Wednesday, 14 December 2011

Gertrude


For those who don’t know me, I am directionally retarded. Severely retarded. It’s almost painful for those with me, I’m sure. Let me explain:



And then:



Followed by:



Yes folks, when it comes to following directions, I am THAT stupid. I don’t know why, I full heartedly believe I inherited it from my mom. Examples you say? 


Directions my mom was given: 


Turn left at 1st Street. Then go straight and turn right into the parking lot.


This should have taken her 15 minutes to get to the restaurant we were waiting at. 


**45 minutes go by**


Mom calls me, freaking out that we gave her shitty directions, and now she's in the middle of farm country in Langley, which is COMPLETELY THE OPPOSITE direction we gave her. She turned right at 1st Street. Then decided to correct this, she should go straight for a while, then turned left on a random road and was SHOCKED that the restaurant in a completely different city did NOT materialize. 


No one can inherit that directional retardation you say? Well....


This is a true conversation:

Person: Ok, at the lights, turn left.

Me: Got it! Left!
**two minutes go by**

Person: Turn left

Me: Yes!

**I turn right**

Person: …

**another minute goes by**

Me: Shit… you said left, didn’t you…

Person: …

Everyone rejoiced when I got  GPS. I was so excited, I could finally get directions said to me AS I was driving, no possible way to fuck up! Or was there…

Enter: GERTRUDE

Yes. I named my GPS Gertrude. Her robotic voice has the air of a snotty English woman who is so disappointed in me for merely existing, with her angry chiming at me for missing turns and not following her directions, her exasperated “Recalculating Route”, and repetitive nature completely earn the name Gertrude.

I am fairly confident I received a defective GPS. If I don’t follow her directions after 2 recalculatings, she turns herself off. It’s kind of like “Hey, Karin. Fuck you and your inability to follow my directions. Find your own damn way”. Except more British and snooty.

Karin, why do you not listen to the directions?

Well the answer is completely obvious. Gertrude is trying to fucking kill me.

Seriously.

She takes me to back woodsy areas where I’m fairly certain serial killers lurk, down dark alleys late at night where I could interrupt a potential drug trade, and out to roads that don’t exist. They’re simply “Unnamed Road” and really it’s a wall of fucking trees and NO ROAD.

My amazing friend Dee did not believe me on this fact.

“Karin, you’re just being paranoid”
Ohhhhhhhh really. REALLY? Well, to prove my point, I used Gertrude to direct us to a store. And this is what happened:



Me: See, she’s trying to kill us by making us drive over the edge!

Dee: No, she wants you to take the exit on the right at the end of the bridge.



Me: SEE!!!

Dee: No, she means the exit!



Me: LOOK!

Dee: No! Electronics don’t try to kill people like that!



Dee: … Holy shit she wants you to drive off the bridge!

Me: I TOLD YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Your plan failed Gertrude. I am now onto your shenanigans. Although I may be directionally retarded, I am not dumb enough to drive off a bridge. Just into dark alleys, dead end roads and forests… So until a serial killer IS waiting for me, you shall go on failing with your miserable plan.

Friday, 25 November 2011

The Seven Minute Rule


My boss confuses the fuck out of me. People think that *I* am random. They need to meet him. For the sake of this blog, we’ll call him Al from here on out. And the company I work for is Team O. 


One of my many confusing conversations with Al happened not too long ago, and resulted in the installation of the “seven minute” rule at work. What is the seven minute rule? Well, let me tell you how it all began

One of my friends was looking for a job and we happened to be hiring. I asked him to send me his resume and I’d recommend him to my boss. Easy, right? Yeah… That’s what I thought. We both fail.

So I mosey down the hallway to Al’s office and ask if I can give him a resume. And the conversation went like this:

Karin: Hey Al, I have my friend’s resume. I think he’d be an awesome addition to the team!

Al: come in please, and sit down.

**ominous feeling**

Karin: uh… ok?

**Karin sits**



Al: You know, Team O pays you every second Friday.

Karin: Right…. Bi weekly payments and such…

Al: The money is given to you every second Friday.

Karin: Ok.

Al: You always know when the money is coming in.

Karin: Right.

