly Depilitated

Ladies, how many of you are amazed and appalled, on an increasingly regular basis, by odd, unwanted hair(s) making appearances in strange places on your body... ??

Older women, who I can only assume are trying to make me cry, assure me that, as you get older, the frequency with which these interlopers appear increases AND the hairs get more thick and/or disgusting.

Thanks, for that, ladies. God knows I love those little perks that come along with aging...

I was in my early twenties when I first encountered an odd, out-of-place hair on my body. A lone, dark hair appeared on my right boob (aka "Righty"). Turns out, if left unattended, this particular hair will grow unabated to astounding lengths--a medical marvel, really! So, it wasn't all bad..I contacted Guiness, but they didn't seem impressed...losers....

Anyway, this hair wasn't really that big a deal, easily rectified with a quick pluck, nothing more than a minor annoyance.

I had girlfriends in high school (of Italian descent) who, unfortunately, had to have their substantial moustaches waxed or bleached before they even turned 16. Ugh. That had to suck.

And I always secretly felt superior in that regard--I may have had zits, and a boatload of other teenage problems, but at least I didn't have a moustache! Hahaahahahahaha!

And that, my friends, is just how karma works...call it karma, call it the Fates, call it "I told you so-itis"...whatever it is, the cosmos saw me gloating and decided that I, too, should know the pain of female facial hair.

For a long time, I resisted the idea that I had facial hair. "It's blonde," I thought, "No one can see it..."

Then one day I saw a woman with a very thick moustache that had been bleached--and, oh--you could see it, alright....

I realized the time had come to take action.

I purchased my first "home wax" kit. I was not without trepidation, but I felt I had no alternative.

Lo and behold, the moustache wax went well! I felt free, like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders (or, more accurately, my upper lip)...

I realized I could also use this wonderful wax to remove the hair from other areas of my face...I mean, I'm not a cave-woman, I might as well have an entirely smooth visage, yes?

Unfortunately, my cheeks didn't respond as well to the wax as my moustache area* did and I broke out in a heinous, persistent rash. :( Oops.

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*Moustache Area: The area where the moustache goes. This area doesn't have a name, to my knowledge. I sometimes hear it referred to as the "upper lip", but that makes no sense to me--isn't the "upper lip" the one above the "lower lip"?

Anyway, I hereby christen it The Moustache Area...which, incidentally, would also be a great name for a gay bar in the 70s....

--------------------------

The last time I attempted the waxing was several months ago. My five o'clock shadow was telling me that it was once again time to take action.

I thought, "Hey, why not try this 'Nair for Facial Hair' stuff?"

I, of course, didn't make the connection that if my skin is super-sensitive to waxing, it might not be the best idea to slather on a toxic lotion designed to uproot hair so it can be easily wiped away (and proceed to leave it there for 3 to 10 minutes).

So I decided to give it a shot!!!

As I was marvelling at the ease with which the hair just wiped right off my face, I noticed a bit of redness on my right cheek. Then I noticed that the more hair I wiped with ease, the more redness, tingling and--omigod!--burning ensued!

The instructions that accompany the Nair do mention a "slight" risk of "irritation" and they suggest that, even though the Nair product is FULL of moisturizers and emollience, that you should also use your own moisturizer following the application of the Nair.

I tried to apply my own moisturizer to my rapidly and increasingly reddening, blotchy, burning skin.

Yeah, no go.

The second the moisturizer touched my skin it was as though I was pouring lemon juice on a paper cut imbedded in a third-degree burn.

So I slathered my face with Polysporin (this was painful, but I figured I had no choice at this point, I needed to heal) and tried to get some sleep.

It's not so easy to sleep when your face is on fire and you fear you're going to wake up looking like something out of a horror movie.

I'm hideous! Look away!

But, on the plus side, I don't have any hair on my face.

Grammatical Pet Peeve of the Day

Those who know me, even peripherally, are well aware of my obsession with good grammar. I truly believe it is one of my missions to assist in saving the rapidly devolving English language in any small way that I can.

As lofty as this goal is, the best I can usually do is to surreptitiously correct my boss's emails, presentations, announcements etc. or to silently stew over poorly composed advertising copy.

Tip: An apostrophe NEVER MAKES IT PLURAL.

So, for the company currently advertising in the Toronto subway system about how they can get me out of debt (allowing me to rejoin the "have's"), please take note.

I'm not a stickler for everybody's grammar--if you send me an email, replete with spelling errors and grammatical missteps, I'm not going to think less of you or mock you (unless I'm feeling particularly saucy).

