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Did I mention that I’ve been watering the humungous fake tree at work? Yep, it’s happened. Cubemate was transferred to the IOT for a few months, so she’s reminded me twice to water the plants. The second time around, I was watering the giant tree when I realized it looked kinda…well, rubbery. I bolted before anyone could see me and messaged CM, asking her if the tree was fake.
I then messaged my coworker who sits directly beside the tree and told him what had happened. The loud laughter of all the engineers was all I heard for about ten minutes.
Fortunately, I’ve redeemed myself at last week’s Christmas party. My lord, what a bunch! CM invited us all to her house, and her fiance invited his coworkers as well. My coworkers and I overtook the kitchen, shot jello shooters, made a giant bowl of pink punch, and proceeded to get hammered. My belt, cleverly stuck together with SCOTCH TAPE quickly became my second downfall.
At one point, someone smashed a bottle of Jameson whiskey on the floor. The boys got down on their knees and soaked everything up, and then wrung it out into a glass.
Someone drank it. There’s no surprise why they hired me anymore.
So I’ve discovered the downfall of living in downtown St. John’s. Holy fuckery. It’s taken two days for the city to “clean up” winter’s epic dump all over the place. I use the phrase “clean up” loosely, as the sidewalks are still unploughed and the roads are still sloppy. Walking to work yesterday was intense…I literally have to navigate sideways down THREE HILLS, and not just gentle slopes either…nope, these are badass 90-degree slopes, people. Any steeper and I’d be free-falling.
These “minor” inconveniences would be okay if drivers in St. John’s weren’t such fucking assholes. I’m actually getting angrier by the minute as I write this, I’m so fed up. I have absolutely NO CHOICE but to walk in the middle of the main road at times, because the sidewalks aren’t cleared and I need to get to the other side. However, drivers think us lowly pedestrians are just trying to piss them off, and so they speed up on icy roads, splash us, and generally just don’t give a fuck.
Yesterday, when I was making the last stretch uphill, I was walking in the middle because it was the only place I could find some traction. I heard a car coming behind me, bass blaring and all, and I assumed I had time to move aside. That motherfucker sped up, tires squealing, and forced me to jump into a snowbank.
Thank you all for checking out my new site, by the way. I’m so in love with it, I can’t wait for this one to go live. So many new people to add to my blogroll. I like how Candice Does the World reaches out to a new audience as well…daily, I’m finding new people commenting on my site, or leaving messages on Twitter saying how much they enjoy my blog. Feels absolutely amazing.
When I win the lottery, I’m flying ya’ll up here for one big party!
It’s Friday night and I’m sitting in my bed surrounded by a bowl of popcorn, some lollipops, and mint Girl Guide cookies. Tonight, I was invited to a kegger and a Captain Morgan party, and there are currently people drinking downstairs. I chose to sit here in my bed and catch up on some work, because I’m entering a new Candice-era where I appreciate full nights of sleep and being asexual. Non-sexual? Whatever. I’m going to be picking popcorn kernels out of my orifices for months.
(Note: I’m going to a party tomorrow night, and I have plans lined up for the next two years, so I’ll be significantly more awesome once I’m on top of things. Also, I spent the night shopping and at the gym, which were both total wastes of time given the fact I didn’t buy ANYTHING [besides a necklace and earrings for myself...] and am now gorging on junkfood.)
Anyway. I had to share this story with you.
So I’m walking to work this morning, and I’m passing through George Street. There’s a man leaning into the dumpster beside The Yellow Belly Brewery. I note that he doesn’t necessarily seem like a bum, because he’s dressed more like a skeet (i.e. windsuit).
I’m walking along, minding my own business, when all of a sudden a MUFFIN skids past my feet and explodes. I look up, and the man is just standing there, cigarette dangling from the very edge of his lips in particular skeet fashion, looking back at me. I’m so genuinely intrigued that I do not even become startled or angered. No words are spoken. I understand this skeet. This skeet understands me. This skeet and I are one.
