Can't spell "avoidance" without "DANCE" =D

OH HAY!
I'm writing a cover letter right now (or pretending to for the sake of my poor, under-appreciated mother) and it's SO. DIFFICULT. How do people get jobs?! Seriously, mine was offered to me at random by a lady who knew my mom. I've never successfully applied for one. Do you have tips? Nepotism is out this time, sadly. I know, I know, that was my initial plan as well.

Ok, so instead of getting sad and anxious about WHETHER OR NOT I WILL EVER BE EMPLOYED ENOUGH TO SUPPORT MYSELF AUUGGHHHH OMG OMG OMG, I'm going to groove.

JOIN ME IN THE ALL-POWERFUL ACT OF DANCE, INTERNET BRETHREN!




Reminds me of my mom.  =D

Sorry, was that June?

June is one of my very favourite months, usually. It brings the end of school, honest-to-goodness leaves on the trees, and subtly warm weather that my inhumanly toasty constitution can handle. Which is to say: perfection.
This year has been a strange one in several ways, though.  What's this? SEVERAL ways, you say? As in.. more than one?!
Oh, hell naw. You can't mean...
Yes. Yes I do.
IT'S LIST TIME, BITCHES.

WEIRD/HORRIBLE THINGS ABOUT 2011 SO FAR.

• Rain. For the love of all that is season-appropriate, WHY ALL THE RAIN? Funny story, I used to think I liked rain.  "It's lovely," I thought! "The freshness, the greenery, the puddles, the rainbows!"
  No. Someone, somewhere misled me something awful. This year's rain was nothing but a monochromatic vortex of worm-laden sidewalks and dead worms filling the gutters, punctuated with a bit more worm carcass here and there. Days on end passed with no visible sky at all and I started to feel like I was living inside an unpleasantly soggy wool sock. Rain is a butt, and Vancouver can have it. 
• COLD! Usually by May I would be boiling in my classrooms and dreaming of iced beverages. (Granted, i'm nearly always boiling, but you see my point.) Along with being annoyingly moist, this year has been cold as the proverbial breast belonging to a female purveyor of magic and potions.
• Monster mosquitoes. You'd think they'd drown, but no such luck. Only the peaceable and useful earthworm suffers that fate. (Rest in peace, my little friends.)

There are, however, nice things about this year's insane climate. We are therefore inclined to present:

KIND OF AWESOME STUFF ABOUT 2011 SO FAR.

• I have not been sickeningly warm even once! That must count for something. 
• I've had the opportunity to become quite friendly with my local library staff. 
• My old school stuff is stunningly well-organized. 
• Sunburn-free since... last October, maybe? At this rate I will be young-looking and melanoma free FOREVAAAARRR!
• Skanks be covered up.  It's been a nice year of everyone keeping their ass a mystery to me.
• My baking skills are quickly becoming the stuff of myth.  Annalisius, weaver of golden pie-tops and singer of the magical bread-song = me. I coax impossible deliciousness from naught but humble flour. Millions of individual yeast bacteria know me to be their goddess, great and terrible.

Perhaps I should get out more. 

Merry Christmas!

How was your day? Mine was really good. Watched Toy Story 3, cried my eyes out.
My sister bought me a set of all the Die Hard dvds. ALL OF THEM.
AAAALLLL FOUR OF THEM.
AWW YEAH.

Anyway, Merry Christmas.

My dog, you guys.

He's seriously so adorable.

Pepper is a huge advocate of snow, specifically of burrowing through it looking for hidden dog cookies. The only problem with this game is his tendency to accumulate snow all over his fluffy little body. Wet snow especially sticks to him like glue, and when he come back in the house covered in it, it globs together into these monstrous ice balls all over.

Like this poor bastard. But smaller.

Obviously this makes him very distressed and sad, so the natural to solution is to stand him under a warm shower for five or so minutes until he's all melted and looks like a wet rat.

This dog is not Pepper, but believe me when I tell you it is an accurate representation of his morosity.

