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I’m sitting here filling out Christmas cards (yes, less than a week before Christmas) when I realize the cheapo cards I’ve bought have the following message on the front:

’twas the night before xmas…

Now what kind of lousy, irresponsible editor purchases freaking Christmas cards with the word “xmas” on the front?! ME. That’s who.

Christmas has me stressed beyond belief. I’ve attempted shopping at least a dozen times now, and have gotten nowhere. I’d rather have FORTY WISDOM TEETH removed than step foot in that fucking mall. I have to finish everything tomorrow. I hate that I can’t buy pretty things for myself, and I’m working so hard and getting nowhere with my finances. And yes I know there are starving kids in the world, but holy crap, I want to feel pretty sometimes. Y’know? I’m tempted to stock up on lingerie just to feel better about myself.

Speaking of lingerie, I have ex-flames crawling out of the woodwork lately. They keep sending me messages and engaging in exceptionally friendly conversation, like the Karate Kid and Skank Master. I don’t fucking get it, they want to hang out over the holidays. Guess what buds? I’m not jingling your bells, I’VE ALREADY MADE THAT CLEAR.

Time to insert some cheer into this post:

This is my devil cat, Jetson. He doesn't mind the snow frosting because his soul is consumed by fiery hell.

My mother sent me this picture she took titled "Your Christmas cake." This entirely sums up her awesomely hilarious nature.

This picture is stolen from my lovely Lil Sis. Apparently this weird puppet dude was sitting in her neighbour's car. WTF?

I’ve attended at least a million Christmas parties over the past two weeks. Great fun. My REAL office work party was on Thursday, which meant I could only get a little drunk as I had to work at 9 a.m. I crawled home at 2 a.m. after dancing an epic jig with Susie-Q at Bridie Molloy’s. We were the only two left standing. TROOPERS!

Some of my coworkers and I did go to this little hole in the wall called “The Fiddler’s Pub.” Weirdest. Thing. Ever. The place was a perfect example of an ancient bay man’s pub where old alcoholic sailors come to find prostitutes. IT WAS AWESOME.

The entire place was covered in tacky 80s Christmas decorations and the walls were adorned with weird artifacts, i.e. a  bed pan, WOOD SAWS, and really old photographs. One lady was there with her German Shepherd. I started bopping to a song and one of the dirty sailors called out, “YEEEEEAHHH, SHAKE IT!” He then proceeded to do the limbo with another guy.

Last night, I attended Chef’s faculty’s Christmas party at the GeoCentre. I tried SO hard to find a giant globe to mount for Candice Does the World, but all to no avail. We had a blast though. Chef started cranking out Outkast and a bunch of other oldies, and me and my entourage basically just took over the dance floor and scared everyone off. Seriously. We were all over the place, huddled in a circle and kicking our heels up, and the next time we looked up the entire floor had cleared. So much fun.

Wearing a dress in the winter is cold. True story.

It’s been a crazy week between dealing with a massive workload, juggling a social life and coping with the worst insomnia I’ve ever encountered. Dirty Sailor is also staying with us again for a while, which generally results in us having heated Scrabble games over a Texas Mickey of Crown Royal.

I won!

So, on that note, Happy Holidays ya’ll!

I don’t have time to paint my fingernails anymore, and somehow I managed to put together this letter. I amaze even myself.

*Shit, I just realized my blog doesn’t support such large images, so you have to click the image itself and zoom in. It’s worth it, I promise.

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.

Due to some incredibly amazing awesome outstanding fabulous opportunities that have come my way this past week or so, it appears as though my social life will be put on hiatus indefinitely. I will not elaborate at the moment but I can assure you that this thing called life is effing great. Unfortunately, I’ve lost all feeling in my ass from sitting here for about 12 hours per day. Secretary butt, I think it’s called. Did I mention I can now flex my glutes to the tune of a song? It’s a new party favour of mine.


And with respect to my newfound responsibilities, lack of social life and the decision to cut men out of my life entirely, the following is now my idea of foreplay:



Facebook status updates

Best conversation with a stranger ever

Oh, Chad.


Ah yes, one month later and the aftermath of Winefest still haunts me in the form of this delicious, questionable, mysterious image.

So let’s take a vote, shall we? How many of you think I’m pulling her hand forward, and how many of you think I’m pushing her hand away?

Bonus points if you can come up with a clever caption for the words that are coming out of my mouth.

Get outta dat

  1. She tipped open my suitcase to find Abby Lee’s Diary of a Sex Fiend sitting on top of my clothes.
  2. While cleaning out my room, I emptied the contents of my junk drawer onto my bed. Two condoms fell out. I tried to recover by noting the expiration date of 2008, and said: “Huh, I guess I was optimistic.”


Supper at Folly tonight with the downtown gang. I made a point of eating supper before our supper, so I wouldn’t be tempted to spend money. I still managed to spend $15.


The supper was a farewell to Alana. I feel like this last week has just been one long ALANARAMA fest. God woman, just leave already! Fuck. I’m so kidding. Every time one of my friends moves away, I lose a part of my soul. I hope you have trouble sleeping at night.


Remember this? Nor do I.

Remember this? Nor do I.

I walked into the house today after work to hear an extremely loud buzzing noise emitting from the kitchen.


