www.thatwhitegirlsblog.wordpress.com

I suppose I can (somehow) transfer over my old posts, but then the dates will be all wrong. And it seems like a lot of work. And what about all the comments? It’s like I’m just going to erase everything that I’ve built over the last year and a bit. I can’t just start new either, because there will be so much left unsaid and things will seem weird without the history… things are probably weird enough with the history.

So anyway, my new address is: www.thatwhitegirlsblog.wordpress.com. There is one post, but it’s really not much of one. I’ll keep you posted (RDRR) as to what I decide to do. Suggestions? Bring ‘em!

And every so often I stumble upon a blog that I dig immediately. After reading a few recent posts, I will go back to the beginning of their blog and read the entire thing start-to-finish over the course of days/weeks. If I still give a fuck about what they’re talking about, I’ll bookmark them and visit their site on a regular basis.

More often than not, I give up reading the blog, either because they post so infrequently that I’ve forgotten who they are and what they’re about, or else I decide that they’re not funny anymore, or I no longer have an interest in what they have to say.

There’s one blog in particular I want to bring your attention to. I have no idea how I found it, but I remember the first post I ever read. The post was practically devoted to vodka and I thought “Now this I can relate to!” I read her blog from the beginning onwards and I started visiting her site nearly everyday. (She posts nearly everyday, so I don’t feel like a stalker).

Since then, I’ve gone back to re-read her blog from the beginning at least once (but I think two more times), I’ve commented on her posts (and received comments back!), I even set up a “Blogger” account so that I can officially “follow” her.

Why? Because sometimes it’s nice to know when people are reading and they care about/enjoy what you write. Because sometimes you need to know that people like you. Because sometimes you need someone to bolster your spirits, even if you don’t know them.

And that’s why I wrote this post. In hopes that, maybe, you’ll visit her blog and like what you read. And maybe you’ll turn someone else onto her fabulous site. That maybe, just maybe, she’ll achieve her dream of being a famous blogger/writer.

Now, go to her site: http://www.whenredmeansgo.com/ and read dammit!

Just in case you’re a little gun-shy, here are a couple of my favourite posts:

http://www.whenredmeansgo.com/2010/07/celibacy-is-fun-not.html

http://www.whenredmeansgo.com/2010/07/taste-for-disaster.html

Pretty awesome, right? But please don’t stop reading my blog, m’kay?

This is what I see when I come in the door. Except, my clothes aren’t in the washer yet, because she had a bunch of stuff in there.

That table is about 6 feet long.

On the upside, I found plastic martini glasses when I was shopping today. I’ve been looking for those for a couple years… Now I can bring them on camping trips so when I’m drinking girlie drinks they look all fancy and stuff but without risk guarantee of breakage.

I share the washer/dryer with the upstairs people and because of that I’ve taken measures to make sure that I’m not an asshole about it. I try to stick to my officially unofficial laundry days. I make sure I switch around the loads as soon as they’re done. I empty the lint trap and the garbage. I clean out the sink. I wipe down the machines.

My upstairs neighbour does laundry the way I did when I was 14. She takes everything she owns and separates the loads on every horizontal surface in the laundry room. She has three loads on the go and any given time (one in the washer, one in the dryer and one on top of the dryer) plus the random loads scattered on the floor and the counter. I will walk into the laundry room, see the chaos, realize my clothes aren’t that dirty and back away slowly.

I’ll give her some time to get through her obvious back log of dirty clothes (sometimes a day or two, sometimes three or four depending on my schedule and how many clean pairs of underwear/socks/pants etc I have). When I go back in, however many days later, the laundry room is exactly how I last saw it. The same load of laundry is in washer, now stinky with mildew.

That’s about the time I realize that my clothes are that dirty and I have no choice, but to wade through the filth in an attempt to maintain personal hygiene.

I guess all hope isn’t lost. Maybe I can draw one day if I practice enough. (Still need to buy the tablet).

My brother’s birthday was a month ago and I swore to him that I’d cook him a birthday dinner. Which I promptly became too busy to cook and subsequently forgot about. Well, he brought it up. And even though it took him 3+ weeks to have me over for my birthday dinner, I have officially passed him; he said to me “Yay – I’m not the worst sibling anymore!”. It’s nice when you make others feel good about themselves.

Mentioning feeling good about yourself… in the same conversation, I decided to ask him if he still reads this shit I call my blog, partially because I was curious, but also because I wondered whether or not I could count him as one of my readers. You know for those times when I refer to “you two”, maybe I could say “you three”.

His response? My posts are “a bit long-winded”. Fuck. He said that they are funny and interesting, but they go on for far too long for “someone who doesn’t read”. I’m not sure if I should be angry at him for calling me boring, or if I should feel pity because he obviously has adult-onset-ADD.

And that (^) is my attempt at a short post. I feel like there’s so much left unsaid.

Also – I’ve been thinking I need a better name/address for my blog. Even though I thought I was clever when I came up with Ramdon Ranblings… a quick Google search indicated that I was not clever at all. So, I wonder if another name is more suitable. What about “Long-winded Sally”? Or “Heather Talks”? Or “I like stuff”. Or “Things are cool”. Or something else greater than or equally as cool. Think about it and let me know.