Poor puppy. I'm going to go take him for a walk so he's not too pissed off when the inevitable shower happens!

IT'S COMING.

THE SIX FLAMING CIRCLES OF THE MENSTRUATION ZONE

PHASE ONE: BLOAT LIKE A LIFEBOAT.
 During which I inhale all food-based things in the world. My kitchen is emptied, the chocolate stores of our city are depleted, and the lovely men at Mac's give me knowing/fearful looks. I begin my transition into hippodom

PHASE TWO: OPERATION KIDNAP MENFOLK.
 During which Man List entries triple, my neck suffers from constant whiplash, and the Rogers near my house is immediately out of all Jake Gyllenhaal movies. Also, youtube breaks because of all the times I watch the "Bad Romance" video where he talks in French.
When all that gets old, I put on my sexiest man-pants and hit the dog park.

PHASE THREE: CUNTPUNCHING ANGERFURY
 I 100% blame my uterus for this. It's bitter because I failed to put a baby in it during phase two. Uterus does not take disappointment well. As a result, I become a SheHulk of irrational jugular rippage. And, of course, cuntpunching. During this violent and manic phase my newfound hippoesque shape begins to make sense, as I am also the most dangerous and lethal animal in the world.

PHASE FOUR: SOUL-WRACKING WEEPFEST
 Maybe it's the guilt over phase three, but once the blinders of pure rage have been taken off I succumb to what can only be describes as sheer mental and emotional instabilty. Any little thing will set me off, and most of them do. My favourite place to cry deeply for no reason? under the overhang of my kitchen counter by the fridge.
During this phase I tend to use up an incredible amount of tissue and watch The Notebook like 40 times.

PHASE FIVE: LABOR-SIMULATING ICEPICK CRAMPS.
 I think you know.
At least I'm prepared for the inevitable Viking triplets.  (Knowing my luck and my penchant for light-haired men, it's bound to happen...)


PHASE SIX: OPEN THE FUCKING FLOODGATES, ALREADY. SERIOUSLY, ENOUGH PREGAME BULLSHIT, UNLEASH SPARTA BEFORE I STAB MYSELF WITH A HAAGEN-DAZS POPSICLE STICK.

...and with that, monsoon season is underway.


********NOTE!!*******
The above information should be visualized not as a sequential list or stable pyramid. It's a Venn diagram, meaning that sometimes two or more (or, God forbid, ALL) of the phases may coexist simultaneously.
Go forth and conquer, my fellow hormonal head cases.

Girls.

It's easy to forget just how lucky I am to have such badass friends to count on. It baffles me consistently that there are people who don't recognize the awesomeness of my friends and instead decide to hang out with boring, stupid people who wouldn't help you move your couch if you paid them.
I love you guys.

I'm a tool.

I am most certainly the most woefully forgetful person ever. 

"Surely not!" you cry. "Of course there are more forgetful people, Anna!" you proclaim.

No, reader. You are incorrect. I am indeed the most forgetful.

You see, a dear friend of mine has decided that the best place to expand her knowledge is without a doubt Newfoundland. (Do not ask me why. I'm sure she has reasons.) With her relocation in mind, I set about creating the perfect goodbye gift. Or, rather, the perfect goodbye-until-Christmas gift. I put together what I considered to be among the most badass playlists to ever be compiled. Included were songs we'd listened to together, danced to in my car, talked about at length, learned the words to, done stupid things to, favourites of mine, and songs I figured she'd like. 

"But, Anna.." you wonder, "How could anyone call that a toolish act? And how does it make you forgetful?"

Well, dear reader...(sigh).. I forgot to give it to her. An act both toolish and forgetful.

Now you know. 

I am ashamed. 

I have two ideas to make this mistake up to my friend. I can either put this playlist onto a bunch of disks and send them to her via mail, or I can post one of the...180 songs here on this blog thing every day or so until she's heard them all.  Or maybe both. Thoughts? Please share them.