But did he mean to throw that muffin? If he were digging for food, why would he waste a perfectly good muffin? Did the muffin offend him somehow? Was the muffin a reminder of his skeet existence?
Damn, I had a really great five second video of the runners passing through Water Street with the olympic torch today. I had no intention of watching the parade, I just happened to be there. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement though; it made me want to head to Vancouver in 2010. Some guy passing by handed me two flags and I just kinda waved them lamely there on the side of the road. Go Canada. Woot.
**I just Googled the definition for “skeet” because I wasn’t sure if it were a Newfie word…turns out it means something entirely different than what I’m implying. Think Newfie hillbilly.
Oh Halloween, my most beloved time of year. The only occasion in which it is perfectly acceptable for young children to take candy from strangers, and for women to take any sort of profession in the world and turn it into something slutty. Sexy hamburger-flipper? Skanky gas attendant? You got it.
I defied the odds by dressing as Carmen Sandiego, appropriate attire for milling around downtown. Turns out it’s not really appropriate attire for a house party, as my hair ended up becoming plastered to my head with hat-sweat and my black gloves have given me a rash. Such is life.
Anyway, I tagged along with Hevs to her friend’s party, which was super decked out in Halloween gear. Not only was the party killer, but St. John’s radio station K-Rock showed up to host live from the dinette, bringing tidings of free beer and pizza. If you think having a radio show hosted from a Halloween party is pretty kickass, you’re right. Especially when the hosts are all dressed as Billy Mays. I’ve often wondered if radio talk-show hosts ditch the radio voice when they’re engaging in casual conversation. The answer? They don’t .
TOR, Lottie and I ended up going to the Mardi Gras celebrations on George Street, but I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to be there and I don’t remember the event EVER being so ridiculously chaotic. I couldn’t even call people on my cell phone because all the lines were blocked. FYI, Mardi Gras in St. John’s is a pretty momentous occasion, and one that involves huge cash prizes for best dressed, but it should never be confused with the REAL Mardi Gras. There are no beads, parades, or anything of that nature…just lots of naked people, and the opportunity to drag home a guy wearing a mask and then politely requesting that he not take it off lest your dreams be dashed.
I had a pretty good time, but this cold I’m wrestling with has zapped my will to live, and mostly I ended up being Ms. Cranky-Pants. I’m sorry, girls. I wasn’t feeling the general tiredness that accompanies ten bottles of beer and an early evening, it was more like my weary body screaming “Why are you doing this, you miserable fuck?”
On the upside, Halloween still rocks. What other time of year can you rock out with a Pimpin’ Jesus, a chimney sweeper, Lady Gaga, and the cast of The Price is Right?
And look, I finally got a sensible video!
I left my office in the lighthouse this afternoon to find myself in the middle of a blizzard.
I walked out into the parking lot, noticed the snow on the cars, and stopped dead in my tracks. Seriously. I looked upwards at the sky, held out my hands, and realized I was standing in a huge pile of slushy snow.
I yelled, “SERIOUSLY?!” to no one in particular, then went to the gym.
Unfortunately, by the time I left the gym, the wind had picked up and I was being blown all over the sidewalk, while wearing sneakers on slippery pavement. I slid everywhere.
Then I had to walk up FOUR HUGE STEEP GIANT DISGUSTING hills, trying to find decent footing somewhere. At one point, I stood in the middle of my street, swaying dangerously on the verge of collapsing. A car drove up to me. I stared at the car, and the car stared at me. If I moved, I surely would have slipped. Instead, I did a crab shuffle to the side of the road, and managed to make it home without any unfortunate incidents.
I am freezing. If I had balls, I would be freezing them off. My hands are icy, and this stupid 100-year-old townhouse is shuddering in the 110 km/hour winds. I cannot WAIT to see how the rest of this winter will turn out. SERIOUSLY, St. John’s? Are you fucking kidding me? It’s October 14th.
Investing in a pair of these:
And this is just one of the many reasons why I love St. John’s with all the love my little shrunken heart can muster.