There are, however, people who should be held to a higher standard. People who should know better, based on their particular stations in life. People to whom proper grammar should be second nature and whose very livelihoods are based on their alleged expertise in these types of matters.

Journalists, for example, should not only be aware of proper grammar themselves, but the people in their employ whose job it is to check their work to ensure it's correct, should be even more well-versed in its application! Editors, copy editors, proof-readers etc. should be beyond reproach in this realm! There's no excuse for bad grammar or wrong word usage in a published piece. Or, rather, there should be no excuse....

It's important to note that I'm not talking about a writer's stylistic choices, or colloquialisms, used in writing, which may not adhere to traditional grammatical "rules."

I'm talking about big, bad, unambiguous mistakes.

For example, Peter Howell, an entertainment columnist for the Toronto Star, reviewed a movie a while back and tried to use the phrase "deus ex machina" to describe the events of the film.

Instead, the phrase that was printed was "deux ex machina."

Naturally, being a former drama major, I was appalled by this and felt compelled to write to Mr. Howell to inform him of this tragic mistake.

I generally have nothing against Peter Howell..he's a fairly benign presence at the Star (he doesn't regularly invoke my ire and incite my rage like, say, oh, I don't know..FESCHUK...) I usually agree with his assessments of films. I respect his opinions. But I still felt the need to point out this error. I mean--c'mon--you're reviewing films, you should at least know the proper term for the dramatic device you're describing!

Anyway, Mr. Howell emailed me back explaining that his "idiot copy editor" changed it to "deux" rather than "deus" and I was inclined to believe him.

Apparently the same copy editor is still in the Star's employ--yesterday, in discussing Danny Devito's drunken appearance on "The View", Mr. Howell described him as being "sauced." If you're liquored up, you're soused, not "sauced"--though, granted, the liquid by which you achieved your soused state could accurately be described as "The Sauce."

A slippery slope, I know, but one that writers must gingerly & regularly traverse.

I know this subject is something about which I tend to pontificate, and if you don't care and think I'm wasting my time, that's certainly your prerogative. However, if that is, in fact, the case, I can't fathom why you'd still be reading this post...

Anyway, I implore someone out there to give me a job as a copy editor. I'd be really good at it.

Plus, I'm a lot of fun at office parties...more fun than Britney Spears at an "I just got divorced and I'm foregoing panties for Hanukkah" party, in fact.

Call me!

The Mystery of the Pharmacy

Why do I love shopping at the pharmacy? Doesn't everyone? I think so. But why?

You can spend less than 5 minutes in a pharmacy, walk out with $50 worth of merchandise (in the tiniest bag imaginable) and be so excited about your purchases that you have to rip into the bag and examine your newly acquired toiletries/makeup/sundry pharmaeceuticals as soon as you leave the store!

I spent $175 at Shopper's Drug Mart this past weekend!

In my defense, it *was* 20X the points day, so I stocked up on a bunch of stuff..like excessive quantities of tampons, a new hairbrush, razor blades (which are inexplicably expensive--possibly to deter people from suicide?)...

A few of the other items I procured:

-brown, liquid eyeliner
-cleaning towellettes
-laundry detergent (Note: I have 1 full and 1 half-full container of laundry detergent at home. This particular purchase makes NO SENSE!)
-A new toothbrush
-24 cans of Diet Pepsi
-Shampoo for colour-treated hair (I'm getting my colour done next Saturday...I'm all about planning ahead...)
-3 pairs of socks with funny patterns on them (1 pair is covered with dogs in coats--I love dogs in coats!) and 2 pairs of plain black socks.

I clearly have a problem.

Oil of Olay Regenerist Night Renewal Cream

I'm not sure if that's exactly what it's called--I think I've included all the relevent words, if not in the correct order.

A while back, I started filling out contest applications and sending away for free stuff (samples and such). Possibly because I was bored, possibly because I really want to go to Jamaica, possibly because everyone likes free stuff...

Anyway, I haven't won any contests yet (boo!), possibly because I realized afterwards that the empire for which I work pretty much owns the country and, as such, I am ineligible for most of the contests I entered.

I have, however, received some GREAT STUFF in the mail, including a tiny of sample of this Olay Regenerist Night Cream.

I had it for a few weeks and decided to try it out last night. It says, "Apply to clean face & neck before bed." Easy enough. I followed the instructions, shut off the bathroom light and headed for my bed.

As I approached my bed, something came over me...a change was afoot on my face (teehee)...my hands flew to my visage to investigate.

"Holy crap," I thought, "This is the softest skin in the history of skin!"