On further investigation, I realized the stove was the source. The whole kitchen was practically vibrating with the noise, yet nothing was switched on. I dared not step too close, in case the unit would suddenly burst into flames or explode. (note: we do not have a gas stove).


I called Chef in a panic, told him to come home, and thought about calling the landlord. Then my friend showed up at the door. My dra’rs were all in a knot by that point, so I asked if she could hear the noise too.
My friend simply strolled in the kitchen, walked over to the stove, and switched off the timer.


And nothing exploded.


Weekend of Candice and J-Nurse begins tomorrow. Shhhhhh, liver. Be quiet and take it.

Earlier I was researching common Spanish phrases and other useful terms (such as beer and tequila) that will help me out in Mexico next week, and stumbled across this page. After a slew of phrases like “How are you?” and “My name is…”, the very final phrase is this:


After laughing hysterically for 20 minutes, I decided I’m going to take every opportunity to use this phrase.

Hi, how are you?

I am fine, but my hovercraft is full of eels.


Quote of the night from one of the Girl Guides: “Boys…they just don’t think.”


We went to visit a nursing museum tonight. It was pretty interesting what with the 100 year old shock therapy machines and iron lungs, etc. The woman who gave us the tour was 90-something and absolutely the sharpest senior citizen I have ever met. Nadda touch of senility. I wandered into a super cool old doctor’s office and found a bunch of antique books and old ink-wells. When/if I get my own home some day, I want an office exactly like that.


The best thing EVER happened today. We got evicted. Sorta.


I came home from work and discovered there had been some mishap with the landlord. On Howie’s way to class, my landlord stopped him and told him that we had to move out because the Chinese people downstairs called to complain that we were being too loud at 12 a.m. Howie was stunned and argued that me and him were the only ones awake in the house at that time, and we were simply watching television (i.e. he was watching LOST and I was drooling over shirtless Sawyer who DID make an appearance and told some missus “Shut it Ginger, before I shut it for you” which nearly made me wet myself because there’s nothing I love more than sexy assholes like shirtless Sawyer). So Howie proceeds to walk to class all flabbergasted and my landlord starts thinkin’ “Gee, why did the Chinese folk get their panties in such a knot?”


So when my landlord gets to our house, he decides to call up the missus who had contacted him. He asks where she lives, and she gives him a different address than ours. Turns out he has more Chinese tenants than he can keep straight. We’re all having a laugh about it, my landlord leaves, and Howie is still in class shittin’ bricks.


When he gets home, we decide to play along with it, and boy can my roommates lie. Dirty rotten liars. Not a flicker of a smile or a hint of deceit. We’re waiting for hell to break loose and Howie’s pacing back and forth talking about how he’s gonna “rip them a new asshole,” when the landlord calls.


Howie: “Hello? Oh hi. Yeah I’m home from class now. When do you want us out?”


(long pause, Howie turns to us)


Howie: “Landlord says you’re all sons of bitches.”

(cue uncontrollable laughter while the landlord tells Howie the story)


BUT that’s not the best part…oh no, not in a long shot. The BEST PART is that our landlord feels SO BAD about the torture he’s inflicted upon Howie and for some reason feels guilty about our own personal attack, he tells Howie he’s going to knock a month off his rent. Not a fucking joke. Can you say backfire?

Anyway, still funny. Ha ha. Ha.


Went out for a romantic drive with Agent-T tonight, parked at Signal Hill and took in all the pretty lights. Then we bitched about life until my throat hurt. Seems to be the theme lately.



As I entered the kitchen this morning, I was greeted by the sight of blood… a little trail of it. My immediate thought was “Oh no, Bailey’s hurt!” (Bailey’s our foster dog.) But there she was, sitting in her little bed, wagging her tail all cutesy-wutesy and her brown eyes all wide and innocent.


Then I spied a bag in the centre of the kitchen. I picked it up to find an extremely large puddle of blood underneath it, and the bag filled with thawed meat. My body went into convulsions as I struggled to keep down the remnants of the previous night’s lasagne.


I soaked most of it up with paper towels, but since my mornings are perfectly allotted for time (ten minutes for make-up, ten for breakfast, ten for hair, 3 for making up bed, etc.), I covered the blood and left the rest of it for someone else.


When Jagerbomb woke up, I told her what happened and we tried to figure out the mystery. Then, as I was straightening my hair, I heard a loud curse from downstairs.




Once again, we found a bag with a steak in it, smack dab in the middle of the living room. Then, to our horror, we noticed another steak, all red and juicy with dog hair clinging to it, curled up in the corner of the couch like it just moved in and decided to take over. MY couch. My only GOOD couch.


It was like walking into an Alfred Hitchcock movie.


The problem is we don’t know who to blame. Was it:

A) Bailey the foster dog, opening the freezer and extracting her favourite meat? But if so, why was the meat uneaten?


B) Bailey the foster dog, snatching the meat from atop the counter where someone had left it to thaw? But who really thaws out a large bag of meat and another one filled with two steaks?


C) Someone with an unholy grudge against the members of my household? Perhaps the tenants downstairs who have already called the police on us before, and figure this is a more interesting way of getting revenge on our noisy behaviour?


The world may never know, but our house smells like a butcher’s shop.

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