My favourite time of year is fast approaching…MARDI GRAS, St. John’s style, taking place at the end of October. For those who aren’t familiar, St. John’s folks will literally find any occasion to drink their face off, and Halloween is the excuse of all excuses. Girls dressed down in Playboy bunny outfits? Zombies and vampires roaming the street? Throw in a man dressed as one of the 300 guys and you’ve got one of my fantasies. Fuckkkk yeah.
Unfortunately, I may have reached my peak of good costumes. I’m completely stumped. I actually enjoy Mardi Gras more than Christmas, I’m not even joking. I anticipate this occasion year-round, and when it’s over, I mope for days. Last year, I made my very own Duff Woman costume:
The year before that, I was the crazy cat lady (I had absolutely no intention of running a Simpsons theme here, I swear):
So how the HELL do I top Duff Girl? I was thinking about going as Kelly, but I’m not sure everyone would get it. Plus it has to be just a little bit sexy; Mardi Gras is the one time I can justifiably get away with dressing like trash.
Anyway, V tagged me in a note a few days ago where I’m supposed to list five things that make me feel sexxxay. I could maybe list about 40, for I am a sexual lion. Tiger? Panther? Who knows.
- Not having to wear glasses anymore. The sense of empowerment is amazing; today I actually flashed a smile at the cute, buff guy at the guy I’ve had my eye on for awhile OMG.
- Long hair. I love having it all swishy. Nothing feels better than wearing a tank top and having your hair tickling your back.
- Boobs. My boobs have been famous for awhile, they’re pretty nice.
- Being at the gym. Doesn’t matter if I have sweat blinding my eyes or my face is blood-red from the effort, I always feel fit at the gym.
- Strippers. Not joking. When I went to see strippers with the boys in July, I was touching my toes on the dance floor immediately after.
I’d tag five people, but I don’t know who would actually do this. So if you read this entry, do it, bitch.
I promised you all an alcohol-free entry, so here are two.
This past weekend was Doors Open Days in St. John’s, an event put off by the city so that tourists and cheapskates can wander around some of the historical sites without paying anything. TOR was up bright and early to check out some cathedrals and churches but I passed on those, as running off 10 lbs of booze was more important. So was my make-over. She also did yoga in the park, with people honking at her as she stretched her little heart out.
Anyway, so we decided to check out the Newman wine vaults. For a little bit of a history lesson, check out this website (I’m going to do a travel blog about this on Matador later, so I’ll spare ye the details). The tour was good, surprisingly short, and I kinda weaved back and forth in a hungover haze, but the vaults were trippy: big stone arches, massive wooden support beams, huge half-ton casks of wine…and a distinctive red mould growing on all the walls, apparently only characteristic of the Newman wine vaults in Newfoundland and Portugal, and found nowhere else in the world.
My favourite part of the tour was a little anecdote told by our guide. Back in the day, the casks would be transported from the vault to the ship by horse and carriage. One day, unable to withstand the heavy load, a carriage collapsed under the weight. One of the casks ruptured, spilling a half-ton of wine all over the streets. The middle and lower class citizens of St. John’s could not let such wealth go to waste, of course, so everybody came running with cups and mugs to scoop the wine off the streets. The mayor was outraged and ordered the police to barricade the area until the wine was cleaned up.
And if that doesn’t perfectly sum up the people of Newfoundland, then I don’t know what does.
We checked out the Railway Coastal Museum next, an enormously large structure located on Water Street. The museum was well laid out and there were quite a few interesting displays, including several replicas of train cars and their contents, but I was most amused by the model train in the children’s room. And the extremely ugly baby that some woman carried. I couldn’t tell if it were alive or not.
When we returned home, TOR and I began cooking up our supper (we decided to give Chef a night off, he was practically a zombie): bottled moose meat and boiled veggies. Proper Newfoundland meal, luh. I’m actually not a big fan of moose meat — I choked on a piece as a child and never fully recovered – but the smell of the meat being warmed in the pan brought back a flood of memories.
