So I'm Really Doing This Thing

My passport came today.

Actually, it came yesterday but no one was around to sign for it so it got sent to the local post office that is renowned for being complete fascists when it comes to releasing registered mail and packages.  It is so bad, I have my online purchases sent to The Office because once it is in the firm clutches of those crazy ladies at the post office, you have to produce DNA and character references to get it back.

I was shaking so bad when I signed for it.  Of course, I had to sign one of those electronic pads that morphs your signature into hieroglyphics.  I hesitated.  Totally expected crazy lady to take the package back and tell me "No Mexico for you!"

Once I had liberated my mail from Canada Post, I stood at the counter at the post office and tore the package open.  Even though I went over my passport application a bazillion times and had others check it for completeness, I was certain it would get sent back and I would be told by some faceless government mucky muck that I suck at filling out applications and to try again.

I opened the package slowly.  Ohmigawd its not in here.  Ohmigawd.  Ohmiwait... that looks like the pages of a passport.  Ohmigawd.  It is here.  Ohmigawd keep your shit together girl and get outta here.

I buried my head into my chest and bolted out of there, stopping briefly at the ice cream cooler (there was a ledge there for me to put my bag on... I wasn't even thinking of the Haagen Dazs) to check and see if the government sent back my I.D. I had to very reluctantly sent to them because if they had not sent it back, some poor bastard on some customer service email account was going to get a snot-a-gram, the likes of which have never been read or felt.  O.C.D. makes you twitchy sometimes.  This was a sometimes.

The I.D. was there.  And the passport was still there too.  Keys and phone in the right pockets?  Yes.  Good, we can go now.  Effing O.C.D. kicks my ass all the time when it comes to things like this.

At home.  Sofa.  Dump work bag out looking for package with passport in it.  Inwardly remark that my passport photo looks like a proper mug shot of a lesbian with bad hair and how nobody is going to let me in their country when they compare that with the live and in person me.

Then it hit me.  I can go anywhere.  That thought alone made me weepy.  It was bittersweet.  All that time all those years ago Captain Celery told me I needed a passport, that it immediately opened the world up... I get it now.  You were right and I understand it now.  Sorry I doubted you.

Little secret, just between you and I.  I am a kid from the ghetto who only ever dreamed of going to other parts in the world.  When I was growing up, we were lucky enough to be able to afford the gas for the thirteen hour drive to my grandparents' place every summer.  I travelled a bit in Canada as an adult but never needed a passport.  Never thought I would.  Machu Pichu, India, Nepal, Tibet, Italy, Greece, NYC, Scotland, Ireland, and the Louvre in Paris had always been places I read about but had always seemed so far out of my reach.

Now I can go there.

Bittersweet.

Oh you may think I'm a fool for saying it out loud and that is okay.  You may have held a passport for years and think I'm just being a ridiculous, sentimental fool.  Perhaps I am.  But think of what that little twenty four page book does for you, especially if you are Canadian.

You can go anywhere.

I can go anywhere.

All those places that I have read about and have dreamt about suddenly got a whole lot closer.

Christmas Puked: Ground Zero

Well it finally happened.

Christmas puked.

Kids, do not forget what the sacred wooden Christmas tree looks like:

She is going to find a home in another department this year.

I don't know if I am on the inside of a candy cane or if the walls and ceilings are now suddenly swimming lanes...

... but I'm pretty sure I'm moving my desk back into the warehouse, even if it is in a shitty drafty corner that I have to share with an inflatable helicopter Santa (who by the way rawks with not one but two motorized propellers)....

Can you max out on bad taste?  Perhaps it is possible if you have an angel with the dead bird tree topper...

... or a "new" candle holder which I am pretty sure is in fact not "new".  Unless candle holders are now being sold as cat  hair holders or a two for one cat hair/candle combo.  Which would be awesome if you liked cats.  I do not.  Sadly the cat hair did not come through on the pic but the horror of the holder is painful enough, of this I am sure.

So the Office Troll (formally the Office Dweller) got her wish.  A projectile vomit Christmas.  What can you expect when this is ground zero:

The following are a few highlights.  I actually took over 35 pics when I was in there but I will not burn your retinas out with bad taste.  Brace yourselves, its gonna get icky.

Garland reindeer on doggie pee pads (okay maybe they are not pee pads but damn they look like it):

 A teddy bear Christmas tree but most of the teddy bears have fallen off so now it just looks like a dead headless body drunk buddy hugging bears while trekking through the neighbour's hedge:

We cannot forget Santa.  Especially when he is about three feet tall and wearing the Office Troll's glasses.  Which she is always losing.  One would imagine it is to be expected when said troll loses a dot matrix (oh yes you read that right) printer under a fake palm jungle and singing and dancing Christmas tree:

See, I told you I am not creative enough to make this shit up.  I get paid to go to the Land Of Crazy every day.  Every.  Day.

