Good Intentions Lead to Better Things - None of Them Mine

I have been working on a few new posts, and was a day or two away from putting up a new one when this happened.  

This is My Pixie Blog.  It's written by a Charlotte, a woman of exceptional loveliness living in Hoboken.  I had to look up where Hoboken was because it sounded a little too Lord-of-the-Rings-ish to be real.  Well, I am here to tell you it is real and it's in New Jersey, just across the state line from NYC.  I'm exposing myself as a New York noob for not knowing that, but I watched Sex and the City for the shoes and sexploits, not the geography. 

Now that I think of it, Charlotte's blog actually reminds me a bit of Sex and the City.  Sorry if you find that offensive Charlotte, please let me explain.  In both you get to witness the dating trials and tribulations of a curly haired vixen in New York while she figures out how to handle herself after the crushing bust-up of a long-term relationship.  As embarrassing as this is to admit - I did find a lot of Sex and the City relatable*.  The bonus of Charlotte's posts are that they are not only more relevant to my non-couture lifestyle, but she doesn't start every moment of self examination with "I couldn't help but wonder..."  

I love how well written and honest this blog is; Charlotte doesn't hide the not so flowery turns of events from her readers.  I've happily devoured her entire blog over the course of a few days, and each time a new post pops up on my blog roll I settle in for a great read. 

Do yourself a favour and start from the beginning.  The navigation between posts can be a little bothersome (no next post/newer post navigation), but it's totally worth the trouble.

Happy reading!

T.

PS - You can now like Take With A Grain on Facebook.  Please like me, it helps me feel validated.

* as always all forms of mockery can be posted below
  

I was having a good day until this happened...

...and then it was freaking phenomenal!

There is just so much going on here that makes me happy.  The elbow fight.  The mid-air shuffle.  The occasional bouts of see-through-ness.  I want this projected onto walls at every momentous life occasion in my future.  New jobs, promotions, birthday parties, funerals.  Every.  Single.  One.  Somebody make this happen!!

I've already posted this on my facebook page, but feel that everyone who is part of my world needs to see it.  I found it through Dogs on Drugs.  Thanks Greg!

I am working on new posts, promise.

Breakfast Buffet Ninja Kills You Five Times

I stay in hotels once in a while (plus or minus a whole lot).  Being away from home means a lot of my money is spent in restaurants on food that starts to taste the same, no matter which restaurant you are at.  Because I am a cheap mister-fucker, I try to eat as many free meals as I can so I can avoid restaurants, save money, and (I wish) save pounds.  As a result I've become ninja at raiding the complementary breakfasts at whichever hotel I'm staying at.  The ninja part isn't necessary, considering the food is included, but I like the costume.  It's got a lot of give.

Buffet Ninja

After many years of continental breakfasts, I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur.  I have a 5 ninja star rating system.  5 ninja stars means you are dead, 0 stars means you live.

Instant/old coffee and packaged sticky buns?

NO! 5 NINJA STARS FOR YOU!

Abused fruit and Costco croissants?

NO! 5 NINJA STARS FOR YOU!

Plus one more for abusing fruit.

 Sicko.   

Hot eggs, sausage, fresh fruit, make your own waffles and a variety of healthy cereals?

YES!

I kill you only one time with 1 ninja star!

Well done!  But still you are dead.  In your next life you may demonstrate how you have learned.

Full service buffet included with omelet station?

YES!

0 Ninja stars for you!

Also, I'm moving in and will probably try to form at least a common law relationship with your hotel.  That way, when you try to kick me out, I'll take the buffet with me, bitches!  You can keep the rest; what do I need 120 queen sized beds for?  Other than being able to build the best fort ever, I see no use for that many.  Actually, wait.  I've changed my mind about the fort.  I'm taking everything, bitches!

Also, I'll be mad about the breakup, so now you get 5 ninja stars!  HA HA!


As I was getting around to saying, the hotel I've been staying in lately has a decent spread.    

The Good:
• Hot coffee all day
• Lots of healthy cereals to choose from,
• Fresh waffles that you re-heat by toasting,
• Toast for toasting,
• Fresh fruit for fruiting,
• Hard boiled eggs,
• The breakfast room is large, and can fit about 40 people without feeling crowded. 

The Bad:
• The breakfast room is large and can fit 40 people. That's 40 people who can watch me make an ass of myself in whichever manner I chose on a given day.
• Chocolate cup-cakes masquerading as muffins.  Common people!  Muffins don't come in chocolate.  They come with grains and flaxy make-you-poop things in them. 
• Packaged bananas.  It's weird.  I'm pretty sure bananas come in wrappers already, I don't know why we need to add plastic to the mix.  