TOR is apparently more of a baywoman than I am, because I had absolutely no idea how to prepare the meat or make the gravy. But the meal actually turned out fucking delicious, and Chef has apparently been completely obsessed with moose meat since then.
In a previous blog entry, someone asked me to describe the taste. I posed the question to my roommates, and we mused over the possible answers as we sipped our chardonnay (moose meat and chardonnay, wtf?).
We compared it to beef, but it was useless. TOR, however, summed it up best:
“It’s just fucking amazing.”
There you have it. Fucking amazing.
(I just realized that this entry was supposed to be alcohol-free, yet I started off with a description of a wine vault. A taste test of Newman port was also involved).
My glorious three-day weekend was a lovely mixture of alcoholism, fitness and relaxation. I have been eating so unhealthily these past few days that I hadn’t intended to drink on Thursday, but decided to hang out with some old classmates. And a bottle of Chef’s homemade wine.
Anyway, two hours later I’m at The Ship, except I could be on the moon for all it matters because I don’t remember anything. I was perfectly aware and capable of conversation at Caper’s house, but by the time I got downtown…messy. I spent at least 30 minutes fumbling for a coat check tag, when Caper approaches me and says, “Your coat is on the table, there’s no coat check here.” Awesome.
So Ani’s friends brought me home and I stood outside my door for another 30 minutes looking for my keys while they waited in the car. I barely know these guys. I’m a moron. Finally, I ended up crashing on Ani’s couch complaining about how my eyeballs were gonna rot out of my head because I’m not supposed to wear my contacts for more than eight hours (as opposed to 16). However, I was treated to an excellent breakfast the next morning. Bacon on Good Friday, I am such a heathen.
On Saturday, the sun decided to grace us with its presence, so the roomies and I headed out on an incredible four hour trek around Signal Hill and the surrounding area. I’ve lived here for five years, and have never hiked Signal Hill. Wtf. I love how we literally had to walk through peoples’ backyards to reach the trail, including one entry point that crossed someone’s personal patio. The trail is an incredibly intense path around the cliffs of the Cabot Tower with wide views of the city, ocean, and Cape Spear. At one point, the trail gets so narrow that you have to grasp a chain anchored to the rock-face to keep from plunging into the frigid water several metres below.
By the time we reached Cabot Tower, I wanted to collapse into a sweaty heap and cry (despite the promise of icebergs). But Chef and TOR wanted to trudge on to reach an incredibly steep, MASSIVE hill on the other side of the tower. I mean HUGE…I didn’t even know it was accessible to the public, but we would definitely claim the best berg views from that spot. So I cried a little and followed them.
We were clearly in no-man’s land, we had the whole area to ourselves (and maybe one or two other hikers). As we approached the cliff I looked up and swore under my breath, because sweet jesus it was intimidating. The only leverage we had was a single rope anchored to two trees, but I decided to suck it up and follow behind. I’m glad I did…when we reached the top we had the most amazing, expansive views of the entire city and the world beyond. We sat down on some rocks among the harsh Newfoundland shrubbery and took in the bergs floating among the ice, and I think we found the quietest place in the city. So worth it…the wind, the runny noses, the shrubs scratching our legs…all worth it. We treated ourselves to some Moo-Moo’s ice-cream afterwards, a perfect finale to the day.
Last night, I went out with the gang and finally reached a good, balanced level of drunkness. I believe Miller Lite has solved all my problems…thank you, Molson. I went dancing downtown, and didn’t even black out or disgrace myself. The following picture suggest otherwise, but I assure you I was very composed and wonderful. And also very bitchy as I danced with a guy all night who wouldn’t stop twirling me or telling me how hot I am, but really I just wanted to amuse my friends who were laughing in the corner. After pounding back three warm White Russians in 30 minutes, I was feeling pretty good. We were all on a mission to creep people out, and I do believe the winner was Chef.
Going to hell in a hand basket.
Proof I am not a complete mess/troll all the time.