<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171</id><updated>2011-04-21T14:15:00.527-07:00</updated><category term='Randomosity'/><category term='Bitch'/><category term='Parking'/><category term='Bullshit'/><category term='Reality'/><category term='Unbelievable'/><category term='Family'/><category term='Driving'/><category term='Manipulation'/><category term='Change'/><category term='Idiots'/><category term='Shopping Carts'/><category term='Incompetent'/><category term='Being Female'/><title type='text'>What The Hell Was That?</title><subtitle type='html'>Me.  No more.  No less.  Just me.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>71</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-3759177184803799427</id><published>2007-12-02T11:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-02T11:19:29.991-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Moved</title><content type='html'>I have relocated to &lt;a href="http://whatthehellwasthat.wordpress.com/"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-3759177184803799427?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/3759177184803799427/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=3759177184803799427&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/3759177184803799427'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/3759177184803799427'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/12/moved.html' title='Moved'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7923286715732211932</id><published>2007-11-24T00:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-24T00:55:23.925-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Tagged</title><content type='html'>Was tagged by &lt;a href="http://kittenwhore.wordpress.com/"&gt;Jen&lt;/a&gt; and I'm a willing spirit, so here goes...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Been to Canada - Lived here all my life. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Been to Mexico - Yep, twice.  Cabo San Lucas before the touristas found it, and Mazatlan...in the previous century.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Been to Florida - Yep, Ft. Lauderdale in my 20's.  What happens in Florida, stays in Florida.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Been on a plane - Many times, and I love flying.  I'm the offspring of an airline employee and have done silly things such as go to Hawaii just for the weekend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Been lost - Yeah&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Been on the opposite side of the country - Been as far a La Belle Provence thus far, but would like to go all the way east.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Swam in the ocean - Yep, several actually.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Cried yourself to sleep - On very rare occasions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Played cops and robbers - Nope&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Played with a Tonka Truck - Yep&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;( ) Recently colored with crayons - No recent crayon action.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Sang karaoke - Once, many moons ago at a company Christmas party...never again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Paid for a meal with only coins - Sure, back in my drive-thru days - those twoonies add up fast!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t? - Yep, never say never because things change.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Made prank phone calls - As a kid, yeah.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Caught a snowflake on your tongue - Yes&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Danced in the rain - Danced &amp;amp; jumped in the puddles too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(X) Written a letter to Santa Claus - Must have, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Been kissed under the mistletoe - Yep&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Watched the sunrise with someone you care about - Yep&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Blown bubbles - Yes!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Made a bonfire on the beach - Sure&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Crashed a party - Yeah&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;( ) Crashed a wedding - Uhhh, nope.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;( ) Crashed a funeral - No, that would be in very poor taste.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(x) Gone ice-skating - Yes, when I was little.  Never very good at it as my ankles just do not cooperate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Any nicknames?  Piat, Tishy, Giggy, various terms of endearment (honeybunch, sweetie, baby)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Mother’s name? Shirley&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Favorite drink?  Bellini&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. Any tattoos? Nada&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5 Body piercing? only my ears. (6 holes)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;6. How much do you love your job? I like the work, but it is time for change.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;7. Favorite vacation spot?  Beach, sun, sand, room service.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;8. Ever been to Africa? No, but making plans to go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;9. Ever eaten cookies for dinner?  Nah&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10. Ever been on TV?  Yes&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;11. Ever steal any traffic signs?  Oh yeah, I have liberated my share.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;12. Ever been in a car accident?  Several&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;13. Drive a 2-door or 4-door vehicle?  Currently 4-door, previous was 2-door.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;14. Favorite pie?  Pumpkin!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;15. Favorite Number? 6&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;16. Favorite movie?  No one fav, but I like The Shawshank Redemption.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;17. Favorite holiday?  Christmas&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;18. Favorite dessert?  Cream puffs are pretty damn good.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;19. Favorite food? Seafood or maybe a good steak .  Oh, and I have recently been reminded of the yumminess of Cheddar Bay Biscuits!  OMG!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;20. Favorite day of the week?  Saturday&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;21. Favorite brand of body wash?  Don't have one.  Doesn't mean I don't wash, just means I use bar soap.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;22. Favorite toothpaste?  Crest Whitening&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;23. Favorite smell?  Tough call but I like it just after it has rained.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;24. What do you do to relax?  Nap&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;25. Do you have a message to your friends reading this?  Send money!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;26. How do you see yourself in 10 years?  Ideally I'll be traveling the world and having adventures.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;27. Furthest place you will send this message?  Maybe Australia.  Depends what freaky kind of google searches land people here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;28. Who will respond the fastest?  Maybe a stranger, somewhere.  If you do it post a link so I can see it, k?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7923286715732211932?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7923286715732211932/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7923286715732211932&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7923286715732211932'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7923286715732211932'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/tagged.html' title='Tagged'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-8669599806224392048</id><published>2007-11-16T08:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-16T08:25:08.980-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Girly</title><content type='html'>I am not, generally speaking, a &lt;em&gt;girly&lt;/em&gt; girl. I'm not dainty &amp; frilly and I don't obsess on my appearance all that much. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yesterday, however, I spent the better part of 4 hours at the spa. Facial, manicure &amp; pedicure. All divine. Pretty much a heavenly way to spend an evening.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I am girlier than I thought...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-8669599806224392048?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/8669599806224392048/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=8669599806224392048&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8669599806224392048'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8669599806224392048'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/girly.html' title='Girly'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-6106639948953803798</id><published>2007-11-15T22:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-15T22:17:19.027-08:00</updated><title type='text'>More Than 100</title><content type='html'>Ok, so I did the 100 Things thing, and I actually had an easy time of it.  I'm now thinking of other things I could add and am wondering if perhaps my 100 Things will morph, over time, into 122 Things, or perhaps even 147 things.  Pondering my additions, I am.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-6106639948953803798?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/6106639948953803798/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=6106639948953803798&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6106639948953803798'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6106639948953803798'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/more-than-100.html' title='More Than 100'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-6425955059076702581</id><published>2007-11-13T21:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-13T21:37:06.326-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Demise of the Twist Tie</title><content type='html'>Not sure if you have noticed or not, but there is a decided lack of twist ties in the world these days. With the advent of the tie top garbage bags, not to mention Zipl0c baggies, there is little need for the good 'ol twist tie. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This comes to mind because I actually found myself in need of one, and alas, nary a one could be found. Aside from the fact that there are less and less of these things in the world, it does not help matters that I cannot keep my hands on them when I do find one. You would think me knowing they were a rare commodity would help, but nay.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I take the twist tie off of whatever I am opening, and damn if the thing doesn't pull a Houdini and disappear. I swear, I open a bag on the counter, put the tie down on the counter beside the bag and when I go to close it the damn tie has disappeared &lt;em&gt;into&lt;/em&gt; the counter top. Same damn thing happens with me and those little bread bag closer dealies. What the hell?  Is it just me?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-6425955059076702581?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/6425955059076702581/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=6425955059076702581&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6425955059076702581'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6425955059076702581'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/demise-of-twist-tie.html' title='The Demise of the Twist Tie'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-2829371951083307199</id><published>2007-11-11T03:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-11T03:44:56.388-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I Am Who I Was</title><content type='html'>According to my Kindergarten teacher, this is who I was at age 5.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;strong&gt;January&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Betty is a capable, observant child - she can work on her own or with a group equally well. Her decisions are mature and logical and she expresses her ideas well, both verbally and in her art work. Coming along beautifully!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;June&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Betty's clear logical thinking is delightful to work with. She often has a solution to problems that come up. Her quiet manner and sense of humour have soothed troubled waters many a time - she is also learning to be firm in her place in the group and to assert her "rights". She is selecting interesting friends from both boys and girls and particularly enjoys the more individualistic personalities.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think it is very cool that I am today, very much the person I was at age five.  I like that.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-2829371951083307199?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/2829371951083307199/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=2829371951083307199&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/2829371951083307199'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/2829371951083307199'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/i-am-who-i-was.html' title='I Am Who I Was'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7523284513734364612</id><published>2007-11-10T00:00:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-10T00:08:56.275-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Sound of Music</title><content type='html'>I have recently rediscovered the joy of music. Our home stereo has been disconnected for quite some time (don't ask), and so aside from my vehicle I really don't listen to it anywhere. That all changed recently. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Recently on TV I keep hearing really cool songs. Song I have long forgotten about. Once I figure out what the song is I download it and eventually I have enough to burn onto a CD. Really quite cool to rediscover these tunes. Not all of them are one hit wonders, but some are obscure and not in line with my usual genres so I feel lucky to find them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Add that to the fact I also recently received an MP3 player and it would be fair to say that there is always a tune in my head these days. I like that.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7523284513734364612?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7523284513734364612/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7523284513734364612&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7523284513734364612'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7523284513734364612'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/sound-of-music.html' title='The Sound of Music'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-5660017925455756855</id><published>2007-11-04T01:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-12-10T10:24:27.249-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Being Female'/><title type='text'>The Impossible (updated)</title><content type='html'>I am seeking the impossible.  I must be, for I have searched high &amp; low with no luck, and I am a skilled searcher.  I want a pair of non-patent, black, peep toe, stacked high heels, and I'm not just talking CFM shoes, because I want to actually be able to walk in them too.  Not far, mind you, but walk, nonetheless.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't think I am asking a lot.  I can find 3 out of the 4 but not a full pull.  If you have seen these impossible shoes, please let me know where.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Ok, so today I found pretty much the shoe I described above...however they were  matronly.  I want &lt;strong&gt;sexy&lt;/strong&gt; shoes, not matronly shoes.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Off to try Kazzy's suggested site.  Looks awesome!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ok, so I found 3 pairs that I like, but still not 100% what I am after.  The first two are good, and the last pair would be perfect, if they were 100% leather and 0% polka dots.  Off to do some more searching.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sB-P2lb7j_k/RzALlwF93ZI/AAAAAAAAAAM/6unVMy9BAn4/s1600-h/shoe1.bmp"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sB-P2lb7j_k/RzALlwF93ZI/AAAAAAAAAAM/6unVMy9BAn4/s320/shoe1.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129612718767988114" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sB-P2lb7j_k/RzAMHgF93bI/AAAAAAAAAAc/rr09gBqTmKo/s1600-h/shoe2.bmp"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_sB-P2lb7j_k/RzAMHgF93bI/AAAAAAAAAAc/rr09gBqTmKo/s320/shoe2.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129613298588573106" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sB-P2lb7j_k/RzAMVQF93cI/AAAAAAAAAAk/d2gvHuhAIhE/s1600-h/shoe3.bmp"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_sB-P2lb7j_k/RzAMVQF93cI/AAAAAAAAAAk/d2gvHuhAIhE/s320/shoe3.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129613534811774402" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-5660017925455756855?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/5660017925455756855/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=5660017925455756855&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5660017925455756855'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5660017925455756855'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/impossible.html' title='The Impossible (updated)'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sB-P2lb7j_k/RzALlwF93ZI/AAAAAAAAAAM/6unVMy9BAn4/s72-c/shoe1.bmp' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-8360562598515873247</id><published>2007-11-03T16:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-11-04T05:02:25.675-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Being Female'/><title type='text'>Boobs</title><content type='html'>If you don't care to hear about boobs, then stop reading now.  For the record, there will be no pictures.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does anybody &lt;strong&gt;like&lt;/strong&gt; bra shopping?  Maybe some 36B chick somewhere has fun shopping for pretty little decorative items, but seriously, for me it is no fun.  I have a rack that needs support, and that is not easy to find.  No two fit alike, many are ugly or huge (in terms of coverage) and most are expensive.  It is just not a fun time.  Ranks right up there with shopping for jeans and bathing suits.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes being a girl sucks.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-8360562598515873247?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/8360562598515873247/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=8360562598515873247&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8360562598515873247'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8360562598515873247'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/11/boobs.html' title='Boobs'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-6829188093803372963</id><published>2007-10-31T21:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-31T21:45:58.936-07:00</updated><title type='text'>NaBloPoMo</title><content type='html'>Today being the last day of October means that tomorrow some folks will be doing the NaBloPoMo thing.  Will I count myself among them?  Oh hell no!  But I will do my best to support &amp; encourage those who do choose to self inflict.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-6829188093803372963?