Al: If you start your own company, you never know when the money is coming in


Karin: …

Al: The grass is always greener you know. There 
are lumps and bumps in life but Team O helps you with those by paying you every second Friday.

Karin: …

**At this point I was listening down the hallway, hoping to hear someone coming down looking for me so I can leave**

Al: You always know when money is coming in, because it’s the same time every time. Every second Friday.

Karin: uh…

Al: Starting your own business is a bad idea. You know why?

Karin: I get paid every second Friday?

**Still watching the door, praying for someone to save me**

Al: RIGHT!

Karin: So…

Al: YOU WILL ALWAYS KNOW WHEN YOUR MONEY IS COMING IN

Karin: uh… About that resume?

Al: Have your friend call me.

**awkward silence**

Karin: Can I go now?

Al: Yes.

Please Note: This conversation actually went on like this for about 10-15 minutes.

I get up, walk as quickly as I can OUT of his office (so he can’t call me back in) and run back to my desk. I then have everyone in the room staring at me, and they go “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!” since I was gone for so long.

 I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, PEOPLE! I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED! BUT NO ONE FUCKING SAVED ME!

I had to explain the situation, which had the end result of:



To ensure this does not happen in the future, if anyone leaves their desk and is gone for more than 7 minutes, the search party will be sent. So far we have not had to enforce this rule, but you never know. 

Monday, 21 November 2011

THE BUTTONS


Recently my friend Jaime(NOT AIMEE) decided she wanted to learn to crochet. As I am a firm believer in group suffering, I agreed to learn with her. It took many (MANY) failed attempts, but we finally figured it out. Jaime promptly started making the cutest hats ever for her new son.

**please note a hobby like this will almost definitely make your child hate you in the future**

Her most recent achievement was a snowman hat:



(I edited out the world’s cutest baby as I don’t want random strangers seeing him. If he’s to be stolen, it will be by ME… this is NOT AIMEE’S baby)

After congratulating her for such an awesome hat, Jaime (NOT AIMEE) looks at me and goes:

Jaime: Want to know where I got the buttons?
Me: Uh…

Please note at this point I completely thought that she’d done something like ninja her way into a neighbour’s house to steal their clothes and rip the buttons off.

Surprisingly I was not far off…

Jaime leaves the room a moment and comes back with:



At first glance I was like “oh, a random blazer”, but no. NO. This was a dress jacket. You know, one of those fancy coats men wear when they have to look all nice and sophisticated. And on closer inspection:




Yeah. That’s right. It’s missing its buttons. ALL its buttons.

Me: So… yeah… that’s a jacket

Jaime: It sure is!

Me: Where did you get such a previously fine jacket?

Jaime: My husband’s closet

Me: …

Me: …

Me: …

Me: Ok. Why did you take the buttons of his coat rather than going to the store and buying said buttons?

Jaime: I didn’t feel like going out.

Me: Oh.

Surprisingly THAT seems logical to me!

Jaime: So… could you bring this to your work and get rid of it?

Me: Why?

Jaime: A missing coat is easier to explain than a coat that’s missing parts of it

This too seemed logical.

Me: Ok, I’ll drop it off at a donation bank or give it to a hobo

Jaime: Why would a hobo want a jacket with no buttons?

Me: What’s warmer??? A coat without buttons or NO coat?

Jaime: But it has no buttons.

Obviously our logic only follows the same line of reasoning on very limited things. 


On a completely unrelated note, my fortune cookie told me to “Learn Chinese, Beansprout”.

What the fuck does that even mean?????????

P.S. Anyone want a jacket?

P.P.S. I too learned to crochet, not as awesome as Jaime though… but look! I’m a kitty!



P.P.P.S. you can totally see my perfect eyebrows





****UPDATE**** IM conversation with Aimee (yeah it's totally Aimee...) earlier today:


Aimee: Jay read the eyebrow blog

Karin: hahahahaha

Aimee: He laughed so hard he had tears rolling down his face

Karin: did you hide the buttons from him

Aimee: I'm like ok yeah you think that's funny read the button one

Aimee: FYI I'm the only one laughing with tears rolling down my face lmfao

Karin: hahaha I'm laughing now.... did he read the buttons one

Aimiee: Yes he did 

Karin: and

Aimee: I told him one day he will find it just as funny

Karin: was he pissed

Aimee: Who cares nolans hat needed buttons lol

Eyebrows


Recently Dee and I decided to visit our good friend Aimee. While having a girl’s night with delicious food and movies and all those things girls do (minus the panties pillow fights and practising kissing and such…), I vocalized the need for eyebrow maintenance soon. This prompted the response from Aimee of:


I’d never seen any of her previous work so I thought this was a marvelous idea as it required minimal effort on my part with the outcome I desired… groomed eyebrows.