It all started about 6 weeks ago. As part of a workplace fundraiser, a foosball tournament was scheduled to take place. I didn’t even consider taking part until someone sent me an email saying “I may not be good at the game, but I’ll likely be really excited about it. Who wants to be on my team?”.

Having never played before, I couldn’t help but think that, I too, would not be good at the game, but would be quite excited about the experience. I replied to the email saying as much. Another colleague came forward and professed to being the Foosball Master; the playing training began.

Our playing has built up over the weeks and it has gotten to the point where we play constantly. Sometimes multiple times a day. I (we) now have to calculate the hours worked in the day based on:

1. when I arrive
2. when I go home
3. how many minutes of foosball played during that time

Even though I have a lot more experience with the game than I did 6 weeks ago, our games still follow the same pattern. (*dramatization – may not have happened)

Our games always start off the same way. We’re both eager and ready to let off some steam.

Within minutes (seconds?) of playing, the ball ends up in my zone with him on the attack. It’s a very stressful moment as I pass him the ball and he lines up the shot.

Inevitably, he scores. There’s no stopping the rocket that he calls ‘just a shot’.

Yet, I’m just as concerned every time.

It continues on. As I get better at defending the net (that’s really all I can do), he soldiers on.

It gets to the point where I’ve exhausted all of my efforts towards The Rocket and admit defeat.

And then he turns around and is a complete jackass about the whole thing.

Just when I don’t think I can take the abuse anymore, he spends an hour coaching me on techniques; showing me where I go wrong and how I can improve. Maybe I just need more practice and then I’ll be able to stop The Rocket. If that’s the case, I’ll be able to stop anything! Then, I’ll just need to work on scoring.

I think I’m going to be a Foosball Master too. Thanks Gorm!!

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations.

Reasons I believe my computer is going to die:

1. It’s running really slow and no amount of maintenance is speeding things up.
2. It decided that it no longer had Excel installed on it. All I had to do was pop in the MS Office disc for 37 seconds (not install it, just put the disc in) in order for it to realize that it does in fact have Excel.
3. It can take as long as 13 minutes to restart my computer and be able to do things again.
4. It stalls on the stupidest tasks… like opening a folder. It’s not even a hidden folder, or tricky in some way. It’s a folder on my desktop. It’s been there forever.

Reasons it will be really sad if my computer dies tomorrow:

1. I have to ship my laptop back to Toshiba for a new hard-drive and won’t get it back for two weeks. I would be without internet for two weeks. *gasp*
2. My laptop is incapable of recording music and I like to, so it doesn’t really work for me.
3. A new desktop would also be incapable of recording music (thanks Windows 7), so this dinosaur is my only hope of recording in real time.
4. I haven’t backed up my files and probably won’t tonight.
5. All my favorites, shortcuts, and in progress projects will be lost (see point 4).

As you can see, the death of my computer would be very sad indeed although not unexpected.

I was (I am?) bit of a dummy when it comes to make up and other things really girly. No wonder I’m single. Wait a minute… real men don’t like make up!

(Not a real man)

I simply didn’t understand the fundamental aspects of make up: colour and technique namely. Basically, I was notoriously bad at picking it out and putting it on.

As per usual, I blamed the ‘look’ on external forces, like the type and colour of the make up and, don’t forget the classic, “I just need to practice” factor.

A number of years ago, I decided that I was going to learn a thing or two about make up. I went to the drug store (some might argue that was my first mistake) and was bombarded by the sheer magnitude of products available.

There were different brands (of course), all with different colours (blue black, black black, brown black, midnight black, soft black) and products for different types of skin. It was all very overwhelming. I think bought one mascara and one nail polish before I ran out of the building.

A few years later, I decided, once again, that I had to learn about make up. So I built up the necessary courage and tackled the drug store once again. Again, I was bombarded by options. I decided that the best thing to do was to buy colours I liked. Complexion and colouring be damned. I picked out a set of really nice plum eye shadows. I applied it according to the package directions, and yet:

Train wreck. I didn’t try again for another couple years. Just as I’m in the drug store for the third time eyeing plum eye shadow (I also have memory issues), something catches my eye. It’s a set of eye shadow for blue eyes. I have blue eyes! I scooped it up and brought it home. Only:

Less than successful. A couple more years go by and my brother is about to get married. Realizing that the atrocity I call my face would be captured in hundreds of photos I decided I needed professional help. I went to a salon to have my hair and make up done. The lady did my hair and was about to start my make up when she decided to go over the colour scheme with me.

“I think black and gold would look really good on you”. My first instinct was “Dear God, that will look hideous, what is she thinking?!?”. I toned it down some and expressed my skepticism with a diplomatic “Don’t you think black is a little dark for my skin?”. She assured me that it was not and it would look good. Based on my judgment in the past, I decided to trust her.

I got compliments all night about this black and gold eye make up. After the fact, I decided to hit the drug store with black and gold in mind. I ended up finding a set of eye shadow that had copper and brown (close enough) for blue eyes. My first instinct was to ditch it based on the hooker look I got from the last blue-eyed-set; I kept looking for “more gold, less copper”, but kept coming back to the damn set. I bought it and a fancy brush, applied it according to the package directions and, for the first time ever, I wasn’t a train wreck. Almay did something right.