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/6829188093803372963/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=6829188093803372963&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6829188093803372963'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6829188093803372963'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/10/nablopomo.html' title='NaBloPoMo'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-1452464389282982139</id><published>2007-10-31T21:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-31T21:39:26.619-07:00</updated><title type='text'>All Hallows' Eve</title><content type='html'>Well, it is done for another year. Hallowe'en in the suburbs came and went rather quietly this year. Oh, there were still fire crackers &amp; teenagers haunting the streets, but overall, quieter than usual. Only 33 kids this year, which is considerably down from years past. Maybe it is a dying tradition.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Things at the house were a little lower key this year too. I am just not motivated to go all out, and so there were decorations, but less.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Highlites of the night included;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- A wee vampire who hollered "Tricker Treat" at my door in lieu of knocking on it. Good thing he was &lt;strong&gt;loud&lt;/strong&gt;!&lt;br /&gt;- The lady who commented on the more elaborate display from year, which let me know that the effort had been appreciated, even if it took a year to find out.&lt;br /&gt;- The tiny skeleton who sauntered up to the door, pop can in one had and the other outstretched, reaching for whatever I might be giving out. I could imagine his teenaged self sauntering about the streets with a beer can in one hand and the other...well, you get the idea.&lt;br /&gt;- The group of good natured teenagers who I called "big trick or treaters" and who humourously corrected me by saying they were not big, just experienced. :)&lt;br /&gt;- And lastly, a boy wearing an Afro wig who informed me that he was Michael Jackson, and did proceed to enthusiastically bust a move when I asked him to dance for me. Said he never could get the hang of that moon walking!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-1452464389282982139?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/1452464389282982139/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=1452464389282982139&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/1452464389282982139'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/1452464389282982139'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/10/all-hallows-eve.html' title='All Hallows&apos; Eve'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-5647161428834257437</id><published>2007-10-30T22:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-30T22:09:41.680-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Change'/><title type='text'>I Think I Have Lost It</title><content type='html'>Either I have already lost it or I am about to.  I just do not have anger these days.  It is gone.  Replaced by...?  Well, I am not really sure.  I just know I do not have it in me to rage about the road.  Passionless about it, really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Might have to start posting about everyday life in here.  Gah!  The drivel that might flow if I just let my fingers go.  And, now I am rhyming.  Lovely.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-5647161428834257437?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/5647161428834257437/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=5647161428834257437&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5647161428834257437'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5647161428834257437'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/10/i-think-i-have-lost-it.html' title='I Think I Have Lost It'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-6519522549588574603</id><published>2007-10-24T22:45:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-24T23:07:20.283-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><title type='text'>Special Things</title><content type='html'>I recently dug out an old box of memories. I originally went looking for my high school annuals, but I found so much more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My Mom saved some hair from my first haircut and put it in an envelope for me. My Dad did the same with the first tooth I lost.  I found both of those envelopes in the box of special things.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also found quite a few handwritten letters. These go back some 20+ years, before we used electronic means to communicate. I love that I still have them. They are indeed special things and important to save. Seeing these letters made me want to write. Something I have not done for quite some time, actually. I used to do it a lot. Mostly letters to people, but also sometime just letting the thoughts flood out of my head and onto the paper, for no one to see but me. Those letters, the last ones, contain only the truest of content. If after writing one of those you give it to someone to read you will know what it is to truly bare your soul. Powerful stuff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the box of special things I also found several books from my childhood; nursery rhymes &amp;amp; favourite stories. A joy to discover, really.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It has been an odd year and I find myself looking backward more so than forward. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someone recently reminded me to dream. That it is what we are supposed to do. Somewhere along the way I forgot that. It was an important reminder, and I am glad to have been given it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-6519522549588574603?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/6519522549588574603/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=6519522549588574603&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6519522549588574603'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6519522549588574603'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/10/special-things.html' title='Special Things'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7219250255327171268</id><published>2007-09-25T21:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-11-15T13:03:32.861-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Randomosity'/><title type='text'>100 Things</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;1. I like to put my thoughts in writing&lt;br /&gt;2. I do not do it enough&lt;br /&gt;3. Mosquitoes love me&lt;br /&gt;4. It is not reciprocal&lt;br /&gt;5. I am an only child&lt;br /&gt;6. I very often feel the need to fix other people’s problems&lt;br /&gt;7. When I was a kid I wanted to be a Veterinarian&lt;br /&gt;8. I love listening to music&lt;br /&gt;9. I have NO talent for making it&lt;br /&gt;10. I am accident prone&lt;br /&gt;11. I was raised to believe I can do anything&lt;br /&gt;12. I read voraciously as a kid&lt;br /&gt;13. I should get back to doing that&lt;br /&gt;14. I am a procrastinator&lt;br /&gt;15. I love staring into the campfire&lt;br /&gt;16. I am generally not a social drinker&lt;br /&gt;17. I drink to get drunk, but I only do this a few time a year&lt;br /&gt;18. I like the sound of Chad Krouger’s singing voice and I &lt;em&gt;love&lt;/em&gt; the sound of Tyler Connolly's singing voice.&lt;br /&gt;19. I learned to drive in a 1968 Ford pick-up&lt;br /&gt;20. I knew how to drive stick by age 11&lt;br /&gt;21. I am a sentimentalist&lt;br /&gt;22. My friends confide in me…sometimes so do perfect strangers&lt;br /&gt;23. I securely hold a lot of people’s secrets&lt;br /&gt;24. I give good advice&lt;br /&gt;25. I could play with puppies all damn day&lt;br /&gt;26. I am not superstitious&lt;br /&gt;27. I am a very good judge of character&lt;br /&gt;28. I love to travel&lt;br /&gt;29. I am not squeamish about blood&lt;br /&gt;30. I am intelligent&lt;br /&gt;31. I watch too much TV&lt;br /&gt;32. I love the smell of tomatoes on the vine&lt;br /&gt;33. I am big on details&lt;br /&gt;34. I talk very, very fast&lt;br /&gt;35. My brain is going even faster behind the scenes&lt;br /&gt;36. I giggle like Betty Rubble&lt;br /&gt;37. I am slow to forgive&lt;br /&gt;38. I appreciate a quick whit&lt;br /&gt;39. I have completed the 60k Weekend to End Breast Cancer&lt;br /&gt;40. I am a firm believer in Karma&lt;br /&gt;41. I am good in a crisis&lt;br /&gt;42. I like cold coffee drinks but will not drink hot coffee&lt;br /&gt;43. I cannot read in a moving vehicle without feeling ill&lt;br /&gt;44. My appendix tried to kill me in 2004&lt;br /&gt;45. It damn near succeeded&lt;br /&gt;46. Morphine makes me hallucinate like a son-of-a-bitch&lt;br /&gt;47. I could never become a drug addict&lt;br /&gt;48. I usually have a pretty clear idea of how I want things done&lt;br /&gt;49. I am a keen observer&lt;br /&gt;50. The only bone I have ever broken is my toe&lt;br /&gt;51. I broke the toe two weeks before my 60k walk&lt;br /&gt;52. I stepped on a nail the same day&lt;br /&gt;53. See # 10&lt;br /&gt;54. I do not know what I want to be when I grow up&lt;br /&gt;55. I am prone to road rage, but have it better under control now&lt;br /&gt;56. No really, I do&lt;br /&gt;57. I am strangely captivated by Jacob Hoggard&lt;br /&gt;58. I like to sleep in&lt;br /&gt;59. I learn by doing&lt;br /&gt;60. I like to play crib, my Mom taught me when I was small&lt;br /&gt;61. I have good instincts&lt;br /&gt;62. I am picky about grammar&lt;br /&gt;63. I am the go-to person at my workplace&lt;br /&gt;64. I tend to need to know the reasons why&lt;br /&gt;65. I have one dimple&lt;br /&gt;66. I am not meek&lt;br /&gt;67. I have been in negotiations for two union contracts and also spent 9 weeks on a picket line&lt;br /&gt;68. I wear my Great Grandmother’s ring&lt;br /&gt;69. Change scares me, just a little&lt;br /&gt;70. I have long eyelashes&lt;br /&gt;71. If I am wrong I will admit it&lt;br /&gt;72. I am rarely out of control (see # 17)&lt;br /&gt;73. If I do not know how to do something I will figure it out, or ask – it will get done&lt;br /&gt;74. I manage money for a lot of different groups&lt;br /&gt;75. The smell of Lilies of the Valley reminds me of my childhood&lt;br /&gt;76. I am in awe of the power of the ocean&lt;br /&gt;77. I think petunias are pretty&lt;br /&gt;78. I have philanthropic tendencies&lt;br /&gt;79. I think big pick-up trucks are sexy&lt;br /&gt;80. I love a starry night&lt;br /&gt;81. I very often catch the time 12:34 on the clock, and it is not intentional, it just happens&lt;br /&gt;82. I feel zero guilt that my blog is long neglected&lt;br /&gt;83. I love powerful thunder &amp;amp; lightning storms&lt;br /&gt;84. I had my last cigarette on Jan 1, 2000&lt;br /&gt;85. I like having my toenails painted&lt;br /&gt;86. Currently they are blindingly pink with dainty little white flowers&lt;br /&gt;87. I want to go to Egypt, and Scotland, and Australia…I have a lot of wants&lt;br /&gt;88. I enjoy what I do for work&lt;br /&gt;89. I’ve been doing it for way…too...long&lt;br /&gt;90. Proper spelling is important to me&lt;br /&gt;91. I like to reminisce&lt;br /&gt;92. My longest friendship spans 34 years and is ongoing&lt;br /&gt;93. I don’t trust easily&lt;br /&gt;94. I am a planner&lt;br /&gt;95. I really like old Craftsman style houses, like 100 + years old&lt;br /&gt;96. I can be bossy&lt;br /&gt;97. I could drink bellinis all day long&lt;br /&gt;98. One day I will&lt;br /&gt;99. I can curse a blue streak, and sometimes actually do&lt;br /&gt;100. I am long past due for a sunny beach vacation&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7219250255327171268?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7219250255327171268/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7219250255327171268&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7219250255327171268'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7219250255327171268'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/09/100-things.html' title='100 Things'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-9073806429445686329</id><published>2007-06-01T20:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-06-01T20:46:38.961-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Observations</title><content type='html'>Father's Day is coming up soon and I was in the card aisle perusing the cards.  Now, I know that there are ALL kinds of Father's Day cards out there; Dad, Father, Father-In-Law, Step-Father, Father figure, To Dad from Both, Funny Dad cards, religious Dad cards, To Dad from Daughter / Son...and then I saw it.  I couldn't believe my eyes. "To Mom on Father's Day".  What the fuck?  She just had her own damn day last month.  Whose the genius who came up with this one?  Must be the dumbass who &lt;em&gt;forgot &lt;/em&gt;their Mom on Mother's Day and needs to find a suitable suck-up card a month later.  Whatever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Second observation; why the hell can't people just walk on the right side of the aisle in the store?  Why must I keep ending up face to face with the idiots who don't follow this common practice?  These must be the same assholes who drive sideways across the parking and not up and down the lanes like the rest of us.  Sheesh!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-9073806429445686329?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/9073806429445686329/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=9073806429445686329&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/9073806429445686329'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/9073806429445686329'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/06/observations.html' title='Observations'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-8431524501764547471</id><published>2007-05-29T21:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-05-29T21:16:20.995-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Killer Cat</title><content type='html'>Just about had a heart attack this morning.  If not for a &lt;em&gt;very&lt;/em&gt; quick brake foot the title of this post would be Cat Killer, instead.  Foolish feline decided to run across the road right in front of me while I was on my way to work this morning.  Blur. Brake. Scream. Next thing I know my purse is on the floor and I'm sitting there wondering if there's a squished cat under my tire. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not a great start to my day but better than if I'd actually hit the little fucker.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-8431524501764547471?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/8431524501764547471/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=8431524501764547471&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8431524501764547471'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8431524501764547471'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/05/killer-cat.html' title='Killer Cat'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-280517022738196744</id><published>2007-03-14T22:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-14T22:23:38.843-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><title type='text'>Alligators</title><content type='html'>Alligators...I'm up to my ass in them. Seriously, I don't think I'm going to come up for air again until the Easter long weekend. I've got plenty to say, don't think I don't, but I just have no freaking time to write the shit down. Oy!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Random thought of the day; I need a hair cut.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-280517022738196744?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/280517022738196744/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=280517022738196744&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/280517022738196744'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/280517022738196744'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/03/alligators.html' title='Alligators'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7228629093566052470</id><published>2007-02-11T21:55:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-10-11T13:06:40.776-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><title type='text'>I'm A Good Mom</title><content type='html'>I'm a good Mom. I've always believed I was but recently someone told me, and it felt really great to hear. I'm not your typical Mom and my beloved is not your typical offspring. My &lt;em&gt;baby&lt;/em&gt; is a black Labrador Retriever, named Coal. He was gifted to me by Barney as a wedding present. He is beautiful, and smart, and funny, and sly. He is special to me in every way, and he is especially different in one way. He has eilepsy. I do for him what any Mom does and I fight for him in every way and make sure he has the best of what he needs and wants. The irony is that allegedy there was concern that &lt;strong&gt;I &lt;/strong&gt;would end up being epileptic, but instead it is my sweet boy dog who is afflicted, and not I. The universe is funny that way.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7228629093566052470?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7228629093566052470/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7228629093566052470&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7228629093566052470'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7228629093566052470'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/im-good-mom.html' title='I&apos;m A Good Mom'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-716427386525239919</id><published>2007-02-04T23:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-04T23:22:21.413-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I Got A Passing Grade.  How About You?</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="width: 320px; border: 1px solid gray; padding: 6px; font: normal 12px sans-serif; color: black; background-color: white;"&gt;&lt;b style="color: black; font-size: 20px; display: block; margin-bottom: 8px;"&gt;You paid attention during 80% of high school!&lt;/b&gt; &lt;div style="width: 200px; background: white; border: 1px solid black; text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;div style="width: 80%; background: red; font-size: 8px; line-height: 8px;"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p style="margin: 10px; border: none; background: white; color: black;"&gt;68-84%  Pretty good, you know that there are libraries and newspapers, and you remember what you've read. You were a child that wasn't left behind!&lt;br&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;b&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.gotoquiz.com/do_you_deserve_your_high_school_diploma" style="color: blue;"&gt;Do you deserve your high school diploma?&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-716427386525239919?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/716427386525239919/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=716427386525239919&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/716427386525239919'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/716427386525239919'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-got-passing-grade-how-about-you.html' title='I Got A Passing Grade.  How About You?'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-2891160784736037171</id><published>2007-01-29T21:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-29T21:54:51.125-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Idiots'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>The Trouble With Silver</title><content type='html'>It was the week of morons in silver trucks. WTF?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To the driver of the Silver Tacoma truck, plate # 7259KG, - why did you find it a) necessary and b) acceptable to pull out of your driveway right in front of me when you didn't have a &lt;strong&gt;hope&lt;/strong&gt; of getting up to speed before I arrived on your ass? What the hell was that?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll tell you what that was. A mistake! How do I know? Because you thought better of it this morning. Yer learning, but it's a slow process.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Silverado truck, plate # 0621KD - nice move over that solid YELLOW line to complete that &lt;strong&gt;illegal&lt;/strong&gt; lane change. Yep, you're a moron!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-2891160784736037171?