So, last night I had this ridiculous dream. It went like this:

I was at work (‘cause you know the only thing better than working in a stinking soggy basement is dreaming about being at work). I was at work and we had a new intern come in. I was a little confused because he seemed different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Anyway, I’m working away (writing my blog, e-mailing my friends - whatever) when I notice that the new intern is slowly removing all his clothes. My bosses either don’t notice or don’t care but this guy was taking it off piece by piece. While working, I see that he is now only wearing a pair of what I like to call European Man Panties. Dark blue briefs. Strangely, I also noticed that he has a similar naked body as the former owner of my light blue polo shirt.

At one point naked intern comes over to my desk and points at the function keys on my keyboard. He points at F12 and asks me what that key does. He also points at F9, F6 and at F3. The only thing I had an answer for was F6 – save – but I don’t think it actually is the save key. I tell him I don’t know, but I refuse to look at him, and he’s kinda leaning into me - gross. When he finally walks away I see he is TOTALLY NAKED! Like 100% nude. I also notice that there is a major difference between him and the former owner of my light blue polo shirt. You know what I’m saying...

I guess I couldn’t take it anymore so I make a break for the bathroom where I find one long night dress hanging in a stall, a janitor, and two of my best friends, GRC and TG, who are also interns. It seems that they have also noticed the naked intern. The three of us go creeping back to the office – sit-come style - where, thankfully, naked intern has put his clothes back on.

That was the dream. I am 100% confident that it means nothing. Sometimes your brain just jumbles things up in your sleep and throws them out. The brain is a funny place.
- posted by Debbie @ 10:48 AM |

 
So, I think I have mentioned a couple times that I am currently reading a book called Rats by Robert Sullivan. Why would I want to read a book about Rats, you ask. Pure interest. This book is jam packed with interesting rat facts, stories about the building of New York City, histories of disease and development of flora and fauna in North America. I will not go on at length about the book as I hate it when people spoil books for me, however, I will tell you the main fact that I have gleaned from the book. It seems that from head to the tip of the tail, 24 inches is not an unusual size of a New York City rat. 24 inches, people. That’s two feet. The length of a small toddler. The tail is the same length of the body, a 12 inch fat rat body. It could kill your cat and some smaller dogs. You wanna piece of that rat? This blows my mind.

Since I really got into the rat book I have been looking for the tell take signs of rats everywhere. Mind you, I have no idea what I am looking for except for small holes in the ground and random garbage piles in alley ways. As some of you know I work in a basement below a restaurant. You can imagine my worry. As if the flooding wasn’t enough.

On a completely different note, it has come to my attention that IT&T has developed a crush on the nice Italian man that runs the café across the street (the café that makes the best tiramisu I have ever had – so good I wanna take a bath in it). I don’t know how I-Carrot-Top is going to take it. It has also come to my attention that I-Guscott is hung over AGAIN!
- posted by Debbie @ 2:30 PM |

 
So, I’m going to address three things on my mind this morning: Shoes, Jogging pants and Boys.

SHOES:

I have decided to totally give myself to this 27 degree day. I plan to love it. Are you surprised? Today I am a T-shirt having, pink short skirt sporting new sandal wearing lover of 27 degrees. If I were at home I’d be half naked by noon on the deck!

As I have decided to give myself to the weather, yesterday I decided to also give myself to a shoe store. Better weather = better shoes. I picked up a nice pair of mules and some cool sneakers (mules today, sneakers tomorrow).

JOGGING PANTS:

As I was out walking along Queen St. yesterday evening, I did notice a trend that is indeed shameful among Toronto’s women. Friends, neighbours, sisters, pay attention here: Just because you have a Lululemon symbol on your ass that does NOT mean jogging pants are appropriate attire for wear in public. Just because Madonna goes to Yoga in them, does not mean you can wear them out to dinner. Also, once that style goes out of fashion, do you plan to go back to the huge grey ones that have elastic on the waist band and ankles? Jogging pants are jogging pants are jogging pants, even if you call them yoga pants.

Women in Toronto, I have been told by men visiting from smaller cities, dress very well. However, I think that Yoga and stretched the common sense right out of some of our heads. Why the jogging pants? Why? And frankly, most people asses look bad in them. Not bad as in you have a bad ass (although that hasn’t stopped some of the jogging pant wearers) but bad as in vulgar. Put your ass away. I don’t want to see it jiggling it’s way across University Ave. I don’t care what the sales woman at Roots told you. Your ass looks bad like that. There, I said it. Your ass looks bad. I had to get that off my chest.

BOYS:

Here is my usual warning about boys: They like to play. Play play play. I, on the other hand, do not like to play. So, if you like boys: BEWARE. PLAY PLAY PLAY! I also had to get THAT off my chest.
- posted by Debbie @ 9:37 AM |

 
So, most people don't know this about me but I have a secret dream to become a Soccer Mom. Well, not so secret now that it is on my blog. Although, I think Soccer Moms get a bad rap because so many of them wear elasticsed pants which accentuates their guts and scrunchies in their hair which only serves to highlight bad dye jobs. However, they are pretty awesome. I mean they get their kids to the game, they watch with pride, and they bring orange slices and water to make sure the kids are properly hydrated in the summer heat. How great is that?

Well, I play soccer every Saturday. And I love it. It's a great game. If our team had a Soccer Mom, it would have to be me. I always show up with a container of melon, or grapes or pineapple. In fact it is like I am a Soccer Mom in training. Except I don't have any children. But I can dream. Perhaps the next training step is to go to my little cousin's soccer game with fruit.

Mind you, I'd like to re-invent the soccer mom. Wile I will always bring fruit and water and I will be very supportive, there is no way I'd wear elastcized pants and I stopped wearing scrunchies years ago - those were dark days for my hair. I would also probably have someone else drive me and kids to the game and I'd most likely have a martini on the sidelines with me. In fact, I think instead of being a Soccer Mom, I'd be a Soccer MILF. I think the important part is the soccer.

That's right, a Soccer MILF! Could there be any higher position in the pantheon of sports parents? I think not!
- posted by Debbie @ 12:55 PM |