Aimee went and collected all of her eyebrow gear, which included eyebrow stencils, tweezers, scissors and some kind of dust that if you put it on stuff you’re not supposed to pluck that. I don’t get how it works as the dust doesn’t magically make the hair stay in place and avoid the tweezers nor does it not magically spread from one location to another… but that is neither here nor there.

I laid down, Aimee plucked away, and then about ten minutes later, proclaimed she was done:

My eyebrows turned out awesome. So I could stand by Aimee’s statement from the beginning. She was indeed awesome at doing eyebrows. This convinced Dee it would be a good idea for her to get her eyebrows done too.

Apparently Aimee’s awesome eyebrow skills have a 1 person/night limit.

Dee laid down, I held the baby (and NO! I did not run off with the baby… this time…) and Aimee started plucking away. She completed eyebrow #1 with no problems. Onto eyebrow #2.  At this point she dropped her stencil and had to pick it up and re-position it. This was the beginning of the downfall. After about 15 minutes she proclaims “I’M DONE!” and the sequence of Aimee faces went something like this:

Followed by:

“Uh Karin.. can you come here? “



I mosied on over, glanced down, and this is what I saw:

Now I know at first glance it looks like they’re fine. But really what I saw was this:


HOLY FUCK AIMEE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED!!!!

Of course, it’s fixable, as long as Dee likes the SMALLER eyebrow. So Dee rushes off to the bathroom to examine, and I look at Aimee and it goes something like this:

Me: So… uh… did you use the same stencil for BOTH eyebrows?

Aimee: Yes, of course I did!

Me: Are you sure?

Aimee: YES! I AM NOT STUPID!

Me: Oh ok… uh, so the stencil on the ground by your foot… that’s NOT the one that you used for eyebrow #1, right?

Aimee: No, of course not

*she bends over and picks it up*

Aimee: Aw fuck.

Me: Eyebrow #1?

Aimee: SHHHHH! DON’T TELL DEE

Disclaimer: this is not me telling you, Dee. If you choose to read this, I have no control over what information you come across

At this time, Dee comes back in and states she does in fact, like the small eyebrow better. So she lays back down and Aimee goes back to plucking with the stencil that was found on the ground. Yes, you read this right. Dee trusted her to correct this.

Dee is a slow learner sometimes.

So about 15 minutes later, Aimee proclaims that again, she is in fact finished plucking. I come over to examine and look down. This is what I see:


Me: Uh, Aimee… Did you use the same stencil on both eyebrows this time?

Aimee: Yes of cou… FUCK!

So again, Dee was lopsided. And again… wait for it… Dee lays down and lets Aimee go to work on fixing it. Seriously. At this point any more fuck ups and we’d have to shave them off and draw them on!!!

Luckily third time was a charm in this case and Dee’s eyebrows matched and looked great. But really. Three times, Dee? THREE TIMES?

Thursday, 10 November 2011

The Wisdom From a Brother


I may not have tons of things to say about my brothers that fall in the awesome category, but in some instances, they have shared a form of wisdom. Really random assed wisdom that most likely will never help me out in life (much like math past the 5th grade) but wisdom none the less.

When I was 18, I was the last child in the household. At this point both of my brothers had moved out and I decided the place for the hip kids was sleeping in the tiny bedroom in the basement. I also thought sleeping on a futon on the floor was the epitome of cool. 

The setting was late at night, Christmas Eve. I had just fallen into a deep(ish) sleep, when an odd smell accompanied with a weird shuffling noise brought me right back to awake. The smell invaded my nose, a smell of garbage mixed with rotten meat and old beer. The shuffling noise sounded like someone dragging of carcass around the carpet. I was too terrified to open my eyes, knowing I would see this:



I know we’ve all had fears of Death dragging dead hobos through our bedrooms. It’s really hard to get hobo blood out of the carpets.