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/2891160784736037171/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=2891160784736037171&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/2891160784736037171'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/2891160784736037171'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/trouble-with-silver.html' title='The Trouble With Silver'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-1741062872268585195</id><published>2007-01-16T22:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-16T22:36:15.842-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Somebody Post My Bail</title><content type='html'>I've blogged about it before &lt;a href="http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/corner.html"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt;. This corner has been an ongoing issue since before I bitched about it and the insanity continues. This very evening I was once again cut-off by a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)"&gt;fucktard&lt;/span&gt; who turned out in front of me. He didn't even slow down. I kid you not. He came flying around the corner at me and cut me off. I laid on the horn as my blood began to boil. I drove, horn blaring &amp; lights flashing at this asshole until he careened around the next available corner and out of my path.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The time is coming, where I will lose control. I can take down plate numbers &amp;amp; I can call the cops, but mark my words, the day will come when I will catch up with one of these fuckers and inflict bodily harm. So get your cheque books ready, because I &lt;em&gt;will&lt;/em&gt; need someone to bail my ass out of jail. I kid you not. The time is nigh.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-1741062872268585195?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/1741062872268585195/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=1741062872268585195&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/1741062872268585195'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/1741062872268585195'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/somebody-post-my-bail.html' title='Somebody Post My Bail'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-317306980574852425</id><published>2007-01-15T10:54:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-15T11:09:17.112-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>I Want Some Of These!</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/Highway-Sign.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/Highway-Sign.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/Construction.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/Construction.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-317306980574852425?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/317306980574852425/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=317306980574852425&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/317306980574852425'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/317306980574852425'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-need-one-of-these.html' title='I Want Some Of These!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-8935933336438250414</id><published>2007-01-12T19:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-12T19:29:35.707-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Unbelievable'/><title type='text'>The Spinning Disc Of Doom</title><content type='html'>Yesterday I saw, dangling from someone's rearview mirror, a disc.  A compact disc, to be exact.  Yes, a CD, dangling in all its one shiny side glory, alternately blinding &amp; then distracting a driver, who should really know better than to dangle music/data as a decorative item.  What the hell were they thinking?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-8935933336438250414?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/8935933336438250414/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=8935933336438250414&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8935933336438250414'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8935933336438250414'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/spinning-disc-of-doom.html' title='The Spinning Disc Of Doom'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-8705325387428925503</id><published>2007-01-09T18:13:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-09T19:51:54.433-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Idiots'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Randomosity'/><title type='text'>Random Grievances</title><content type='html'>Here we go, in no particular order;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kevin is a jackass. He drives a p/u truck with some sort of writing on it. Part of the writing is his name and phone number. Not really sure what he does for a living, but what he does for a hobby is fail to yield the right of way and cut-off oncoming traffic by turning in front of them. We can now all have some fun by calling Kevin at 999-9062 and telling him what a tard he is. Smarten up Kevin.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Drama Queens - I've had my fill. Our relief receptionist at work is always on the phone with this person or that person and frequently bursts out with "WHUUUUUUTT?????" at the top of her vocal range. Surely there's been a death, or a horrific accident! But no. Each and every time it's something positively mundane, involving her kids or her pets. Nothing serious. Nothing important. Just loud and shrill. Shut the fuck up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Where did you learn that shit? Seriously. Who the fuck taught you to drive? Did your parents not teach you anything? Gah! Little girl, that long line of traffic ahead of you was caused by a red light. We all had to stop. Well, all of us except you. You instead chose to drive in the oncoming traffic's lane, and then over into the painted lines in order to access the left hand turn lane. The one that many of us ahead of you were also intending to access. Thing is, we waited our fucking turns. We didn't drive into oncoming traffic and we didn't piss off a bunch of other drivers. So, you made the next light, and I did not, because, well, for the most part I obey the rules and I'm not a fuck-up like you. Because Karma is so sweet I did catch up to and got a chance to observe your other moves, such as tailgating. It's a lovely thing to do in the rain. Smart too. Now, I'm not very patient with fuck-ups like you and I wanted you to know, so that's why I stopped about 2" behind your car, got your attention and told you "you're a fucking idiot". In fact, there were two lights so I did it twice. I know you saw me too because your eyes were as big as saucers while you were reading my lips. For those who may not recognise what an asswipe you are here's how the general public can find you. This stupid bitch drives a silver Honda Accord, license plate 198 EEV. Oh yeah, and she also has a homemade "N" taped to her back window. Yes, a &lt;em&gt;homemade&lt;/em&gt; "N". What a reject!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh the weather outside is frightful.  Rain &amp; snow I can take, but wind?  Well, that just makes me afraid that the neighbour's trees are going to fall on our house.  It's not a farfetched idea, and considering their size, they'd do quite the number on our house...and potentially on our existence.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-8705325387428925503?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/8705325387428925503/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=8705325387428925503&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8705325387428925503'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8705325387428925503'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/random-grievances.html' title='Random Grievances'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7132166623650326124</id><published>2007-01-07T18:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-07T18:59:08.027-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><title type='text'>Grand Plans</title><content type='html'>I had &lt;em&gt;grand&lt;/em&gt; plans for my two weeks off work. I did not accomplish anything remotely &lt;em&gt;grand&lt;/em&gt;. On the upside, I do feel well rested and that's been a long time coming. So, I take it back. I feel &lt;em&gt;grand. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the downside, my alarm clock is going to ring its fool head off at 5:45 am tomorrow and I'm going to have to get up. Fuck!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7132166623650326124?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7132166623650326124/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7132166623650326124&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7132166623650326124'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7132166623650326124'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/grand-plans.html' title='Grand Plans'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7808041794195132545</id><published>2007-01-04T02:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-04T03:05:28.578-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I Just Wanted Some Light Reading</title><content type='html'>So I thought I'd hit the "next blog" button and see where it would take me. I was hoping for some light reading, maybe some humour, but no. I got fucking spammed! &lt;a href="http://randomblogbutton.blogspot.com/"&gt;http://randomblogbutton.blogspot.com/&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to read the 100 links to whatever topic &lt;em&gt;you&lt;/em&gt; decided was right for me. I don't want to know how to increase the size of my non-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;existent&lt;/span&gt; penis &amp; I especially don't want to buy your fucking drugs!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now piss off and present me with something light &amp;amp; fluffy to read! &lt;em&gt;Now&lt;/em&gt;!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7808041794195132545?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7808041794195132545/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7808041794195132545&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7808041794195132545'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7808041794195132545'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/i-just-wanted-some-light-reading.html' title='I Just Wanted Some Light Reading'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-8536954493409356458</id><published>2007-01-04T02:36:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-04T02:43:25.523-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Skeeved Out By A Creepy Guy</title><content type='html'>Today I was in the checkout line at a department store.  I had a shopping cart full of stuff, as did the guy in front of me.  Do you ever look at someone and instantly they skeeve you out?  A quick glance and you just get creeped out?  Today, that was the guy who was in front of me.  He kept checking out what everyone else was up to, rather than just waiting his boring old time in line, like the rest of us.  He hopped up and sat on the conveyor of the empty till next to us, then jumped off like 10 seconds later.  He moved his cart around, back and forth.  He spent far too much time trying to see what was in my cart.  Too bad for skeeve boy that all of my stuff was in a plastic tote with a cushion on top, blocking his skeeved out view!  Fucking creepy guy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Far too nosey and dressed far too much like Magnum P.I., and with the moustache to boot!  Creepy!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-8536954493409356458?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/8536954493409356458/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=8536954493409356458&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8536954493409356458'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8536954493409356458'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/skeeved-out-by-creepy-guy.html' title='Skeeved Out By A Creepy Guy'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-4731286267457769920</id><published>2007-01-04T02:13:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-04T02:51:30.349-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Accident Waiting To Happen</title><content type='html'>I am an accident waiting to happen. I swear, it's like a cloud that hangs over me. Some might say that I am just not careful enough. Others might say it's something more powerful. A force, if you will.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bruises, scrapes, stitches, butterfly bandages, road rash, dog bite, emergency surgery; been there, and done them all. Here are some highlights, in a mostly chronological order;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dropped scissors into my leg - butterfly bandage (Dad)&lt;br /&gt;Fell off my bike - stitches in my chin (ER)&lt;br /&gt;Fell partially through a wharf - one leg stuck &amp; bruised&lt;br /&gt;Cut my finger&lt;strong&gt;s&lt;/strong&gt; carving a pumpkin - stitches (ER)&lt;br /&gt;Bitten by a dog - large gaping wound, no stitches (&amp;amp; no Dr. in the fucking ER) - 6 weeks to heal&lt;br /&gt;Sliced head open on a locker handle - stitches (ER)&lt;br /&gt;Took a softball line drive in the shin - twice in one week, same spot - permanent bruise &amp; chunk missing from shin bone.&lt;br /&gt;Crashed an ATC (my fault, bad judgement) - tore my ACL, soft tissue damage - Dr., Physio Therapy - permanent damage&lt;br /&gt;Emergency appendectomy - 5 hrs undiagnosed in ER, then 5 hours undiagnosed in a second ER the following day, followed by admittance to yet another hospital, finally diagnosed with a ruptured appendix - 8 days in the hospital - major surgery&lt;br /&gt;Stepped on a nail - tetanus shot (ER), combined with breaking 1 toe (both, within 10 days of completing a two day - 60k walk)&lt;br /&gt;Various burns - frying pans, lamps, oven, etc. etc.&lt;br /&gt;Screw driven into and through thumb nail - did it yesterday and it fucking hurts!&lt;br /&gt;Numerous sprains &amp;amp; twists, bursitis, tendinitis and a rotator cuff injury.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes, it feels like about 80% of the time I am injured, recovering from an injury or about to be injured.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wonder what tomorrow will bring?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-4731286267457769920?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/4731286267457769920/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=4731286267457769920&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/4731286267457769920'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/4731286267457769920'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/accident-waiting-to-happen.html' title='Accident Waiting To Happen'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7785179535609255731</id><published>2007-01-04T00:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-04T02:13:35.209-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Where Do All The Words Go?</title><content type='html'>I have countless things to say and blog about, really I do, but when I sit down in front of the computer, I get writer's block.  And it sucks. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Injustices, observations, idiocy, commentary and judgement are all on the tip of my tongue as I travel the highways &amp; byways.  Hell, they're screaming out of my mouth in most cases.  I think I need one of those recording devices.  Nothing fancy.  Just something that will record long enough for me to tell the story as it unravels so I can post it later. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Also still have to figure out how to get the photos out of my phone.  Too many license plates for one little phone.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7785179535609255731?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7785179535609255731/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7785179535609255731&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7785179535609255731'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7785179535609255731'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2007/01/where-do-all-words-go.html' title='Where Do All The Words Go?'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-362398472492303364</id><published>2006-12-31T23:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-01T00:10:46.167-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Family'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Bullshit'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Manipulation'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Unbelievable'/><title type='text'>Perception Is Reality - Part Deux</title><content type='html'>Ahhh, the holiday season. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and during our absence this year, it was the time when the shit hit the fan. The way we work it is that each year Barney &amp; I alternate which family we spend Christmas with, and this year we were with my family. As luck would have it, this is the year the Rubble family bullshit came to a head. In a way I'm sorry to have missed the show because now I have to form opinions on hearsay and not what I witnessed myself, however this issue is far from resolved so there will be more shit coming down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I touched ever so briefly on this subject &lt;a href="http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/perception-is-reality.html"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt;, but I've barely scratched the surface.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Barney comes from a family of 4 children, 2 boys &amp;amp; 2 girls, and all siblings are married. Barney is the oldest child and so he has seen most of what went on in his family. Mom &amp; Dad are both alive and well and involved to varying degrees in the lives of each of their 4 children, however one of the Sisters has been more dependant on the parents, both through her teen years and well into adulthood. This Sister wields the perceived power. The targets, those would be her parents, my in-laws (M &amp;amp; M).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Having married into this family, I know full well that there is history there deeper and more vast than I will ever know. I only have 10 years in with this clan, and the bullshit has been running deep since the Sister was a kid. The other siblings talk about how "L" is just &lt;em&gt;that&lt;/em&gt; way and is just &lt;em&gt;like &lt;/em&gt;that, and always has been and always will be. According to Barney trying to talk sense to "L" would be like banging your head against the wall. Nothing gets through to her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The issue? Well, it's complicated, I guess. In a nutshell, M &amp; M twist themselves into pretzels to meet the needs of, and satisfy the demands of their youngest daughter. They do this to the disgust and detriment of their other 3 children. The reason, I believe, is that they are afraid of the consequences should they fail to follow through. One possible consequence, as I understand it, was that they would not be allowed access to their Grandchild. Whether a real threat or just a perceived threat, I cannot say for sure, but an effective one nonetheless. It's to the point where M &amp;amp; M act like gatekeepers and not only run their own game with "L" but they also run interference on any actions the other 3 siblings would like to take. It's frustrating for them to not see the issues get addressed and I'm sure it feels to them like "L" is being rewarded for her bad behaviour. I believe it is only out of respect for their parents that the other 3 siblings have not taken a harder line with this. That goes for me too as I was going to give her a dose of medicine but got talked down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;From my perspective I do not believe that "L" could completely withdraw from her parents. She needs them too much to do her bidding. What is &lt;em&gt;particularly&lt;/em&gt; perplexing to me is that back in the day, when this threat would have first arisen, she was completely and utterly dependant on them for &lt;strong&gt;everything&lt;/strong&gt;. She was a teenage Mother, lived with her parents, was supported by her parents, &lt;em&gt;needed&lt;/em&gt; her parents, and so how the hell could that threat actually carry any weight with M &amp; M? I don't understand why anyone took this seriously, which brings me back again to perception = reality.