Overall Rating:

I'd give them 0.5 Ninja stars for the whole deal.  Half a ninja star would irritate you, and remind you who is in charge.

 
There was, however, an incident recently that has given me just cause to downgrade them to 6 Ninja stars.  I KILL THEM 6 TIMES!!!


The Incident:
It all started with the hard boiled eggs.  The hard boiled eggs are usually sitting on ice so they require microwaving to warm them (as opposed to rubbing them together as one would with hands or sticks; this would probably end up being fairly messy).

The microwave has a warning posted it (I'm paraphrasing):

Since exploding eggs are number 7 on my list of rational fears, I always elect to use 17 seconds for my eggs, and not a second more.

On this particular day, after 17 seconds of trying to look as cool as one can while standing near a microwave, I took my eggy treat and marched to my seat.  I smiled serenely at the other people in the room, proud of myself for mastering egg microwaving, and walking back to my seat without tripping.  I stopped just short of giving a queenly wave. 

All was calm.

Delicately, I shoved half the egg into my mouth and sunk in my teeth.  The only warning of impending doom was a faint psssshhhtt sound.  It was a soft, delicate, lady goose type sound.  I was 40 percent sure that my back end wasn't responsible, so I pulled the egg away from my gob so I could look around accusingly at my fellow breakfasters.  That's when all hell broke loose. 

As soon as the egg was a suitable distance away, it exploded, venting it's yolky spleen all over my face.   There were egg bits everywhere.  In my hair.  In my eye lashes.  In my dignity.

The sound I made was comparable to a clarinet being played by squeaky toy, which was sufficient to attracted the attention of everyone in the vicinity, so there were plenty of witnesses when I pulled a large yolk nugget from my left nostril.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to let you know that there is no possible way to make a dignified exit from a situation involving that much egg yolk.

Especially when you are dressed as a ninja.  

T

Fat Charlie

One night, a few months ago, ManFriend and I were laying in bed, getting ready for sleepy-time.  A lot of mornings I have to get up at sparrow's fart for work (farts are currently scheduled for approximately 5 am), but I can't fall asleep before midnight.  I'd just put on a smelly scenty hippie stinky thing which had valerian in it.  ManFriend hates the smell, which is fair, since it does smell like poop with a B.O. problem (they used to use it as a perfume in the 16th century, which says oh-so-much about hygiene in the 16th century). 

ManFriend:  If you layed down in a field of valerian would you fall asleep?

me:  That's probably what happened to the guy who slept for 100 years.

ManFriend:  Oh yeah, that guy...

me:  The one from the fable!  You know that fable?

ManFriend:  You mean Fat Charlie and the Valerian Field?

Me:  Yeah, that's the one.  Do remember the song that goes with it?

ManFriend:  (singing) Fat Charlie, that fatty Charlie.  Fat Charlie in the Valerian field.  Fat Charlie, hungh, Fatty Charlie.  Fat Charlie in the Valerian Fieeeeeeeeeelllld.

  

He was accompaning himself with handclaps which 

evolved into a complicated patty-cake solo. 

The crowd of girl scouts who'd broke into the 

house to sell us chocolate cardiac arrest wafers 

stared in dumbfound awe of the speed 

and agility of his hands. 

Me:  I think I mean Rip van Winkle.

ManFriend:  Probably.

I had the Fat Charlie and the Valerian Field stuck in my head until I fell asleep.  For the record, it sounds a cross between Brass Monkey, by the Beasty Boys, and Lovely Day, by Bill Withers.  Please don't try to sing it: you might get hurt.

T

If this was a real lottery, I know which prize I'd end up winning.

Another Monday brings another trip out of town for a few days.  I'm not terribly excited about going.  With the Christmas season, ManFriend and I are going to be apart (or too busy to be functional members of society) for the majority of the month.  Don't tell him, but I'm probably going to miss him a lot over the next little while.  I need a pick me up, but booze is not an option.  Court order says so. 

This, for all you non-Canadians and people younger than 35, is Kids in the Hall.  They were on CBC television from '88 to '94.  Some of their stuff was absolute garbage, but some sketches were so brilliant they make me laugh in a gaspy, choking, strangled cat kind of way.  Mark McKinney and Scott Thompson are by far the funniest in the group, with Bruce McCulloch occasionally contributing some gems.  