I inappropriately molested my remarkable newly softened skin some more before calling it a night..

When I awoke this morning, my skin was STILL THAT SOFT!

Despite a facial scrub in the shower and half a day's worth of grime on my face, my skin is still incredibly (possibly illegally) soft.

Babies everywhere are crying: Not because they've soiled themselves, not because they crave something to suckle, not because they rightfully suspect they're going to grow up underachieving and unloved--but because their butts are no longer the benchmark by which skin-softness is measured--No, no!--that distinction NOW belongs to MY FACE.

That's right, babies--put that in your bottles and suck it!

Princess Patchoulia: Stickin' it to Babies (in a non-pedophilic way) Since '06!! Ha!

I'm fairly certain this cream must be made with endangered species or aliens or something...it's just that good...

The Tragic Tale of the Mole on My Neck (RIP)

I have..er..HAD..this mole on my neck.

It fell off.

Yup--fell off.

I'm not sure if I should be alarmed by this or not. On one hand, people pay good money for cosmetic mole removal. On the other hand, I shudder to think this could be a harbinger of things to come..such as other body parts or appendages falling off.

The funny thing about this particular mole was that I had a mole in that location my entire life. A teeny, tiny floppy one--that got ripped off in an amateur wrestling match* with a guy in my residence in first year university.

Then it grew back..and kept growing..I had a dermatologist look at it a couple of years ago because it concerned me (he assured me it wasn't skin cancer).

Me and the new, rapidly growing mole peacefully co-existed until its recent, unceremonious abandonment of my neck.

RIP Martha Mole, 1992-2006

------------------------

*Not a cleverly veiled euphemism for anything illicit. I think it was an argument over the TV remote that got out of hand.


This post reprinted, with permission of the author (me), from jambands.ca.

Halloween Memories

As an adult, Halloween means 2 weeks of scary movies on TV, turning out the lights so the neighbourhood kids don't know I'm home and the opportunity to dress provocatively without being accused, however, righfully, of being a slut. Good times!

As a kid, I remember being indifferent about the whole candy acquisition part of the holiday...I didn't mind candy, I just wasn't as crazy about it as most kids were...my Halloween candy trove would, literally, last until spring.

I did, however, enjoy immensely the "dressing up and being someone else" part of Halloween...

Halloween was often snow-covered in the town in which I grew up. My parents, of course, wanted to keep me warm--so they dressed me up in my parka, pulled up the fur-covered hood and my mom drew red circles on my cheeks with her lipstick and--voila!--Eskimo. They repeated this costume for three years straight. Those tricky bastards!

Oh well--I didn't know any better. .. :)

My dog was just as displeased with me, year after year, trying to dress her up to come out trick or treating with me.

She quickly dispensed with the clown mask I tried to attach to her head one year.

I thought she might be more amenable to dressing up as my version of an "arab" (where I got these ideas, I have no idea)--sheet over her head with a hat on top--but that one didn't survive much longer than the clown mask. To my poor dog Chimo's chagrin, this particular look would pop up several more times over the years, as extant photographic evidence will attest.

Let's stroll down memory lane, shall we...everyone remembers:

• Those great houses that gave out WHOLE chocolate bars or cans of pop--we always tried to hit those places every year (if not more than once in a night)!
• Those horrible houses that gave out apples, raisins or, in the dental hygienist's case, mini-tootbrushes (you KNOW her house got egged, year after year...)
• Your parents going through your candy searching for razor-blade-studded apples or cyanide-laced Smarties.

Ah, Halloween.

I'm still bitter about Halloween in Grade 1--I had the chicken pox and missed the day we all got to dress up at school and have a party. The other kids got cupcakes. I got an oatmeal bath.

Wow, I just had an epiphany! I think I've pinpointed the nucleus of my pervading belief that the world owes me something....

The world owes me cupcakes.

Gimme some.

Ebony & Ivory: A Fashionable Tale of Harmony

There's a woman in my office who wears ONLY black and/or white clothes.

Seriously.

I'm sure it makes choosing an outfit a lot easier, but it's so boring I could puke.

I estimate that the percentage of what she wears breaks down as follows:

All Black: 65%
Black/White: 25%
All White: 10%

I've come up with several theories as to why this woman, who will henceforth be known as Oreo, would do this:

a) She's colour-blind and is terrified of making an unforgivable fashion faux pas.

b) She's quietly promoting racial diversity.

c) Conceptually, she's a stalwart opponent to "shades of grey" and is registering her opposition sartorially.

d) She's waging an internal Vader-esque battle between good and evil and this struggle is outwardly reflected in her wardrobe.