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Over the holidays several things came up and decisions were made that broke the family into and "us" &amp;amp; "them" situation, with M &amp; M trying to remain neutral and keep everybody happy. They basically twisted themselves into their usual pretzel shapes. Anyway, the result was that the "us" &amp;amp; the "them" went their separate ways, each making their own decisions and one of the results was that nobody spent Christmas together.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This past Boxing Day Barney's Brother &amp; his Wife ( T &amp;amp; T) hosted an Open House. All branches of the family were present, except for us (still out of town) and "L"'s family. Apparently at some point "L"'s Husband showed up at the function, not to participate, but to say how "L" is fed up with all the gossip going around and he said "L" and M &amp; M have to get together and deal with their problems. He states that SHE's tired of everyone talking behind her back and not communicating directly with her!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All of this bullshit was just too much for my SIL "T" to take and she let him have it with both barrels. She just laid it all out there and said what many of the rest of us have been thinking. Have I mentioned that I &lt;em&gt;love&lt;/em&gt; my SIL? Seriously, she's a straight shooter and for this and for many other reasons, she's one of my favourite people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, while "T" does not regret anything she said she does somewhat regret the manner &amp;amp; some of the colourful language used. (She &amp;amp; I are colourful people, the rest of the clan we married into, not so much).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so we will now enter 2007 with nothing resolved, the air thick with all of the heretofore unsaid thoughts, and I'm interested to see where we end up.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-362398472492303364?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/362398472492303364/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=362398472492303364&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/362398472492303364'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/362398472492303364'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/12/perception-is-reality-part-deux.html' title='Perception Is Reality - Part Deux'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-5110466802084910751</id><published>2006-12-30T22:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-30T22:59:46.884-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Idiots'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Unbelievable'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Incompetent'/><title type='text'>Yer A Fucking Idiot!</title><content type='html'>Yes, those words have passed my lips more than 30 times while driving this holiday week. Oh my fucking god! I understand that not everybody is good at driving, but &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)"&gt;jesus&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)"&gt;christ&lt;/span&gt;! Smarten the fuck up!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At this time of year everybody who has access to a car is out there and driving it.  16 with no experience?  84 with no sight?  more people than seat belts?  unrestrained infants &amp; children?  Yes, I've seen it all, and most of it I've narrowly escaped. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My favourite move, and admittedly I did not know it was my favourite move when I started this post, was the ever loving right hand turn from the left hand lane...on the highway!  Yes, this beauty happened to me on the snow covered highway by the little town of Princeton this week.  Gotta love the elderly.  I had followed her for a good 80 k, and when the highway reached town I decided to move to the outside lane, and she stayed put in the inside lane.  All was well.  Until she decided to turn right. &lt;em&gt;right&lt;/em&gt;. in. front. of. me!  I was too stunned to honk, too stunned to yell and in fact all I &lt;em&gt;did&lt;/em&gt; manage to do was stand on my brake pedal and evade her advancing red Taurus.  Did I mention there was snow on the highway?  Fuck I thought I was going to paste her and she was completely oblivious.  Only once she had completed her turn did she look back to see me, stopped sort of sideways on the highway, holding my head.  I thought it was going to explode.  Lady, yer a fucking idiot!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-5110466802084910751?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/5110466802084910751/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=5110466802084910751&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5110466802084910751'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5110466802084910751'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/12/yer-fucking-idiot.html' title='Yer A Fucking Idiot!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-5345533767980050580</id><published>2006-12-20T20:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-20T20:56:13.034-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Lots O Thoughts</title><content type='html'>So many thoughts, so little blogging time. December is an &lt;strong&gt;absurdly&lt;/strong&gt; busy month all by itself, but add to that the fact that I work in the transportation industry, and it just multiplies into its very own &lt;strike&gt;special kind of hell&lt;/strike&gt; insanity.  I've worked over 30 hours so far this week and I've only put 3 days in. My Christmas shopping was done last week so my evenings this week have been consumed with wrapping &amp; preparing to ship gifts. Today I sent out 8 packages to 4 different locations in 2 different countries. I also arranged a Christmas luncheon for myself and 79 of my closest co-workers, and that took up a good chunk of my day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've had lots I wanted to say and I quite simply haven't had the time to put the thoughts onto the keyboard. The many topics include, but are not limited to; bad drivers (no shit eh?), Christmas shopping crazies, more assholes &amp; their shopping carts, the things I know that apparently nobody else does (more on this later if I fucking remember), rock concerts &amp;amp; old ladies, life lessons &amp; unbelievable actions &amp;amp; inaction of those around me. I swear, it's all good shit, but its now all jumbled in my head and therefore undecipherable, even to me. *sigh*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2 more days of work and I'll be on vacation for the better part of 2 weeks. Hallefreakinglujah! Until after we get back from visiting the 'rents I shall likely not have another &lt;strike&gt;fucking chance&lt;/strike&gt; opportunity to share my thoughts. Betty, out!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-5345533767980050580?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/5345533767980050580/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=5345533767980050580&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5345533767980050580'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/5345533767980050580'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/12/lots-o-thoughts.html' title='Lots O Thoughts'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-7092680506899380664</id><published>2006-12-10T02:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-10-24T23:10:53.333-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Reality'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Unbelievable'/><title type='text'>What A Week</title><content type='html'>It’s been an &lt;em&gt;interesting&lt;/em&gt; week.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's a road hazzard in my neighbourhood who drives a marked company vehicle. He's a tool. He's an HOV cheater and shortly he's going to be getting a whole lot of negative attention. Where's my phone book?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On my way home from work on Friday there was a car accident. One that I &lt;em&gt;should&lt;/em&gt; have seen coming, and yet somehow, I truly didn’t. It’s a bit of a confusing intersection, with 2 lanes in each direction. In one direction there are 2 through lanes, although you can make a left turn from the left lane. In the other direction one lane is a through lane, while the other is a mandatory right turn lane. Anyway, I was making a left turn from the left lane and while I was completing my turn the car immediately behind me was hit head on. I heard the &lt;em&gt;horrific&lt;/em&gt; metal on metal crash and it was &lt;strong&gt;so&lt;/strong&gt; loud I thought &lt;em&gt;surely&lt;/em&gt; I’d been hit, but when I looked in my side view mirror I could see it wasn’t me. I pulled over, turned off my vehicle, put on my hazards and hurried over to see what the hell was going on. The car behind me was driven by a young woman, and on impact her airbags had deployed. When I reached her car it had filled with smoke and she was still sitting it, stunned and obviously in shock. Some man helped me wrenched her car door open and I got her out and took her over to the median to sit. I noticed her car was still pumping out smoke and realized it was still running. I went back and turned it off and grabbed her keys &amp;amp; her purse for her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By this time there were a few of us trying to help and since traffic was essentially blocked one guy was trying to direct traffic. I went over to a guy driving a yellow cube van to see if he had a fire extinguisher. Again proving that it's a small world, the guy ended up being someone I used to work with. No extinguisher but he did call 911 for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By this time I noticed the driver of the other vehicle, a mini van, was out and wandering about. He was quick to talk about maybe being hurt but would not heed my suggestion to sit down and rest. He was much more interested in establishing blame. Shortly afterwards the emergency vehicles arrived and suffice to say that all departments were well represented. Since there was nothing else I could offer I left. I believe the guy who was directing traffic must have witnessed the accident and he stayed behind. I’m still dumbfounded about how this could have occurred within 10 feet of me, yet I never saw the oncoming vehicle. The only thing I can imagine is that the driver of the van had been in the right hand turn lane, and then cut over, illegally, to go straight, and the vehicle behind me thought the intersection was still clear. All I know for sure is that when I commenced my left turn there was nobody even &lt;strong&gt;close&lt;/strong&gt; to me in the oncoming through lane. Nobody.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In other news, I found out last week that the Dad of one of my High School friends had died of cancer. My Mom is fighting cancer. The friend's Dad was my Dad’s age. It’s been 20 years since we graduated High School. Some things never change, nor some people. The guys who would hang out and drink in the parking lot in High School did that today in the parking lot of the funeral home. It was a very odd and yet familiar sight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today a group of 8 of us school friends gathered to attend the service for our friend’s Dad. I won’t say it was a memorial service because it felt more like a celebration of his life. I did not know the man, but by the end of the service I felt as though I had. I certainly knew more about his son, my friend. This passing of a parent is the beginning the inevitable. One day it will be my turn to talk about my parents and share the essence of who they were. I’m not ready.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-7092680506899380664?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/7092680506899380664/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=7092680506899380664&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7092680506899380664'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/7092680506899380664'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/12/what-week.html' title='What A Week'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-9070699244726545855</id><published>2006-12-07T22:11:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-07T22:24:11.143-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Randomosity'/><title type='text'>The Three Things MeMe</title><content type='html'>Three things that scare me: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;spiders, driving on ice, change&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three people who make me laugh:&lt;span style="color:#009900;"&gt; Russell Peters, My Dad, my dog - yes, he's people&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things I love: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;my family, Scottish accents, sleeping in&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things I hate: &lt;span style="color:#009900;"&gt;bad drivers, asparagus, incompetence&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things I don't understand: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;homophobia, algebra, how to play cricket&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things on my desk: &lt;span style="color:#009900;"&gt;digital camera, old green glass insulator, my wallet&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things I'm doing right now: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;wracking my brain, Christmas shopping, looking forward to the weekend!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things I want to do before I die: &lt;span style="color:#009900;"&gt;travel to Europe, put my photos into albums, live debt free&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things I can do: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;anything (my Dad taught me that), shop, spell&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things you should listen to: &lt;span style="color:#009900;"&gt;yourself, the ocean, opinions you respect&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three things you should never listen to: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;rumours, people telling you what you can't do, bigots&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Three things I'd like to learn: &lt;span style="color:#009900;"&gt;my ancestry, a second language, to fly&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three favorite foods: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;ice cream, cherries, baby back ribs&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Three beverages I drink regularly: &lt;span style="color:#009900;"&gt;water, milk, pop&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Three TV shows I watched as a kid: &lt;span style="color:#ff0000;"&gt;JP Patches, Grizzly Adams, Bewitched&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What to do with a MeMe: Copy the questions into a new post on your blog then answer them. I tag whoever else feels up to the task.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-9070699244726545855?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/9070699244726545855/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=9070699244726545855&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/9070699244726545855'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/9070699244726545855'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/three-things-meme.html' title='The Three Things MeMe'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-834102397996425189</id><published>2006-12-07T15:50:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-09T01:04:05.068-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Idiots'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Unbelievable'/><title type='text'>Are You All Fucking Stupid?</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;I swear everyone else on the roads today were fucking idiots! OMG!!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My personal highlight; a car that failed to observe their yield sign and just &lt;em&gt;barely&lt;/em&gt; failed to sideswipe me. You know what? Swing your god-damned mother fucking head around and take a look over your shoulder! You leaning forward to look in your side mirror while leaning on the accelerator does not make for a smart move when I’m already occupying the lane. You just about gave me a heart attack when I saw you coming for me, and I’m sure I gave your pacemaker a good run for its money when I laid on the horn. And even then, you didn’t let up. Not really. You just looked stunned and kept going. You're gonna get killed!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Other observances of note; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;I was in heavy traffic on a main road when I heard a rig blowing its horn. Then traffic slowed to a crawl. When I got closer I could see that the outside lane was blocked by a rig, which had a brand new Honda hood ornament. The car must have pulled out in front of the rig, who obviously could not stop in time, and the car got T-boned. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;Some jackass turned onto the road in front of me and then swung over into my lane. I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting him, but I figured that would be the worst of it. Nope. He proceeded to straddle 2 lanes, swinging back and forth for the better part of 2 blocks. I would never have tried to pass him, just because he was so erratic. Some other guy in a super cab pick-up truck had no qualms about &lt;em&gt;blasting&lt;/em&gt; by the lane straddler at about 80 kms per hour. Ballsy. Really ballsy. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;Lots of HOV lane cheaters this week. I guess it's your choice to take your fucking chances on getting a ticket. How the hell would we all know you were so special if you didn't stand out like a sore thumb, &lt;em&gt;all by yourself&lt;/em&gt; in the HOV lane. Retards!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-834102397996425189?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/834102397996425189/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=834102397996425189&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/834102397996425189'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/834102397996425189'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/12/are-you-all-fucking-stupid.html' title='Are You All Fucking Stupid?'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-8097873525754989349</id><published>2006-11-28T22:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-06T20:37:48.973-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Unbelievable'/><title type='text'>My Husband’s Name</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;I’m going to preface this by saying this is &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; a rant about my husband or his family. They haven’t done anything wrong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Little girls often dream about the day they’ll get married. They practise writing their potential new names, over and over. They test them out to see how they’ll sound. They try them on. If a woman gets married in her teens or early 20’s she might still be in that stage of practising her “new” name, and statistically speaking she likely will take her husband’s last name as her own. Nothing wrong with that. It’s probably been happening since the beginning of time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I got married I was not in my teens, nor my 20’s. I was 32. What to do about my “married name” was &lt;em&gt;not&lt;/em&gt; so clear. I’d had my own name for a very long time. It formed part of who I was. I am an only child. There were not nieces &amp; nephews to carry on my family name. I was it. Also, I’d been with my employer for a &lt;em&gt;significant&lt;/em&gt; amount of time and a name change was tantamount to career suicide. My name got things done at work and I wasn’t entirely comfortable abandoning “me”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My future husband told me it would please him very much if I took his name. He’s a pretty traditional guy about this kind of stuff. I suggested he take my name and his answer was “I don’t think so”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I decided to do was keep my name for work and use my husband’s name socially. If he had expressed no preference I probably would have just kept my name. I thought this was a good compromise, keeping true to myself while also honoring and respecting my husband and his family. It was a bit of balancing act in the beginning, and adjusting to change always takes time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I got my passport before we got married because I needed it for our honeymoon, so it’s in my old name. I had invited some HR types from my workplace to our wedding and shortly afterward my paycheques &amp;amp; company benefits cards started coming in my new name, although I don’t recall filling out any such request. (See above, where I was keeping my old name for work) This caused some problems because much of what goes on at work is driven by the details HR keeps about us, and now I don’t match the name the system has for me. It’s confusing. My well established name in my company is valuable, but rather than upset the applecart I decided to not change it back and I just deal with the fallout as it comes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After the wedding I changed some credit cards to my new name and as other things came up I would switch them to the new name. Not &lt;em&gt;all&lt;/em&gt;, but most. When I showed up to renew my driver’s license I gave them my new name and a copy of my marriage certificate, but they said they couldn’t make the change without the original marriage certificate. Um…yeah, that’s an &lt;em&gt;original&lt;/em&gt; document, which I will not fold up and shove into my purse, plus it costs $100 to replace. That baby stays in the house…somewhere. Them refusing to change my name did not negate the fact that I still needed to renew my license so I renewed it in my old name. Which meant my car insurance stayed in my old name.