1000 Dollars.  Mark (left) and Scott (right) are the cowboys.  

I've been trying to master the cowboy walk without success.  ManFriend pretends he doesn't know me most of the time, but more so when I practice the walk in the produce section at Save-On shouting "YeeeeEEEEEHHHHHP!".  In an effort to keep the romance alive, we frequently yell "Someone's gonna get a THOUSAND dollars" at each other.  Spicy. 

I wish this was real.  How awesome would it be to be sitting in a cafe with some douch-pickle that's really annoying the shit out of you and two cowboys bust in promising suitable rewards?  How hard would you be wishing that the ass-hat across from you would win?  Oh merciful heaven, I do so wish this would happen to me.  

I'd probably end up with the second prize. 

And this?

This is 3 sketches of bizarre awesomeness with Bruce and Mark.  Everything is perfect.  I just can't get over the look on Mark's face in the bathtub sketch.  It makes me cackle gleefully to myself, then shudder at the state of the bathtub.  Cackle, shudder, cackle, shudder, pass gas, cackle, shudder.  

May your week include many points collecting opportunities. 

Cheers,

T.

A cure for meh-laise.

I've had a case of the ughs lately.  The kind of ooogy feeling where nothing in particular is wrong, but an over-all 'meh-ness' permeates my cells.  That's why I haven't been posting much, or doing anything other than work and sulk.  During times like these, I'll take anything funny, happy, or completely bizarre, anything to help me forget to remember to be in a shit mood.

This is one of those things:

Some of you most definitely have seen this before, too bad for you.  I didn't promise you anything.  Watch it again, and quit your complaining.  Maybe you don't like it because you identify with the main character and you don't like what that says about you.  I've watched it perhaps a million times and will probably watch it a googolplex more. 

If drunk baby can be drunk, then I most certainly can put a damn smile on my stupid face.  

T.

This could be exciting, if you have a low threshold for excitment.

Note:  This post was taken down and re-posted.  It also has been edited.  Heavily.  I don't know what was (is) wrong with me, but I posted without proofing.  I also got kind of weepy at the end.  As I recall, I was kind of weepy for the rest of the night about a great deal of things, including: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, people being nice, how much I 'L-word' ManFriend, how much I 'L-word' people reading my blog, how much I 'L-word' the texture of the couch I was sitting on, and about being weepy all the time. It wasn't pretty.  I'm leaving it in because being pathetic is funny.  Maybe not laugh with funny, probably more laugh at funny. 

Why hello there.

The exciting news is really not all that exciting.  You're probably going to feel ripped off when you read it.  I feel a little bit bad about including the word 'exciting', not once, but twice in the post title. 

I tried to make this blog even more awesome by rearranging the entire layout.  It was great for about two minutes until I realized instead of making me feel like I was at a dance party, it made me feel like I was stabbing myself with a paring knife.  In a moment of confusion, instead of hitting cancel like a smart person, I twitched out and hit save.  WHAT THE HELL?!

After I finished throwing everything in arms reach and using swear words that hadn't been invented until I screamed them, I tried to return it to the way it was before.  There's something off about it now.  Like a diarrhea fart in the room, it may not be clearly visible, but there is something definitely not right.  I give up. 

Now to the mildly exciting part.  I've added new pages to the blog; an 'about' page and an 'FAQ' page.  And then, equally exciting, I've added better formatting for mobile phones, for all those who like to read Take With A Grain while driving.

PS - don't read and drive.  Or if you do, make sure you are a follower, so I least I know who's death to mourn.  

Note: This is the weepy part I warned you about.  

One of the first rules of blogging is not apologizing for long absences, the 2nd is not having long absences.  I am not in the position to not post for a long time and expect people to want to read what I have to say.  Truth time?  Jen the Bloggess and Allie from Hyperbole and a Half.  They are amazing.  So good.  Pinnacle of supreme awesomeness.  Their talent is overwhelming.  And they get sad, and they can't write.  How can I possibly expect to even be anywhere near as wonderful as they are?  It's overwhelming and intimidating.  Trust me, I know that I will not ever be on that level, but you know?  (insert something better expressed by a sober person).  Anybody? 

I have funny things to say about exploding eggs, but can't even tell you right now.  And they aren't even hoo-ha eggs, they're real eggs.  Which, now that I think about it, is probably less funny-slash-graphic then exploding hoo-ha eggs.  That would be a weird ass super power.  Think about it.

T