Finally I got the courage to open my eyes and look. Was it Death? No. But I kinda wished it was. There wasn’t even a hobo! Well technically there was… This is what I gazed upon:



S was squatting all gargoyle style in the middle of my floor clutching a beer can glaring at me. The smell was him. Farting. A lot. My cool tiny basement bedroom suddenly became an airtight chamber of poisonous gas that didn’t have enough room to expand.

As I lay there trying to hold my breath and figure out what the fuck S was doing in my room squatting on the floor glaring at me, he opened his mouth and let out his words of wisdom. What were they, you ask? I’m not sure if you’re prepared for this. Take a deep breath and get ready. This may be the most important piece of information anyone will ever share with you.

S opened his slurring mouth, let out a burp, and his words of wisdom were:

If a police officer offers you a ride home, don’t believe him.

He then let out one more squeaker fart, and shuffled out of the room.

I would have preferred the dead hobo. It would have smelled better too.

Monday, 7 November 2011

Fond Childhood Memories #3 – Haircuts



The awesome forces that be graced me with 2 older brothers and apparently they didn’t come with receipts so I couldn’t return them. Believe me. I tried. A lot. Seriously, if there are any takers, I’m willing to PAY YOU to take them. Even now when I’m in my late 20s.

My brother S (the middle one) went through several phases in his life, trying to decide what he wanted to be when he grew up. There was the absentee phase, the hobo phase, and unfortunately for J (the oldest one) and I - the barber phase.

My horrible haircut came courtesy of my brother learning from school what a “whirlee” was. When I was around 9, S came home and came up to J and I and started going on about a whirlee. J did not know what this was, and when S offered to show him, he happily accepted. BIG MISTAKE.

I have no idea why J listened to what S told him to do, but he WILLINGLY stuck his head in the toilet bowl at which point S shoved his head into the water and flushed. J has always had a HUGE EFFING AFRO and this got completely saturated with toilet water. The sick sick toilet water that was in the toilet in the bathroom the boys used. Only the boys used. And never cleaned.  I unfortunately started laughing, at which point S decided to even it out - I needed a whirlee too.

Both my brothers were much bigger than I was, so they were able to easily overpower me and force my head into the toilet. This may not have been as devastating had I not had almost waist length hair at the time. When the water flushed, my hair went down the toilet and got stuck in the piping while still attached to my head. This was problematic as the toilet tends to refill itself after flushing. After what I’m sure was a very heated internal debate in my brother’s head on whether or not to rescue me, he finally chose not to let me drown in the fucking disgusting water (it would have been hard to explain to my parents). To save me, it required cutting off my hair. All of it. ALL OF IT. And as quickly as possible.

Due to the nature of the forced change in hairdo, the ends were not as even as they could have been. When my face came out of the toilet, I had lopsided wet chunks of disgusting hair on the side of my face, and smelled like a sewer. This is when my parents came home, and my mom had to attempt to salvage my hair.



It took YEARS for my hair to grow back. And I still have not gotten over the trauma of that water touching my skin. I’m pretty sure every single bad thing I’ve ever done can be related to that toilet water. It seeped into my soul and crushed the goodness in my heart.

Surprisingly not even a year later, J got an awesome haircut too, which almost matched mine in the epic way it was received. S had discovered that if you use PAM cooking spray with a match, you have a homemade flame thrower. He was extremely excited and called J out to see. S was smart enough to use his new found lawsuit waiting to happen on the exterior patio (next to a giant old maple tree…) but didn’t think not to AIM it at people. I decided to stay in the kitchen, which probably was a good plan. The conversation overheard was:

S: Yeah! Look! I just take this match and light it, and then spray this PAM and…

**whoosh noise**

J: HEY! That’s cool!!!! Do it again!

**woosh noise**

J: Woah that was close!

S: Uh.. shit.

J: Do you smell burning????

At this point J comes to the porch door and looks at me and goes, “Is it as bad as I think it may be?”


Yes. Yes it really fucking was. We promptly shaved his head and informed mom and dad that he needed to cut his hair for school.