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I huffed around a well-worn copy of my marriage certificate for years to ease the confusion that arose when the name on my credit card didn’t match the name on my driver’s license. For that very reason, among others, I did keep a major credit card in my old name.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We bought our house before we got married, so my old name is on the title. When we recently renewed the mortgage I asked them to change the name on title to my new name, but to do so would have cost hundreds of dollars, so I left it alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, to the heart of what’s on my mind. I feel like “the system” is trying to erase me in favour of my husband, and here is the evidence to support my theory;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;When my now husband &amp; I got our first mortgage and opened our joint bank account, at my bank, the representative put him as the primary on the accounts. He had never been their client whereas I had been with them for 12 years. He had no credit card with them (and in fact has no credit cards at all), but I did. He was not the one who negotiated the mortgage rates and was in monthly contact locking in rates. That was me. How they sold putting him as the primary was that he was older than me and when he reached age 65 we’d have reduced service charges. Whatever lady. Pretty presumptuous of you to think that 30 years from now we’d still be banking with you, but I let it go. Whatever. &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:+0;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;Several years ago we made plans to fly to my parent’s place for Christmas. I called the airline, I made the arrangements for my ticket in my old name (matches my ID) and my husband’s ticket in his usual name. I paid for both tickets on the credit card I held in my new name. The tickets were sent by mail to our home…to my husband’s attention! He didn’t make the arrangements and he didn’t make the payment, but somehow the airline saw fit to put his name on the envelope. My husband was unconcerned by this event. I was &lt;strong&gt;livid!&lt;/strong&gt; I called the airline and reamed them out, firstly for not addressing the tickets to the purchaser, and secondly because if that trip had been a surprise they would have blown it right out of the water. Arrrggghhhhhhhhh! &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;My husband &amp;amp; I share an eBay account. He’s much more active than I, but it is &lt;em&gt;our&lt;/em&gt; account. We share the same first initial and so the account is set up with the initial and his last name. No he, no she, just a generic letter for a first name. Under our addresses in eBay we have one using the first initial/last name and another using both of our first names &amp;amp; our shared last name. When I do make a purchase on eBay and because I have a credit card I pay via PayPal. My PayPal account is in my new name and funded by my credit card in the same name. My PayPal account is &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; linked to our eBay account. My husband has a separate PayPal account. Every time I make a purchase and pay via my PayPal account the item arrives addressed to my husband. He didn’t make the payment and yet somehow the system sees fit to slap his name onto all of my purchases. Nobody at eBay or PayPal customer service was able to tell me why. Nor were they able to make it stop. Arrrggghhhhhhhh! &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;The most recent incident and the reason I am so riled up about this again is that I just made a purchase via the Sear$ catalogue system. I called in the order. I provided them with my Sear$ credit card information, a card that I alone hold, in my new name. When I went to pick up the item I had ordered I found it was addressed to my husband. WTF?????? The counter person was of no assistance in explaining how this could have happened or how to correct it for future orders. Instead she directed me to call the catalogue number and speak to them. Which I did. For 15 minutes. According to "Carlos" the root of the problem seemed to stem from the fact that my husband’s name was linked to our home phone. I asked them to remove it. Carlos said their system would not allow it, and to get around it he suggested I provide an alternate number, which would be designated as the primary number with my name. Thinking this was great idea I rattled off my cell phone number. &lt;em&gt;Mine&lt;/em&gt;. Remarkably &lt;em&gt;different&lt;/em&gt; than my husband’s. Carlos came back and announced that his system linked the two numbers and that MY cell phone number was bringing up my husband’s name. I asked Carlos to unlink the numbers. He said their system would not allow it. I asked him to purge the entire profile and he said his system would not allow it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don’t know if my husband has every ordered from the Sear$ catalogue, but I do know that he does &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; hold a Sear$ credit card. I do. I explained to Carlos that &lt;strong&gt;I&lt;/strong&gt; was his client, &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; my husband, and that he needed to find a way to stop my orders from being shipped to my husband’s attention. He said he could not. I suggested that perhaps the only way his system would purge my profile was by becoming the worst customer ever and not paying my bills. No response. I offered to cancel my Sear$ credit card, if that would purge it from the system. But alas, if I ever opened up a new account it would link to the old and voila, there his name would be again. After a consultation with Carlos’s supervisor, Dwayne, it was determined that there is no way of getting around the fact that my orders will be sent to my husband’s attention. Thankfully the item in question was not for my husband, but again, if it was a surprise they would have blown it right out of the water. Arrrggghhhhhhhhh! &lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like I’m living in the &lt;strong&gt;1950’s&lt;/strong&gt; for fucks sake!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; meek. I am&lt;strong&gt; not&lt;/strong&gt; subservient. I am &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; a follower.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was raised to be my &lt;em&gt;own&lt;/em&gt; person and I am &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; pleased about being overlooked and disrespected. I probably wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if this were the 1950’s, if I were a different person or if I had gotten married as a younger woman.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I said at the top of this post, this rant is &lt;em&gt;not&lt;/em&gt; about my husband. It’s “the system”. He is not doing this, and from what he has said he does not believe these events carry any weight or meaning. But &lt;strong&gt;I&lt;/strong&gt; do. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-8097873525754989349?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/8097873525754989349/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=8097873525754989349&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8097873525754989349'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/8097873525754989349'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/my-husbands-name.html' title='My Husband’s Name'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-1992758051188664605</id><published>2006-11-24T14:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-24T14:04:39.484-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Unbelievable'/><title type='text'>I Couldn't Believe My Ears!</title><content type='html'>I just called a business to see if they had a product in stock.  The guy on the phone asked me to hold on for a second, and then I heard what sounded like a fountain.  Then it stopped.  And then it started again.  Then it stopped.  Followed by a flush!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The damn guy answered the phone in the middle of taking a piss!  ROFL &amp; eeewwwwwww.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Certainly won’t ask to borrow their telephone!  LOL&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-1992758051188664605?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/1992758051188664605/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=1992758051188664605&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/1992758051188664605'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/1992758051188664605'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/i-couldnt-believe-my-ears.html' title='I Couldn&apos;t Believe My Ears!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-9195611335732160978</id><published>2006-11-22T10:40:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-22T10:42:43.680-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>Put Your Head On My ...</title><content type='html'>Hey!  That merge lane you were in ended about 200 feet ago, and so now you and your little buddy are racing down what we commonly call the &lt;em&gt;shoulder&lt;/em&gt;.  &lt;strong&gt;Dumbass!&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh yeah, and that traffic on the right up ahead?  Yeah, that’s the next onramp’s merge lane and no, you going to the outside of that lane to drive on their &lt;em&gt;shoulder&lt;/em&gt; is &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; a good idea.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-9195611335732160978?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/9195611335732160978/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=9195611335732160978&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/9195611335732160978'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/9195611335732160978'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/put-your-head-on-my.html' title='Put Your Head On My ...'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-708273412683588460</id><published>2006-11-20T23:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-20T23:03:28.046-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Manipulation'/><title type='text'>Perception Is Reality</title><content type='html'>Have you ever watched as one person somehow managed to manipulate another and when you did the math you really have to wonder, "how come that worked?"  I've recently been witnessing such behaviour and I've learned that percieved power is just as real as actual power, if your target is crippled by fear.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More on this later.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-708273412683588460?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/708273412683588460/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=708273412683588460&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/708273412683588460'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/708273412683588460'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/perception-is-reality.html' title='Perception &lt;strong&gt;Is&lt;/strong&gt; Reality'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-3106408914538516269</id><published>2006-11-20T22:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-20T22:59:40.675-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Incompetent'/><title type='text'>I Work With Children</title><content type='html'>Ok, I don't &lt;em&gt;literally &lt;/em&gt;work with children, but the people I do work with behave as though they're 4. My office has 2 levels.  Each level has a photocopier.  All day long the upstairs people were coming downstairs to use the copier.  Not too much of a big deal.  Obviously the upstairs one was being used for a big job and was occupied.  Nope.  That wasn't it at all.  In fact, the upstairs copier did not work.  Jammed or some other nonsense, rendering it useless until the service technician could come out to look at it.  When would that happen?  Never!  Never, because none of the fucking morons upstairs called for service.  Not the HR Dept, not the Sales Dept, nor any of the other allegedly capable people on the second floor managed to put 2 &amp; 2 together and try and get their machine fixed.  Nope.  It was so much easier to go up and down the stairs &lt;strong&gt;all &lt;/strong&gt;day.  How do these people hold down jobs?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just how challenging is it to place a service call, you might be wondering?  Well, you call the telephone number on the machine, quote them another number on your machine and tell them what's wrong.  That’s it. That’s all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even, at the end of the business day, when one of the evil geniuses upstairs &lt;strong&gt;DID&lt;/strong&gt; decide it would be a good idea to place a service call, they didn't do it themselves.  No.  The rocket scientist called the Receptionist downstairs and asked her to place a service call.  And as if the above was not fucking stupid enough, the upstairs person then had to go to the copier and recite all of the pertinent details to the Receptionist and describe for her the problem.  It would have been simpler for the upstairs person to just call the copier place themselves.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It amazes me that these people can find their way to the office everyday.  I work with fucking incompetents.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-3106408914538516269?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/3106408914538516269/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=3106408914538516269&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/3106408914538516269'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/3106408914538516269'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/i-work-with-children.html' title='I Work With Children'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-6698818593833103372</id><published>2006-11-18T01:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-18T01:26:52.593-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Bitch'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>You STUPID bitch!</title><content type='html'>On my drive in to work this morning I noticed a car behind me that was &lt;strong&gt;way&lt;/strong&gt; too close. So close that I could not see its headlights. So close that their only view was up my tailpipe. Whatever. The only way to fix it would have been to slam on my brakes, have them hit me, and then there’s paperwork and inconvenience, etc. So I let it go. Maybe I shouldn’t have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our lane merged onto another street, with two lanes. We both swung over to the left lane. There was one vehicle ahead of me…plus one crosswalk &amp;amp; one pedestrian. The roads were wet. I saw the pedestrian before I saw the vehicle ahead of me brake, so I applied my brakes and slowed to allow him, the pedestrian, to &lt;em&gt;finish&lt;/em&gt; crossing the street. The guy ahead of me saw him too and stopped. This all happened very quickly. Too quickly for the &lt;strong&gt;STUPID&lt;/strong&gt; bitch who had her nose up my tailpipe, to stop. After skidding and swerving behind me the &lt;strong&gt;STUPID&lt;/strong&gt; bitch decided to deek to the right to avoid my ass end, and carry on through the crosswalk. &lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;OMFG!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt; If not for the fact that the pedestrian had already &lt;em&gt;partially&lt;/em&gt; crossed the road, he surely would have been &lt;em&gt;killed&lt;/em&gt;!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I seriously (like &lt;strong&gt;really seriously&lt;/strong&gt;) considered pursuing the &lt;strong&gt;STUPID&lt;/strong&gt; bitch so I could tell her exactly what I thought of her. I decided against it because, at best, it would have ended with me kicking the shit out of her and her car.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope Karma looks after this &lt;strong&gt;STUPID&lt;/strong&gt; bitch, and quickly. In the meantime, I’ll be keeping an eye out for her myself.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-6698818593833103372?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/6698818593833103372/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=6698818593833103372&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6698818593833103372'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/6698818593833103372'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/you-stupid-bitch.html' title='You &lt;strong&gt;STUPID&lt;/strong&gt; bitch!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116357387986976109</id><published>2006-11-14T22:54:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-14T23:04:23.526-08:00</updated><title type='text'>"Rumour Has It You Have A Small Dick"</title><content type='html'>Well, seems the word got out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Spam. Rumour. What's a girl to do?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116357387986976109?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116357387986976109/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116357387986976109&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116357387986976109'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116357387986976109'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/rumour-has-it-you-have-small-dick.html' title='&quot;Rumour Has It You Have A Small Dick&quot;'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116340138341096150</id><published>2006-11-12T22:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-12T23:03:03.410-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>This One Is Mine</title><content type='html'>This is my lane.  That, over there, is &lt;strong&gt;your&lt;/strong&gt; lane.  I'm sorry there's shit happening that makes you unhappy with your lane, but that doesn't make it ok for you to come over into &lt;strong&gt;MY &lt;/strong&gt;lane!  It's mine. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That car's that's turning ahead of you?  You'll just have to wait.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The cyclist in your lane?  You'll just have to wait for an opportunity to pass that does not involve you hitting me head on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That parked car on your side of the road.  Yeah, that's unfortunate, but again, not my problem so quit swinging in to my lane.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This one is mine, so stay out!