Maybe Oreo is simply trying to be different in her steadfast adherence to her Black/White colour scheme. Uniqueness in uniformity.

I need a cookie.

I'm surprised I don't walk through the world with a perpetually nonplussed* expression on my face. The idiocy that pervades our culture perplexes me on a daily basis.

For example, I went in to Timothy's** this morning for a cup of coffee. Feeling somewhat sluggish today, I ordered a large coffee. As I was putting my wallet back into my tote, a gentleman*** behind me ordered a latte.

Gentleman: Gimme a latte.

Coffee Server Dude: What size?

Gentleman: What sizes do you have?

Me (internal monologue): Really? Did you really just ask that question? Do the giant signs proclaiming the various sizes and prices somehow escape you? You're wearing a pretty nice suit, I guess I just assumed you could read.Damn stereotypes. Foolish me.

Are you just too lazy to tilt your head the necessary 30 degrees to read the signs?

How could you not understand the sizes? They're not even pretentious, Starbucks-style names!

Then again, Timothy's size differentiation system is fairly complex:

Small
Medium
Large

Nutty, I know. Hearkens back to a time when super-sizing wasn't part of the vernacular and tall didn't mean small.

Coffee Server Dude (pointing to my cup): Well...that's a large...

Gentleman: Oh! I think I'll have...um....hmmmm...MEDIUM. Yes, medium should do it.

I resisted the urge to follow him around to determine if he was similarly confounded by other things the rest of us take for granted....like traffic signals...or gravity....

Happy freakin' Friday!

-----------------------------------------------------------

*Nonplussed is defined as "utterly perplexed" or "confused". This is a public service announcement for the multitudes who use it as a synonym for "unimpressed". Thank you for your time.

** Timothy's: One of Canada's answers to Starbucks. Though Starbucks is as ubiquitous here as it is in the rest of the world, Timothy's is almost as prevelant. For example, I pass 2 Timothy's on my way from the subway to my office and only 1 Starbucks (FYI, it's 2 blocks from the subway to my office).

***Gentleman = Benefit of the Doubt

The Third Nipple

Raise your hand if you work with a third nipple*!

Mother-of-god, this kid pisses me off.

He was entirely flummoxed at the prospect of changing the toner in the printer. He still appeared stymied after a 12-step explanation of how to open the printer and remove the toner. (Baby steps, baby steps...)

Anyway.....

The toner cartridge was empty--so I told him where he needed to take the used cartridge to have it exchanged. I told him that all he had to do was hand it to the people in the mailroom, provide his department number and they'll give him a new one. Simple? Apparently not.

"I'll just keep shaking it."

Um...

"That's great, but what about when someone else wants to print something? All you have to do is go exchange the cartridge..."

I was so exasperated.

He said, "Did something else happen today or are you actually pissed off about this?"

Listen, jackass, if changing the toner in a printer is beyond your realm of capability, I don't have very high hopes for your job here (or your life as a whole) being even a moderate success. Good luck, moron.

-----------------------------------------

*Useless tit

Happy Thanksgiving, Dwight Yoakam

So I went downstairs to the cafeteria a little while ago in hopes of getting some lunch.

It's not always possible for me to get lunch in our stupid-ass cafeteria, as they don't seem to believe vegetarians exist--or, perhaps they do believe in vegetarians, yet they also believe that if you don't eat meat, you are evil. And must be destroyed. And they hope that we non-meat-eaters will simply starve to death if they don't provide any vegetarian options for us.

But I digress..

So I got my salad and sidled up to the cashier's line with the fewest people in it, just behind a gargantuan women with inexplicable clown-hair.

The cashier, a thin, foreign woman (of unknown origin), who always wears her hair tightly plaited, Heidi-style, rang up Clowny's food.

Clowny, who was holding her wallet, didn't make any sort of move to remove cash from said to wallet to pay for her lunch.

Clowny looked at the cashier and said, in a low, reverent tone, "Guess who I saw last night."

Now, I'm pretty damn hungry. And getting hungrier by the minute. And I'm not the most patient person under the best of circumstances, particularly in cases of social idiocy and/or rudeness. For example:

• Jackasses who come to a dead stop while walking down the sidewalk causing the people following to body-check them from behind (Hello boobs? Are you there? No? You've been permanetly deflated? Bummer);
• The dolts who wait in line at the bank or ATM for several minutes and don't bother to get their bank card out until they actually get to the teller/bank machine;
• The dickheads who go to the movies without any forethought as to what movie they're going to see and change their mind 3 or 4 times while they're purchasing their tickets (This means you Kirstie Alley! I hope someone kicks your Jenny Craigersized ass!).