S eventually decided that being a hobo bum slacking assface was waaaay below his paygrade capabilities. He’s now in the military.

It’s scary as shit right?


Saturday, 29 October 2011

Update: I "drunk" email too.


**please note that by drunk email I mean I email when mostly asleep** - Dee also texted me at 9am, without reading her email first. I did not kill her… yet



From: karin
To: dee
Subject: 
Date: Sat, 29 Oct 2011 03:41:25 -0700

insomnia tried to kill me... and then made me paranoid. So I blogged about it. Dee my mind is really messed up and I can't get off this crazy train. FYI if i had died Neil and/or Liam had to assure you that I loved you, so remember that I thought to cover that basis before being attacked by the pillow creeper(s). please read my blog before asking me wtf i'm talking about. And then you can ask me wtf I'm talking about. because we'll be on the same page... unknowing in THE BOOK WITH NO TITLE! I'm really tired... I loooooooooooooooooooooooooooove you. If you text me really early (like before 10am) I may kill you though. Look at the time of this email! I AM STILL (mostly) AWAKE RIGHT NOW!

It's 330am right now, do you know where your Karin is? IN FUCKING BED WITH POSSIBLE CREEPERS

love
karin

p.s. I don't know what a creeper is other than a creepy person that may be in bed. right there ---> 

p.p.s. I was going to edit this email, but i figured you'd enjoy it more if i didn't edit out the crazy to try and make sense. YOU'RE WELCOME

p.p.p.s. I don't even know what P.S. stands for. Why would you multiply the P? can't a P.S. just go on for a few paragraphs?

p.p.p.p.s. I googled it. It means "post script". Now i remember I knew that before. And thought it was stupid back then, much like I do now. Why not just move your p.s. thoughts above your signature and include it in the main letter? Because this is the fucking lazy way to do it, that's why. Stupid English and their lazy rules.

p.p.p.p.p.s. do you think they pronounce each P on its own? or is it more like a ppppps sound? 

p.p.p.p.p.p.s. haha JUST KIDDING! I had no 6th ps to include, I was just yanking your chain.

p.p.p.p.p.p.p.s. no wait, I did. I'm saving this email to my drafts folder too, so I can read it when I'm fully alert and awake and see if it still makes sense to me, or if it's even written in English. At this point, i may just be smushing the keyboard and *thinking* real words are coming out. WHO KNOWS! I'm really tired.

A Window into the Mind of Karin


I will update this blog with pictures later, when I’m more alert and able to rock the stick figures (and as long as I'm still alive...). I’ll probably leave this opening up anyway, because that is how I roll.

So, this is another little window into the world of the crazy that is Karin. Here I am in bed, it’s 2:50am. I am typing this blog. Why? Because I’m 76% certain that it may provide the police with an insight into what happened to me.

You see, I have a body pillow on my bed. You know the long pillows that are almost body sized, right? So it’s under my blankets. Almost every night, I pounce on it to be sure that it’s a pillow and not a person that has knocked the pillow off the bed against the wall and taken the pillow’s place. THIS IS A LOGICAL FEAR!

Tonight I decided to go to bed, and did not pounce on the pillow. I brought the laptop with me as I’ve been suffering from some insomnia due to my lack of taking sleeping meds to help me sleep. So I’m laying here, in slightly partial (BUT NEVER MOSTLY OR COMPLETE!) darkness, and I realize that I did not pounce on the pillow.

I have no idea if it’s a pillow or a creeper. I have not checked the other side of the bed to ensure there is no pillow on the floor either, and it’s too late as that would require laying across the pillow/creeper to see if there is a pillow on the ground. So right now, I am laying in bed next to a potential creeper.

There is what *could* be a slight noise like someone opening their mouth to breath (or the electrical in the wall clicking), and now that these thoughts are in my head, I’m too freaked out to check to see. If it IS a creeper, I lose the upper hand by being the one on the top of the blanket and smothering them under the blanket (as I am currently under the blanket).

They’re waiting for me to fall asleep so they can grope me. I am onto you, creeper disguised as a pillow.