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116340138341096150?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116340138341096150/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116340138341096150&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116340138341096150'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116340138341096150'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/this-one-is-mine.html' title='This One Is Mine'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116339994854237422</id><published>2006-11-12T22:15:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-12T22:52:32.366-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Bitch'/><title type='text'>Snarky Little Bitches!</title><content type='html'>Today was &lt;strong&gt;the&lt;/strong&gt; day for snarky little bitches. I'm not sure if it's the season or just that the Retail workforce is rife with them, but man they were out in force today!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In one department store I sought out a "Sales Associate", (read 16-year old kid) to bring something down from the top shelf. I had already checked the lower shelves for the size I sought, and it was not there. I had also spied the stepladder and considered just using it to get the item myself, but decided against it. Stupid me. Anyway, I found the Associate, told her I had searched the lower shelves for said item, it wasn't there, and asked her to please bring one down from way above.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She then proceeded to check the very shelving I had just checked and &lt;strong&gt;said&lt;/strong&gt; I had checked. I advised her that she was now &lt;strong&gt;double&lt;/strong&gt; checking, to which she replied, "yeah, but I saw one here yesterday....". What the hell was that? Hello? Child, I just told you it wasn't there! Weren't you listening? *smack*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My second little darling was a cashier's helper at a warehouse store, who had not one ounce of friendliness about her and barked out orders like a sergeant. Who the hell do you think you are, Princess?  Piss off you little cow!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had left a large item in my cart, and I had also left down the shelf (where you'd seat a kid). I use the shelf. I like it to be left down. I wish everyone would quit fucking with my shelf. Anyway, she &lt;strong&gt;slammed&lt;/strong&gt; that puppy shut, glared at me, shoved the large item to the back of my cart and &lt;strong&gt;threw&lt;/strong&gt; the rest of my items haphazardly into the cart. Hmph!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you know me you'll know that this is not the type of shit I just sit back and take. Once I was done my transaction I removed the items from my cart, shoved the large item to the front of my cart, &lt;strong&gt;slammed&lt;/strong&gt; the shelf back into position and reloaded my cart, all the while glaring at the snarky little cow. Hmph!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116339994854237422?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116339994854237422/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116339994854237422&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116339994854237422'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116339994854237422'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/11/snarky-little-bitches.html' title='Snarky Little Bitches!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116192288953360949</id><published>2006-10-26T21:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-27T08:11:58.803-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>Idiocy Abounds!</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;Time is short, as is my temper right now, so I’ll keep this brief. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;If you have a yield sign, obey it. My horn is getting weak, as is my reluctance to let you run into me. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;If there’s a pedestrian in the crosswalk, stop moving and let them finish crossing the road. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Pay attention to what is around you and act accordingly. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Don’t park in the middle of the road. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Don’t pull off the shoulder and into traffic without looking. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Don’t leave your shopping cart in the middle of the grocery store aisle while you peruse the merchandise with the other 2 generations of your family. It impedes traffic. I am traffic. I am also not impressed. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;The words, “please excuse me” should be uttered before you push past me, leaving me looking jaw-agape in your direction. Don’t stand there and glare at me as if you have asked me to please move. You haven’t and I’m not going to. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Walk on the right side. It’s like driving. Keep to your side and don’t be surprise the next time I let you walk right into me. Also, that thing, where you walk up to me on the “wrong” side and stop right in front of me, waiting for me to go around you…it’s getting old. I hope you brought a book because I ain’t moving. You’re on the wrong side, YOU go around. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;When backing up your vehicle, take a look around before you hurtle backwards. Very often there is something driving by behind you. Often it is me.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116192288953360949?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116192288953360949/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116192288953360949&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116192288953360949'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116192288953360949'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/10/idiocy-abounds.html' title='Idiocy Abounds!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116179749951648475</id><published>2006-10-25T10:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-25T10:31:39.536-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>Disrespectful</title><content type='html'>Synonyms are;&lt;br /&gt;aweless, &lt;span style="color:#ff6600;"&gt;bad-mannered&lt;/span&gt;, blasphemous, bold, cheeky, contemptuous, &lt;span style="color:#ff6600;"&gt;discourteous&lt;/span&gt;, disgracious, flip, flippant, fresh, ill-bred, &lt;span style="color:#ff6600;"&gt;ill-mannered&lt;/span&gt;, impertinent, impious, &lt;span style="color:#ff6600;"&gt;impolite&lt;/span&gt;, impudent, insolent, irreverent, misbehaved, &lt;span style="color:#ff6600;"&gt;nervy&lt;/span&gt;, profanatory, profane, &lt;span style="color:#ff6600;"&gt;rude&lt;/span&gt;, sacrilegious, sassy, saucy, smart-alecky, snippy, &lt;span style="color:#ff6600;"&gt;uncivil&lt;/span&gt;, unfilial, ungracious&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More and more I’m experiencing what is best described as disrespectful drivers on the roads. I touched on it &lt;a href="http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/how-fast-do-you-think-you-are.html"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt; and it has reared its ugly head, yet again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pull your head out of your ass and use it to shoulder check before you change lanes. Also, you driving sideways &lt;strong&gt;into&lt;/strong&gt; me does not guarantee that I’ll slow down to let you in. Thus far it has been my reluctant choice to brake for you, so as to avoid body damage, however I’m on the verge of making a different choice. And as I’ve alluded to I the past, should you continue to pull that kind of shit, we &lt;strong&gt;will&lt;/strong&gt; meet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My "Jimmy" of yesterday was a blue Audi A4, plate CDS 339, who had to change lanes and get in front of me, even though he was &lt;strong&gt;beside&lt;/strong&gt; me. I'll post his photo once I dump the pics out of my phone. I think this is exactly why camera phones were &lt;em&gt;invented&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116179749951648475?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116179749951648475/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116179749951648475&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116179749951648475'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116179749951648475'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/10/disrespectful_25.html' title='Disrespectful'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116158217463125496</id><published>2006-10-22T22:39:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-22T22:42:54.633-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dear Santa</title><content type='html'>I need a notepad for Christmas. Something small I can keep in my vehicle, for when I need to write down the license plate numbers of the morons around me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I keep writing the info down on scraps of paper and on receipts and then I lose track of them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to give the impression that things are improving out there on the roads. Because they're not. I just need a better system.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116158217463125496?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116158217463125496/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116158217463125496&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116158217463125496'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116158217463125496'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/10/dear-santa.html' title='Dear Santa'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116158032545357113</id><published>2006-10-22T22:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-22T22:38:41.276-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Parking'/><title type='text'>I'm Going To Kill This Little Fucker!!!!!!</title><content type='html'>On Saturday I went to a local mall to check something out on behalf of Barney. I arrived at the busier than hell mall and began to seek a parking spot. Finally I found a person who was leaving and after they pulled out of the spot I advanced towards it. I found myself in the same circumstances I outlined &lt;a href="http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/you-miserable-cow.html"&gt;here&lt;/a&gt; and again, I decided to take the high road. I indicated to the advancing driver my intention to park in the newly vacated stall after he passed by, and what did he do? He pulled into the &lt;strong&gt;fucking&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;em&gt; &lt;/em&gt;parking spot! I seriously thought I was going to kill the little fucker. I laid on the horn, parked myself behind his vehicle, put my hazard lights on, took his picture with my camera phone and called him every name in the book for well over a minute (trust me, it's a long time to be cursing). Him? He hid in his car, secretively sneaking glances at me in his rear view mirror. I was &lt;strong&gt;THIS&lt;/strong&gt; close to doing something that would have landed me an assault charge. Seriously. I haven't felt such rage in a long time. Even the miserable cow I referred to didn't piss me off as badly, probably because I hadn't made eye contact with her. This little fucker who I was going to kill, well that's a different story. He knew what was going on.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While still seething I drove around to snap yet another photograph of the front of his car, found a parking space and went into the mall. On my way towards the entrance door I spotted the little fucker who I was going to kill. He went into the store I was going into.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It took all I had left in me &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; to confront the little fucker. I decided to go about my business, find the item in question and get the hell away from the mall. To summarize; the item was out of stock and after standing in the line at the customer service counter per the instructions of a staff member (and against my better judgment), I was advised that "rain checks" would not be issued for the item in question. Arrrggghhhhhh!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need to figure out how to get the pictures out of my phone and onto the computer. I need to do this so I can post the pictures. And also so I can get the license plate of the little fucker who I was going to kill. I've come up with a way around possible assault charges...and I'm ready to try it out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh, and in future, when I see a parking space I want you'd better be ready to hit your brakes because I &lt;strong&gt;will&lt;/strong&gt; be cutting you off from now on.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116158032545357113?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116158032545357113/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116158032545357113&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116158032545357113'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116158032545357113'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/10/im-going-to-kill-this-little-fucker.html' title='I&apos;m Going To Kill This Little Fucker!!!!!!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116074938237894042</id><published>2006-10-13T07:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-13T07:24:06.936-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>Jimmy</title><content type='html'>A group of my co-workers use the name “Jimmy” to generically describe employees who screw up. Here are my Jimmies of late;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;302 BJB – Silver CRV – pulled the bully move of merging into the &lt;strong&gt;side &lt;/strong&gt;of me, thereby forcing me to slam on my brakes in order to avoid the collision. There’s such a thing as shoulder checking and also manners, Jimmy!  That you laughed about it afterwards further proves that you're just a teenaged asshole.  That noise you heard...yeah, that was my horn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;647 GMK – some nondescript gold car with a real jackass behind the wheel. Lane changes over solid white lines, swerving all over the highway using all lanes to seek an advantage, all the while talking away on his cell phone.  Pity you got stuck behind that slow car in the fast lane beside me. Way to go, Jimmy!  Maybe you should try driving on the shoulder next time.  Nard!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This last “Jimmy” really &lt;b&gt;was&lt;/b&gt; a Jimmy. A white Jimmy, plate 565 FMB. This winner decided that tailgating the guy in front of me and flashing his lights from high to low beam would be a good way to advance his position…in the grid locked traffic. What the fuck did you think was going to happen for you there?  Knob!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116074938237894042?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116074938237894042/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116074938237894042&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116074938237894042'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116074938237894042'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/10/jimmy_13.html' title='Jimmy'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-116074888354774020</id><published>2006-10-13T07:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-13T07:15:22.746-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Vacation</title><content type='html'>I was recently on vacation. 3 weeks worth, actually. It was bliss. I spent my time in and around BC and I have to say, the further I got from home, the fewer "bad" drivers I found. Maybe it's that I was just more forgiving of the transgressions but honestly, no real "winners" stand out. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is my third day back and as you'll see in my next post, a fuck-up a day keeps the low blood pressure away.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-116074888354774020?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/116074888354774020/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=116074888354774020&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116074888354774020'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/116074888354774020'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/10/vacation.html' title='Vacation'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115916499437549872</id><published>2006-09-24T23:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-24T23:17:23.160-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Shopping Carts'/><title type='text'>You're Not The Only Ones</title><content type='html'>This is to the morons who abandon their shopping carts in the middle of store aisles, with their kids &amp; their grandparents in tow; you're not the only ones in the store! I'm sick and fucking tired of waiting for you to realise that you are causing a traffic jam. I'm also sick of pushing &lt;b&gt;your&lt;/b&gt; fucking shopping carts out of the way so that I and others can get by. There &lt;b&gt;are&lt;/b&gt; other people in the store. It's not just about &lt;i&gt;you&lt;/i&gt;. Wake the fuck up!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115916499437549872?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115916499437549872/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115916499437549872&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115916499437549872'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115916499437549872'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/youre-not-only-ones.html' title='You&apos;re Not The Only Ones'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115916439083378851</id><published>2006-09-24T22:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-24T23:06:30.846-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Parking'/><title type='text'>You Miserable Cow!</title><content type='html'>Last week I was driving through a parking lot in Washington State when I had an experience that makes me wonder how some people were raised.  I was looking for a parking spot and had located someone who was backing out.  In order to get to my intended spot I needed to cross in front of oncoming traffic, and because I have manners, I decided not to cut-off the Lexus that was heading in my direction.  I signaled my intention and waited for them to drive by, but alas, the Lexus driver was not raised to &lt;b&gt;have&lt;/b&gt; manners...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You miserable cow!", is what I hollered out my window in the direction of said Lexus, as the driver pulled into my intended parking spot.  Thanks a lot you weathered old bag!  Who the hell taught you to &lt;b&gt;be&lt;/b&gt; like that???&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have not totally given up hope that there are still some considerate people out there, but the grey haired bag driving the silver Lexus, with the Washington State license plate 761 FRS, sure as hell ain't one of 'em.  Old enough to know better, indeed.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115916439083378851?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115916439083378851/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115916439083378851&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115916439083378851'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115916439083378851'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/you-miserable-cow.html' title='You Miserable Cow!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115916335757504522</id><published>2006-09-24T22:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-24T22:49:17.576-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Shopping Carts'/><title type='text'>99% Of The Way There</title><content type='html'>I was out shopping today and observed a woman unload her shopping cart into her vehicle and walk the cart over to quite near where the carts are supposed to be returned to.  But instead of turning the cart so it would be in line with the rest of the carts, she just left it in front of the line.  She was 99% of the way there.  Why the hell didn't she just turn the cart?  I don't understand going to that much effort and then to stop at the very last possible moment.  