Anyway, so Clowny said, "Guess who I saw last night?" and the cashier responded, "Who?"

Clowny replied, her voice cracking and a small tear forming in the corner of her eye, "Dwight. Yoakam."

The cashier responded, "Who?"

Clowny: Dwight Yoakam!

Cashier: I'm not familiar.

(Meanwhile, I'm torn between being irritated--that these two nitwits are standing between me and my lunch--and laughing hysterically at the situation which is quickly becoming CLASSIC!)

Clowny: Two. And. A. Half. Hours.

Cashier: Huh?

Clowny: He played for TWO AND A HALF HOURS-straight!

Cashier (unimpressed): Huh.

Clowny: Oh, I just love him...I don't actually own any of his albums, but when he plays that one song..oh, what's it called?...anyway, he's always so great on Jay Leno.....

Cashier: My son, he gets me into the punkrock, the underground music. I don't know this "Yoakam".

Clowny trundles off, wishing the cashier a, "Happy Thanksgiving", with visions of Yoakam dancing in her head.

Happy Thanksgiving to you, Clowny. And Mr. Yoakam, wherever you are....

The Quest for a Hairless Leg (or Two)

Women: Do you ever scratch your leg and realize, "Holy shit! I'm hairy as a sasquatch!"

How gross is that?

I used to be fanatical about shaving my legs. I'd shave at the first sign of dasterdly sprouting hair--even if it was the middle of the day and I had to strip down and prop my leg up in a sink to achieve my goal.

Since living in an apartment with no bathtub--just a shower stall--I've become less stringent on my leg-hair standards.

In fact, my legs right now could accurately be described as hirsute. It's like someone drugged me in the night and transplanted David Hasselhoff's chest hair on to my legs. It ain't pretty.

It's not that I want to resemble an orangutan, it's that shaving my legs in my shower is an elaborate undertaking that requires a great deal of skill!

Unfortunately, I do not possess the balancing acumen required to complete this task with any degree of grace or speed. Speed is of the essence in my world, particularly when that damned snooze bar is so appealing.

My shaving ritual goes a little something like this:

1. Locate the place in the stall that is being assaulted by the least amount of water from the shower head.

2. Place leg in the aforementioned area in preparation for the (often fruitless) "Attempt to Apply Shaving Cream".

3. Attempt to Apply Shaving Cream: This process is hampered by a few obstacles. For one thing, in order to achieve adequate shaving cream coverage, I must bend down. When I bend down, the water I had previously been blocking spews forth, rendering my cream-covered parts bare and usually filling my eyes/mouth with water.

Note: You may be thinking, "Why not turn the water off for application of shaving cream?"

My response to that is as follows:

a) It's fucking cold in my apartment. It's a basement. And a particularly cold basement, at that.

b) It's all well and good to turn off the shower for shaving-cream-application, but what happens when I need to rinse the blade? You do the shaving cream math.

4. Usually by this point I've abandoned any kooky notions of of creating smooth, supple, hairless, shaving-cream-protected skin and decided to simply hack away at the offending areas with my razor, hoping to at least trim some of the larger patches. This is also not easy. You try reaching your ankles with a sharp object, in what amounts to an upright coffin, without doing any of the following:

a) Banging your head

b) Knocking over large objects (usually in conjunction with (a)), such as shampoo bottles, that fall crashing to the shower floor, usually cushioned by one's foot. Luckily, one's footal area is replete with extra fat, so this hardly ever hurts.

c) "Nicking" oneself with the razor so that the resultant drain-swirl is a Hitchcock-esque mixture of water and blood.

My legs are hairy. Sue me.

Blog This

Dear Cyberfreaks,

According to my good friend Phoenix, the shit that comes out of my head (via my fingers) might be of interest to people...

There's no accounting for taste.

Anyhoooooo, I have created this blog and will henceforth be posting every little damn thing that comes into my head. Everything that pisses me off....Everything I conjur that I deem to be clever.....What I had for dinner. .....How many spider-babies I had to assassinate with OxyClean....When I'll be getting the pretzel monies...and so on.....

You asked for it...

My goal with this blog is three-fold:

1. To increase the number of people who buy me presents.

2. To keep in touch with friends from afar who insist on sending me cryptic text messages as their only form of communication (Propositional driver spoonsauce!)

3. To recruit members to my online Val Kilmer fan club.

Don't come crying to me if you don't like what's written here--you've been warned!

Love,
Julia

P.S. (((Val Kilmer)))