At Least My Ass is Encouraging

This past winter was a tough one for me.  The days stretched on dark, cold, and windy.  I responded by turning into moody sloth that only stopped eating for bathroom and sleep breaks, and the occasional cry. 

At the beginning of April I was forced to pull myself together and start working out again.  5-6 days a week, sometimes twice a day.  I told ManFriend that it was because I want to do a Tin Man Triathlon, which is true(ish).  Truthfully there is a far, far less dignified reason.

It all began not so long ago, in a house that was probably this one...

*insert wavy flashback sequence effect*

Home alone, I was dragging my carcass upstairs when *touch* I felt a light brush on my lower back.  Just a gentle touch, almost a caress right above my bottom.  I looked behind me.  No one was there.  Warily, I turned back to the monumental task of climbing the stairs.

*TOUCH*
 There it was again!  Quick look behind me, still no one there.  Being the rational, intelligent person that I am I immediately used my Powers of Reason to come to a plausible conclusion as to the cause of the personal space violation.

The victim always gets the blame in ghost rape scenarios.  

I began to run up the stairs.  The touches became slaps; the quicker I ran, the firmer they became.   Near the top of the stairs, I decided enough was enough.  I covered my lower back with my hand in attempt to catch the perpetrator in the act and promptly ended up with a handful of my own ass.

It turns out every laboured step I'd taken had jostled my ass upwards then violently downwards, each motion amplified by next step until there were veritable tsunamis of ass fat roaring their way up my backside.  Each wave of surplus flesh had crested against my back in whole hearted claps.  I like to think that, in it's own way, my ass was giving me high fives of encouragement, saying, "you can do it tubby, you can do stairs." 


The fear that I might destroy buildings with the next ass tsunami drove me back to the gym.  And that's the truth.

T.




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Love Ooze

Have you guys seen this yet?  HAVE YOU?!!

I know - it's another flash-mob video.  Ho-hum.  Everybody is surprised... dance dance dance... yadda yadda yadda...

NOPE!

Not this one.  This one will make all kinds of happy leak out of your face and possibly down your cleavage.

What makes this one so great is that the guy in question and 60 plus members of the couple's friends and family dedicated so much time and energy just to make an unforgettably sublime 5 minutes for his girlfriend.  Clearly these people love, and love whole heartedly.  The love just oozes out of the screen.

Hurrah for happiness!

Hurrah to the people out there who give good happy!

Hurrah to the ones who love love, love to love, and love with abandon!

Hurrah to the people who do the amazing things that give us something to cheer for!

T.

Oh, and Manfriend?  In case you're worried - I haven't gone nuts.  The only thing I'm hinting at is the occasional flash mob when I get home from work.  Not every week, that would be ridiculous.  But I think once a month is reasonable.  

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.