Odd.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115916335757504522?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115916335757504522/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115916335757504522&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115916335757504522'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115916335757504522'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/99-of-way-there.html' title='99% Of The Way There'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115801268999839713</id><published>2006-09-11T15:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-11T15:11:30.013-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Tap.............................Tap</title><content type='html'>This morning I arrived at work a little bit early, as is the norm since school went back in and I need to leave earlier to &lt;strike&gt;beat&lt;/strike&gt; avoid the masses. I was in the parking lot reading my newspaper when a vehicle parked beside me. I made note that it was the Sales manager and resumed reading my paper.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He got out of his SUV and closed the front door. He then went to the driver’s side rear door and opened it, presumably to get his briefcase etc. That was when I felt it. *tap*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stopped reading and asked myself, “Did he just hit my vehicle with his door?” I looked in my sideview mirror and it sure &lt;strong&gt;looked&lt;/strong&gt; like his door was touching my door.  Buuuuut, then discounted it, because surely he saw me sitting in my vehicle and would not do such a thing while I was right there, and maybe it was just my imagination. And then it happened again. *tap*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ok, now I knew it had happened, twice in fact, and the question now became, do I have that most uncomfortable conversation and call him out on it, or do I play it safe and let it go.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fuck it! This is the kind of shit that usually happens with no witnesses and you, like I, usually return to find your door dented or some paint scrape left by an inconsiderate knob.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So….after another second of consideration I opened my rear passenger window, greeted him and asked him to please not hit my vehicle with his door.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said “I didn’t”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I said “You did…twice…and I felt it”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said, shaking his head all the while, “Then I’m sorry.  I made an effort not to”, in a tone that suggested it was better to just say sorry than argue. Clearly he did not think he had hit me in the slightest.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Honestly, it was not the level of contact that would likely result in body or paint damage, but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is the kind of thing that I would probably have just let slide in the past. And considering just how uncomfortable it has potentially now made my working relationship with this person, maybe that’s just what I should have done. But I’m just not that person anymore.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115801268999839713?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115801268999839713/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115801268999839713&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115801268999839713'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115801268999839713'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/taptap.html' title='Tap.............................Tap'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115769305071443686</id><published>2006-09-07T22:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-07T22:24:10.736-07:00</updated><title type='text'>School's Back In</title><content type='html'>Doesn't mean as much as it did when I was actually in school, but I do notice it.  It inconveniences me.  More bodies milling about, more morons on the road, those who wouldn't "normally" venture out do, and they are clueless.  Hopefully everyone will settle the hell down in the next few weeks and my commute can get back to normal. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have you noticed the skirts of private school girls?  What the hell is up with the skirts?  I know the stereotypical male fantasy about the school girl costume, but I'll be damned if the real thing isn't almost pornographic.  And you know what?  If you're an adult and you want to wear crotch revealing skirts...well, then I guess that's your prerogative, but I'm talking about &lt;strong&gt;girls&lt;/strong&gt;.  12 &amp; 13 years old.  Hell, it would be wrong at 17 years old, but I digress. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why the hell don't the parents or someone at the schools take a look at the uniforms and realize that these children are walking about advertising their goods?  Eye catching indeed.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115769305071443686?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115769305071443686/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115769305071443686&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115769305071443686'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115769305071443686'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/schools-back-in.html' title='School&apos;s Back In'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115750752750217967</id><published>2006-09-05T18:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-05T19:09:40.060-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>How Fast Do You Think You Are?</title><content type='html'>How fast must you think your vehicle to be to pull out in front of me when I'm going highway speed and you, you are starting from a standstill?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Happened this past weekend on a major highway. There were literally &lt;strong&gt;2&lt;/strong&gt; seconds between me and the person ahead of me, each of us doing 100k/hr and somehow &lt;strong&gt;you &lt;/strong&gt;decided that there was enough room for you to get in the&lt;strong&gt; &lt;/strong&gt;act. &lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;WRONG!!!!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Likewise, on the way home today on the highway, my lane was moving along at speed, the other lane at a standstill due to left turn lane backup. What the hell were you thinking, pulling out of your lane and into mine?  Did you not see me? I'll answer that one for ya, and no you did not. If you had you wouldn't have done it. You drive a sub-compact piece of shit and I drive an Explorer, with extraordinary brakes, as evidenced by the fact that I did not paste you. I wasn't real fond of the screeching and the fishtailing, but I figured that would be better than scraping the mess off of my grill. You should be dead.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Unless you're packing a hit of nitrous and are going to use it, don't do that shit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Where's my amnesty day?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115750752750217967?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115750752750217967/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115750752750217967&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115750752750217967'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115750752750217967'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/how-fast-do-you-think-you-are.html' title='How Fast Do You Think You Are?'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115750733256015597</id><published>2006-09-05T18:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-05T18:48:52.576-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>THE Corner</title><content type='html'>Do you have a place where bad things repeatedly happen to you while you're driving? I do. It's the corner just up from my house. It has become &lt;strong&gt;THE&lt;/strong&gt; corner. The one where people try and kill me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My street would be considered the main street and the intersection concerned involves a short 1-block street, notably close to several schools. Countless times while I am driving down my street have jackasses pulled out of the short street and right into my path. I really cannot count the number of times I have almost been hit at this intersection. People pull out, turning left and directly into my path. People pull out to turn right and totally cut me off, to the point where I am at a dead stop in the intersection, wondering "what the hell was that?".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've taken to driving on the wrong side of the street as I pass by this intersection, if only to allow myself more time to evade the fucktards who will inevitably pull out from the short street. I also make a point of taking a deep breath as I approach, just so I won't be caught thinking about breathing while I evade the next jerk-off to come barreling at me. It has changed who I am, it pisses me off and I'm tired of the anxiety.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm waiting for my day of amnesty so I can say "fuck it" and just take the hit.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115750733256015597?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115750733256015597/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115750733256015597&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115750733256015597'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115750733256015597'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/corner.html' title='THE Corner'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115750632276800332</id><published>2006-09-05T18:02:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-05T18:32:02.793-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>Amnesty</title><content type='html'>I need a day of it.  I want just one day where I don't twist myself into a vehicular pretzel avoiding your dumbass mistakes.  Really, I just want to follow through and hit you when you can't negotiate a corner, can't park properly, can't change lanes properly, can't merge worth a shit, make bad lane change choices, yield when you should be merging, dart out in front of me &amp; drive too fucking slow in the fast lane.  It's as simple as that.  I want you morons to &lt;strong&gt;feel&lt;/strong&gt; the consequences of your actions.  I'm not looking to kill you, despite that fact that on many occasions only by the grace of &lt;strong&gt;my&lt;/strong&gt; driving skills have you been allowed to escape with your life.  I'd like a day off of being your savior on the road and just let the fenders &amp; bumpers fall where they may.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm tired of looking out for you.  Really, really tired.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115750632276800332?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115750632276800332/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115750632276800332&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115750632276800332'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115750632276800332'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/09/amnesty.html' title='Amnesty'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115704875225199421</id><published>2006-08-31T11:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-31T11:25:52.263-07:00</updated><title type='text'>.ca vs .com</title><content type='html'>"The Websense category "Sex" is filtered"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, there you have it.  A message that blocks my access to my little place on the net, as it were.  I’m not blocked everywhere, just from work.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think it has to do, not with what is at the site I’m trying to access, but what lies at a similarly named site, save for the .ca vs .com. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, for the sake of 2 letters I am denied access to my little happy place.  I hope this passes.  Good thing I still have access to the help wanted classifies...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115704875225199421?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115704875225199421/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115704875225199421&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115704875225199421'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115704875225199421'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/ca-vs-com.html' title='.ca vs .com'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115621438937847028</id><published>2006-08-21T19:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-21T19:41:15.826-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>I've Got Your Number....</title><content type='html'>...and I'm calling it!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's right! If you're foolish enough to drive like a moron with your company's name &amp;amp; number all over your vehicle, then I'm going to give them a jingle. I've recently taken to calling up bus and taxi dispatchers to tell them exactly how badly some of their drivers are representing their company in the real world.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mr. Taxi driver, who changed lanes through the marked crosswalk, and Mr. Bus driver, who made no less than 6 lanes changes in a 1 km stretch of highway, you are both morons, however your dispatchers are lovely people who took the time to listen to me complain about your foolishness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, you there, in the company vehicles, who are driving like knobs...I've got your number and I'm going to use it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115621438937847028?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115621438937847028/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115621438937847028&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115621438937847028'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115621438937847028'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/ive-got-your-number.html' title='I&apos;ve Got Your Number....'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115595992882923116</id><published>2006-08-18T20:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-18T21:02:38.670-07:00</updated><title type='text'>"Baby On Board"</title><content type='html'>You've seen the signs. Surely you have. They're everywhere, on practically every vehicle. Baby on Board..Child in Car, you get the idea.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I want to know is what are you hoping will happen when you display that sign? What's the purpose? What are you trying to achieve?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By all means, display your plastic signs if you like but the way I see it there are two kinds of drivers out there on the roads with you and your signs;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) The type of driver who goes about their business, drives like a normal person, understands the rules of the road, pays attention to what goes on around them and wouldn't intentionally place another’s vehicle in harms way. These people are aware.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2) The type of driver who behaves like “me first” at any cost, I want what I want when I want it and I don’t care who’s in my way or what I have to do to get there and I’m more important than you.  A common bully. These people have no concern for the wellbeing of others, are ignorant, opportunistic and oblivious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By my calculations the type “1” driver is not going to change their style because of the type of passengers you carry in your car. They’re already doing the right thing by you on the road, regardless of who is in your vehicle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The type “2” driver is a fucktard, unwilling or unable to respect other people and they have no clue how reckless they are. There is no reforming these people and they do not give a shit about anybody but themselves. Period.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115595992882923116?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115595992882923116/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115595992882923116&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115595992882923116'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115595992882923116'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/baby-on-board.html' title='&quot;Baby On Board&quot;'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115559410853827286</id><published>2006-08-14T15:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-14T15:21:48.540-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>My Cruise Control Reveals Your Lack Of Driving Skill</title><content type='html'>My current vehicle has cruise control &amp; is an automatic.  Two features I’ve never had in a vehicle before.  I went from changing gears and accelerating on my own to a vehicle that could practically drive itself and only recently have chosen to sometimes relinquish speed control.  Hell, I'm behind the wheel so I might as well do something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While highway driving it is just amazing to me how bad some people are at maintaining a consistent speed and I would not really realize it if it were not for the cruise control.  I set my speed and go while others are speeding up and slowing down all over the place.  I’m constantly on the brakes or changing lanes to accommodate for the inconsistent or otherwise incompetent.  I wonder if I used to be like that?  Actually, I don't care if I was.  Now everybody else is really annoying me!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115559410853827286?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115559410853827286/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115559410853827286&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115559410853827286'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115559410853827286'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/my-cruise-control-reveals-your-lack-of.html' title='My Cruise Control Reveals Your Lack Of Driving Skill'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115559399994480016</id><published>2006-08-14T15:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-14T15:19:59.953-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>NARDS!!!</title><content type='html'>It’s an old expression that resurfaced in my vocabulary this past weekend. I don’t recall exactly what it meant back in the day, but this weekend it referred to a combination of “knobs” &amp; “retards” on the road. Gawd there were so many of them I can’t even recall the specifics now…except for one…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This past weekend a friend &amp;amp; I went Stateside for a daylong shopping trip, with the majority of the trip being highway driving. On the return trip we encountered the subject of this post. A young lady in a blue Rav 4, pretty obviously a new driver based on her “10 &amp; 2” hand positioning, was also headed home. I drive at the speed limit or a little bit above it, and so generally I’m passing people, or at minimum, moving with the flow of traffic. Being an experienced driver I know to watch the road ahead for slow pokes, on/off ramps &amp;amp; the popo. The young lady was not as savvy…nowhere near in fact.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I set the cruise and we headed on our merry way home. I’m well aware of the law about keeping right except to pass, but as I was doing just above the speed limit, myself and about ½ the others on the road were in the left lane, moving along quite nicely and likely using cruise control.