If I die, remember, I love most of my friends. And would be willing to kill a majority of you if you became zombies. Share my story. I’m going to check to see if it’s a creeper after I post this. Let this be a lesson to you all, always check for creepers disguised as body pillows BEFORE getting into bed. 


**3am update: False alarm! It was a pillow. I checked. I seriously yelped and almost peed a little when checking though. You may all go on about your business**

**3:15am update: I am now concerned that there is a creeper beside my  bed near the wall, or under my bed. I have tried to convince my friend to come check for me... but since he doesn't have a key to get in, I'd have to get up to let him in at which point the creepers would get me anyway... I'll check in a sec to be sure... Remember, love, zombies, kill, and so forth**

**3:25am update: Ok house checked, creeper free. I realize now, my walls are very thin, my landlord probably heard me. So at this time of the night he most likely heard the yelp of fear when I jumped on the pillow, the sigh of relief with "oh thank god" afterwards, the chanting of "fuck fuck fuck" when I realized the other potential hiding spots of creepers, followed by the "AH HA!!!" noises every time I thought I'd caught a potential creeper by surprise. I wonder what kind of life he thinks I lead...**

please note this event really did happen. No I am not drunk. No I did not do any drugs prior to my mind taking this path. It did it all on it's own. Sober. How fucked up is that... BE GRATEFUL I DON'T DRINK OR DO DRUGS PEOPLE! THINK OF HOW MUCH WORSE IT COULD GET!




**update: I decided not to draw pictures, but I did take a photo of my bed to show that there really could be creepers in there**







Sunday, 23 October 2011

Fond Childhood Memories part 2



This tale explains why my father decided not to come home early from work any longer.

Dad was a surgeon, and was usually home between 6-7 at night. My mom ran his office, so they went to and from work together most days, except on the days he worked in the operating room (OR), so they’d travel in their own vehicles. On this specific day, it was an OR day and he was done early and decided to come home to spend quality time with his family. BIG MISTAKE DAD!

Us children (again, remember there were 3 of us, which is a BAD combination) came home and were in the kitchen scavenging for food when Sean happened to look in the dining room and was like “hey guys, does the chandelier look weird to you?”

We’d just moved into this house about a month ago, and we’d never had a fancy chandelier before, so who the hell knew what was “normal” for it. So of course this specific chandelier didn’t look right. So we decided we would fix it, because we were a 6, 10 and 12 year old set of electrical master minds who completely understood lighting and wiring. Except we completely weren’t.

Child logic was “if I hold onto the chandelier and try and shift it over, it’ll look right” because that makes COMPLETE FUCKING SENSE. So we got a chair (there was no dining room table at the time) and since I was the lightest one, they decided I should be the one to shift it. I don’t know where that logic came from, but it made sense at the time. So I’m standing on the chair, my brothers in the living room watching me to see if the light “looks better” with whichever way I shifted it.

Needless to say, as I was gripping the chandelier with both hands, the chair gave way. So there I was, 6 year old me, hanging from the chandelier still in my school uniform, and my brothers both screaming in the living room. Sean started paging 9-1-1 calls to dad’s beeper (this was 1989, we didn’t have cell phones, not even the Zack Morris brick phone) over and over and over.

This went on for about 5 minutes, no one even thought to come and straighten the chair out under me so I could get down (or say, my oldest brother just lifting me off the chandelier), and there was screaming and crying and sobbing from all three of us. Since we were all electrical masterminds, the next thought that entered our collective heads was “Oh shit, the chandelier will crash and the whole house is going to blow up!!!!” which led to more screaming and crying and sobbing. My little arms were getting tired, and with the gentle twisting of the chandelier I was starting to get dizzy.

Then I saw it. My salvation. In one of the moments that my body happened to be facing the living room windows, I saw my dad’s car pull up. THANK GOD!!! I started screaming “DADDY’S HOME!!!!! WE’RE SAVED!!!” I think my dad heard me… As he’s walking up the walk to the front door, he stopped and looked in the living room window. Then down at his beeper with the 10,000 9-1-1 home pages. Then back at the living room window. This is what he saw:



And then this is what I saw:



At this time, my arms gave out and I fell. The whole 2 feet to the floor. I didn’t die, or break any bones. We straightened the chair, and didn’t mention it again until dad brought it up several years later.