So where does one work with all this Christmas glory exploding around them?  Allegedly in this space:

And Martha Stewart wept.

To be honest, I was getting all twitchy and holy-shit-my-A.D.D.-is-making-me-stabby when I was taking these pics.

Remember my desk?

Yes.  O.C.D. and A.D.D. live here.  I will cut a bitch if that dusty, mildewy, fur ball infested crap lands on my desk.  For really.  I like that my desk is clean and reasonably clutter free. 

Turns out I could work for Martha.

The only thing that can stay is Dick Tree.

 At first glance, you do not see it.  But it is a big corporate mushroom print.  I would like to take credit it, but it was The Temp who came up with this masterpiece:

And what does this have to do with "Where's Waldo?"  Who the fuck knows.  What does "Where's Waldo?" have to do with Christmas?

Exxackerly.

I Have OCD. Kinda.

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on August 08, 2009.)

I own it. If you really know me, it’s not news. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not OCD’ing it in a way that has me lying on my living room on my belly at 1:00 am with a comb straightening the fringe on an area rug before I go to bed so I can sleep at night without being haunted by naughty naughty untidy rug fringe. And I’ll never be able to work for Martha Stewart but I HAVE to allow OCD to have space in my life, if for no other reason than to be neat and tidy or I get a little ratty around the edges. And distracted. Have I introduced you to my little unmedicated (it’s a word now, deal) friend ADD?

So in defense of OCD, I offer you this:

1] The OCD keeps the ADD in check, much like the older sibling who smacks the younger sibling up the back of the head and says “Calm the fuck down, shut the fuck up, and get your shit together.” Being an older sibling, I’ve never actually done this. I imagine that OCD would have more compassion for ADD than I did for my sister. Have I ever told you the story about shaking the shit out of my sister and threatening to throw her and an Electrolux canister vacuum down fourteen stairs, to be met with cold and unyielding concrete? Definitely not my finest hour. I was thirteen and she was an annoying punk ass nine year old doing the “I’m telling on you” thing. If she had just done my chores for me like I told her to, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her, now would I? Right. See how we went off course there? ADD in full effect. I suggest you brace yourself now. There are going to be some "commercial breaks."

2] I’m organized. I know where my shit is. YOU may think its neurotic to keep my shoes in the original shoe boxes they came home in but OCD and I know where to find every pair of shoes I own, every time. And the sandals that came home on those fecking weak little plastic hangers that are the inbred cousins to those useless fecking little plastic item count hangers you get when using a dressing room? The sandals are currently residing in a see-through, plastic bag with a zipper that came home with my yum yum yummy 400-thread count sheets which are now pink instead of cream (more on that another time). Recipes? On cards in recipe boxes (tried and tested) or in a poly envelope (waiting to be taken for a test drive). CD’s? All 583 are catalogued. In alphabetical order. By artist. Then by track. Come on, BRING IT!

3] OCD likes to live in a clean place and so do I. Dusting takes thirty minutes, tops. I don’t have clutter to dust and firk about with. Chotchkies do not reside at my house. Oh those fuckers don’t get through the front door. They don’t even get a free ride out of the value mart/dollar store/garage sale/spewing vortex of rubbish and over to my place. I don’t collect “knick knacks” (read that as worthless dust collecting shit that takes up space and sucks the qi (pronounced “chee”, meaning life force or spiritual energy) out of the room). And I swear to the gawd that it is Henry Rollings, if you ever EVER call even one of my twenty-four Buddhas "knick knacks" I will kick you in the crotch, strangle you with my mala beads, and gladly burn off the bad karma!

If, by some birthday or gift giving miracle, that shite ends up in my house, OCD introduces it to the recycle bin... completely by-passing the Goodwill bin, straight in the blue bag it goes! Allow OCD and I to make it easy for you now. If you are stuck for a gift idea, buy me a candle. A plain, white candle. I will be grateful, I swear. Just keep the junky shit away from me and OCD. It makes us twitchy.

4] My place is neat and tidy. You can sit anywhere you like and you can take your shoes and socks off and not leave with black, crusty feet. And while I would like to say you can eat off the floor, I remind you that ants and spiders poo wherever they want. Occasionally they show up for the party but I’m not sure what kind of company they keep, or where they’ve been or what they’ve been up to so we’ll be all growed up and use the table, okay?

See, it’s not bad to be neurotic... I mean have OCD.

Now, if you will excuse me, it’s getting late and I have to make my lunch and lay my clothes out for tomorrow.

PS: I'm so OCD, after I first posted this, I had to edit it because the "h" in "Have" was not capitalized. Beat that friend!

Have fun, be good, no killing.