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I’m driving along in the fast lane, going with the flow of traffic, and Miss Rav 4 is behind me in the slow lane, advancing quite rapidly, only to be slowed by traffic merging from an onramp, and so over she comes into the fast lane, gets by the mergers and back over to the slow lane. And again, she advances quickly up to almost beside me, and again, is slowed by traffic in the slow lane. This time she clues in and stays in the fast lane and is moving along behind me, but then her speed drops off and she slides back over to the slow lane. Then her speed picks up and again she sling shots herself back up beside me, to the point where I think she’s actually going to pass me this time, but alas, again she is slowed by the merging traffic. She swings over to the fast lane, only to find herself going slower than the merging traffic, and so she slides back over to the slow lane. And so it went…continually…for upwards of 30 miles. She actually became a distraction to my driving and it became a game for my passenger and I to guess when Miss Rav 4 would make her next lane change. I swear she made no less than 50 lane changes in about 20 miles, always ending up directly behind me. And so, if you see a young lady in a blue Rav 4, license plate 898 HCX, considered yourself warned and enjoy the sport of watching her flounder about as we did.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115559399994480016?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115559399994480016/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115559399994480016&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115559399994480016'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115559399994480016'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/nards.html' title='NARDS!!!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115557340739503767</id><published>2006-08-14T09:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-14T09:40:59.176-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>Random Morons</title><content type='html'>Friday, August 11th – to the moron driving the red &lt;strong&gt;Pacific Salmon Commission&lt;/strong&gt; vehicle; the HOV lane is for 3+ people in your vehicle. It’s &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; there so that “special” people, alone in their vehicle like &lt;strong&gt;you&lt;/strong&gt;, can go faster than the rest of us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Since I don’t think you’re capable of behaving like a normal person, how about you save the fucktard driving for your own personal vehicle, and not when you’re out driving the &lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;MARKED&lt;/em&gt; Pacific Salmon Commission car&lt;/strong&gt;. Moron!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Monday, August 14th - to the moron driving the white Chevy p/u, license plate 1984 HX – in order for me to know that you want to merge, you have to;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;a) be ahead of me and&lt;br /&gt;b) use your indicator so that I can see what it is you want.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks for just about sideswiping me this morning to indicate your lane preference. I’ll be watching for you next time and if you try that shit again we are going to meet. Moron!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115557340739503767?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115557340739503767/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115557340739503767&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115557340739503767'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115557340739503767'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/random-morons.html' title='Random Morons'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115531028567666071</id><published>2006-08-11T08:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-13T14:02:26.336-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Driving'/><title type='text'>"N" = Not Very Good At This</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;A few notes;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;to the "N"ew driver in the green p/u from this morning; that sweeping 3-lane change you &lt;strong&gt;think&lt;/strong&gt; you smoothly executed at 120k...yeah, not so much. You left a sea of evasive driving maneuveres and brake lights in your wake, asshole&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;that space on the outside of the single lane is called a "shoulder". It is &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; an extra lane made just for &lt;strong&gt;you&lt;/strong&gt; to drive in. Get the fuck back behind me and wait your damned turn, you knob&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;I get that you're in a hurry, but to ride someones ass until they make their turn and to then floor it through the &lt;strong&gt;RED &lt;/strong&gt;light was so not cool&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115531028567666071?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115531028567666071/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115531028567666071&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115531028567666071'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115531028567666071'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/n-not-very-good-at-this.html' title='&quot;N&quot; = Not Very Good At This'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115515789074052858</id><published>2006-08-09T14:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-09T14:17:22.153-07:00</updated><title type='text'>“Please Leave Me Feedback”</title><content type='html'>eBay sellers of the world, I’m fucking &lt;strong&gt;sick and tired&lt;/strong&gt; of getting this request from some of you! I’m not much into eBay but when I’m there I am most often a buyer. From the way I’ve been spoken to lately it seems “feedback” is now a hotly guarded commodity, very precious and not to be given unless you get it first. WTF?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As with most things in this world, there is a natural progression through most eBay transactions. The seller lists an item. The highest bidder at the end is successful, and must pay for the item. The seller will then ship the item. The receiver then acknowledges receipt of said item. Here’s where things go awfully wrong, IMO.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.If, as the buyer, I pay you and you deem my payment to be satisfactory, then I have fulfilled my obligation as a buyer and you ought to leave me feedback for making proper payment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Once I receive the item you send me and I deem it to be as described and shipped in a timely manner, then I should leave feedback for you, for fulfilling your obligations as a seller.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What’s happening now is that the minute I make payment, but before the item is received, I get email from &lt;strike&gt;morons&lt;/strike&gt; sellers, the likes of the following;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Thank you for purchasing “X”. Please leave feedback for me on eBay and I'll do the same for you. Take this opportunity now and help build a better eBay community.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And these 3 gems, all from “Gary”;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“I will ship out your package today please give feedback and I will do the same."&lt;br /&gt;“Hi, don't forget feedback”&lt;br /&gt;“I don't give feedback anymore ahead of time because out of 30 feedbacks that I give I get only 10 back this is from past experience. I always give feedback to those who give me feedback.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fuck off already and quit sniveling for feedback when I haven’t even received fucking item yet! Give your head a shake! It should be enough that I am, once again, yelling “what the hell was that” into thin air as I read these messages, but alas, I can no longer let it go and I have to respond;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“I haven't forgotten feedback, but it seems you might have overlooked leaving me feedback upon your receipt of my payment. I fully intend to leave you positive feedback as ours was a smooth transaction. Please extend me the same courtesy.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Hi Gary,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That you presume to judge me on the deeds of others bothers me to no end. As I have never wronged you I am appalled that you’ve given yourself the right to call into question my integrity.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is my belief that the feedback tool should be used by members as a transaction progresses chronologically. Once a portion of the transaction is completed the quality of it should be reported on, i.e. feedback left. I feel it’s a logical position to take as well as an honorable way in which to conduct business.&lt;br /&gt;Regardless of how I feel about the position you’ve taken with regard to holding feedback hostage, the fact of the matter (and we should both be dealing with the facts) is that ours was a smooth transaction, and as such I have left you feedback to that effect, as I always indicated I would.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What a disheartening end to an otherwise lovely transaction.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You know what? I get that feedback = reputation, and that some people in this world will screw you over for a nickel, but get over it already. It’s not important enough to beg for, and how &lt;strong&gt;dare&lt;/strong&gt; you even bring up &lt;strong&gt;me&lt;/strong&gt; leaving &lt;strong&gt;you&lt;/strong&gt; feedback when I’ve already paid you and &lt;strong&gt;you&lt;/strong&gt; haven’t &lt;strong&gt;even &lt;/strong&gt;shipped the damn thing out to me! Quit wasting my fucking time. I have better things to do than tune-up the likes of you!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115515789074052858?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115515789074052858/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115515789074052858&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115515789074052858'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115515789074052858'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/please-leave-me-feedback.html' title='“Please Leave Me Feedback”'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115501708167356521</id><published>2006-08-07T22:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-07T23:08:38.753-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Arrogance of Entitlement</title><content type='html'>Who the hell do you think you are and what the hell was that? How the hell to some clowns decide that their time and their life is more valuable than mine? I mean really, I must have missed the fucking memo, because clearly you are far and above the rest of us, you dinks! Picture this; you're driving downhill on winding single lane highway, with signs everywhere saying "do not pass". The oncoming traffic coming up the winding highway has two lanes. You get that it's winding, right? There's a slow moving vehicle (semi, 5th wheel, bus or what not) crawling down the hill with a line of traffic backing up behind. If you're behind the slow mover then the right thing to do is take a deep breath, drop down a gear or two and suck it up while waiting for a passing lane, or for the guy to pull over or for the solid double line to become a broken line, at which time you might be able to safely pull out to pass. Did any of the above happen today, uhhhhh...&lt;strong&gt;no&lt;/strong&gt;. Instead of driving like normal people, no less than 6 drivers decided that they were entitled to take lives into their own hands and pass the slow mover by pulling into the oncoming lane, with oncoming traffic veering out of the way, so that they, the arrogant bastards that they are, didn't have to be inconvenienced. And I'm not just talking about the usual testosterone laden sports car that sling shots out of nowhere, I'm talking about pick-up trucks hauling trailers. Come on you assholes! What the fuck is that about? I don't give a rats ass if you crash and burn in a pile by yourself, but how superior you must be to take those chances with other people's lives? Arrrggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I would have posted the license plate numbers of all the jackasses I encountered today, but I think that would have been too much of a burden for Blogger.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My American friends, particularly those drivers from Washington State. I have been to your lovely State and seen the informative highway signs that say "keep right except to pass". It's the law in your State, and good idea here too. So why on earth do you feel the need to drive in the left lane, below the posted speed limit, when the ever so empty right lane is available for your use? Why?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115501708167356521?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115501708167356521/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115501708167356521&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115501708167356521'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115501708167356521'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/arrogance-of-entitlement.html' title='The Arrogance of Entitlement'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115461563245465633</id><published>2006-08-03T07:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-03T07:33:52.466-07:00</updated><title type='text'>So Here's The Thing...</title><content type='html'>If I have to adjust what I'm doing in order &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; to hit you, then you've done something wrong. I'm talking about lane changes, backing up, turning, etc.  If you make a turn and can't get up to speed before I am on your ass, then you've made a bad choice. It's really as simple as that.  I'm not talking about places where traffic has to merge, because hello, dumbasses, that means we have to work together to get two lanes smoothly turned into one, and I am onboard with that alternating thing.   However, if I have to hit the brakes or take evasive driving maneuvers, while yelling "What the &lt;strong&gt;hell&lt;/strong&gt; was that!!!" then you are in my bad books and may well make it into this blog. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As an aside, merge &amp; yield signs do &lt;strong&gt;not&lt;/strong&gt; mean the same thing, but I'll get into that another time.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115461563245465633?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115461563245465633/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115461563245465633&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115461563245465633'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115461563245465633'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/08/so-heres-thing.html' title='So Here&apos;s The Thing...'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115441061324880359</id><published>2006-07-31T22:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-07-31T22:36:53.256-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Crack Heads!</title><content type='html'>There's a problem in my neighbourhood.  A rental house owned by a slumlord.  First came the hillbiliies the with barking dogs, and then came the revolving door of subletters downstairs from the hillbillies.  Loud parties, cops attending occasionally, mattresses out front of the property, broken down vehicles on the &lt;strong&gt;lawn&lt;/strong&gt;... need I go on?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Six months ago the hillbillies moved to Antigua (or some shit) and in moved a decent couple with two kids.  They wanted to rent the whole house, but alas no, the slumlord wouldn't hear of it and proceeded to rent the downstairs out to no less than 3 different groups of people in 6 months.  I say groups because there were probably only supposed to be 2 people in there, but hey, if you can fit six , good on ya.  Flop house is about right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fast forward to yesterday, when I noticed the decent couple moving out.  Alas, they can take no more of the slumlord and have found themselves a better gig.  The breaking point, as I found out, was that not only were the knobs downstairs smoking in the house (a no-no) they were smoking....crack.  Yes, crack heads smoking the shit in the house = bad for decent neighbours.  And so they got the fuck out and I don't blame them in the least.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so tonight, in some sort of celebration or perhaps over indulgence in the crack, the alleged 2 people downstairs brought their 5 selves outside, to the driveway, and proceeded to cause a "domestic disturbance".  What the hell was that?  Some young woman hits somebody else, 2 crazed grown women are hollering at each another one dog runs loose, and two cop cars arrive.  The placing of one young woman into the back of cop car #1 drives the lone male to hurl a lighter (a crack head staple) at the cops, resulting in said male being placed in the back of cop car #2.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The catch to this whole thing, and I know it's been awhile to get here, is that the fucking slumlord is himself...a cop!  Way to go, fucktard!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115441061324880359?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115441061324880359/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115441061324880359&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115441061324880359'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115441061324880359'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/07/crack-heads.html' title='Crack Heads!'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115432613884800442</id><published>2006-07-30T23:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-10T21:51:00.930-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lane Change 101</title><content type='html'>Ok, so riddle me this; &lt;strong&gt;Why&lt;/strong&gt; do you choose to change lanes by crossing over a solid line? Don't you &lt;strong&gt;realise&lt;/strong&gt; that to do so is illegal? Stupid? Unnecessary? Gah!!!! You change lanes over a solid line and then don't even &lt;strong&gt;take&lt;/strong&gt; the next exit. So your need to change lanes was, aside from being &lt;strong&gt;illegal&lt;/strong&gt;, not even a fucking emergency? What the hell was that? Fucking idiot!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115432613884800442?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115432613884800442/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115432613884800442&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115432613884800442'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115432613884800442'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/07/lane-change-101.html' title='Lane Change 101'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31837171.post-115415510613086618</id><published>2006-07-28T23:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-07-29T00:24:32.416-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What The Hell Was That?</title><content type='html'>&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;It's a question I hear myself asking a lot lately. Granted, I'm usually driving alone in the car when I say it, or sometimes at work, but this 5-word question has become my question of the day, and that warrants some further attention. Ergo, this blog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seriously though, if I listen to the sound of the frustration as it goes screaming past my lips, yet again, the words that fly out are "what the hell was that"?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is going to be both a place of observation and a place of judgement, because from what I've seen in the world lately, there're a whole lotta people who could use a tune-up, and I'm gonna out them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/31837171-115415510613086618?l=what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/feeds/115415510613086618/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=31837171&amp;postID=115415510613086618&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115415510613086618'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/31837171/posts/default/115415510613086618'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://what-the-hell-was-that.blogspot.com/2006/07/what-hell-was-that.html' title='What The Hell Was That?'/><author><name>Betty</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://www3.telus.net/trishl/Trish/betty.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
