Donating to WikiLeaks and the Julian Assange Defence Fund Made Easy...

See and download the full gallery on posterous

...or as easy as it's going to be in the foreseeable future.

Straight away, I'm not going to editorialize or comment one way or the other on the value of WikiLeaks as an organization or on the innocence, guilt, or multitudinous hairstyles of Julian Assange.  There is another resource out there to help you make up your mind if you haven't done so already.  It's called the internet, and it's right over there. →

The sole purpose of this post, from which you can likely gather my opinion on the matter (unless you're completely daft), is to make donating to Julian's defence fund (from Canada, at least) as simple as possible - because it's really NOT simple, at least to the layperson lacking in banking savvy. <sarcasm> Thank you, PayPal and various credit organizations. </sarcasm>

One: I bank with RBC (Royal Bank of Canada), so all of my screenshots are from their system.  I provide the following hoping that most other Canadian banking institutions are similarly set up.

First off, you've got a function for paying bills and/or transferring funds online.  Befriend it.  You can go to the bank in person and pay $40 for a wire transfer, or you can pay $13 to do an International Remittance online.  Select that.  See below.  (I've also included all of the following screenshots in a separate gallery as I don't trust that my formatting will work according to plan.)

Once you've selected your International Remittance option, your bank should be able to populate all of your personal information with what pre-exists according to your bank account data.  Select the United Kingdom as the country to which you wish to transfer funds.  Again, see below.

The next step is pretty basic.  Pick which account you want to transfer funds from, and run with it.  For currency, use GBP.  Speaking from a finance background, you want to talk to the receiving bank in its native currency - it leaves less room for confusion.  The receiving bank may not arbitrarily accept foreign funds, so you want to stay on the same page as them.  Below for reference.

Once you fill in whatever you feel like in this form, it'll bring up a cost review sheet.  The conversion from CAD to GBP isn't always a pretty thing.  Suck it up.

THIS STUFF IS IMPORTANT.  If you're already a dynamo in the world of wire transfers, you can find everything you need here.  If not, copy precisely what I've shown below:

And then...  * ALSO CRUCIALLY IMPORTANT *

After this, you should get a couple of screens asking to verify what you've entered in the last couple, then a very long list of terms that you need to agree to, and finally an option to confirm all of the above.  Please ensure you double check everything you've entered above.  For reference, again, in case you were too lazy to click on the link above:

Bank:  Barclays Bank plc 

Name of Account: “FSI - Julian Assange Defence Fund”  

Account number: 93842452 

Sort code: 20-77-67 

BIC/Swift code BARC GB22.   

IBAN:  GB86 BARC 2077 6793 8424 52

If you're having any difficulties and need some assistance, please contact me at robynn.k.holmstrom@gmail.com

And if you don't appreciate what I've written so far, why are you still reading?

Love,

Robynn

 

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Why I Shouldn't Do Laundry Vol. 1

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What Happened at The Husband's Christmas Party THIS Year

As you are aware from yesterday's post, last night was The Husband's Christmas party.  I promised you an update.  In the best interests of my hangover, I'm going to keep it very brief and to the point.  Here goes:

 

Number of minutes spent lurking near dessert table during "Operation Steal Cute Pinecone"

10

 

Number of times "Husband, cover for me!" was uttered:

1

 

Number of times The Husband had to question why he was covering for me:

7

 

Number of minutes it took to explain "Operation Steal Cute Pinecone" to The Husband

3

 

Number of cute pinecones successfully stolen:

6  (YES!)

 

Number of funny looks I got when I left the bathroom stall where I had photographed said pinecones* and went back to the party:

4

 

Number of funny looks that were probably due to the fact that it appeared that I had used the washroom and gone back to the party without washing my hands:

4

 

Number of minutes it took me to figure out that "oh, THAT'S why" I was being looked at scornfully:

2

 

There are numerous other things I could tabulate, but honestly, the most important thing is that I got my pinecone(s).  The party was fun.  This year I avoided awkward conversations by wandering around and finding interesting things to look at.  On that note, I'm going to head to the couch and look at the inside of my eyelids for a couple of hours.

As a parting gift, allow me to share with you the best text-message interchange of the evening:

RH:  My husband's boss just pulled my ponytail.  On purpose.  I may stab him.

DM:  Holy crap.  You should.  Just do it.  Act like it was an accident.  Use a spoon.

 

Happy holidays, all.  xo

______________________

* photo attached

 

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A Refresher: What Happened at The Husband's Christmas Party LAST Year.

Here, on the day of The Husband's 2010 Christmas Party, I find myself reflecting upon what happened at his last Christmas Party.  I wonder if tonight will be similar.  Or different.  Or better.  Or worse.

Below is my blog post from Saturday, December 12, 2009.  Stay tuned for a Saturday, December 11, 2010 update.

_____________

DISCLAIMER:  The statements below do not reflect the opinion of others present at The Husband's Christmas party.  They also don't mean that I had no fun at all at said party.  The food was excellent, the venue was beautiful, the band is always really fun, and the staff was wonderful and attentive.  Well, except that one guy.  Anyhow, as parties go, it was a good one.  Below is more the fault of me being socially awkward.  And the funny thing is, I'm not particularly socially awkward.  But throw me into a room where everyone only talks about work that I know very little about and most have trophy wives that are either at the Peg Bundy end of the spectrum or the Jacquelyn Kennedy-Onassis one (nowhere in between), and, well....

I like to count things.

 

Minutes spent applying cosmetics:

15

 

Minutes spent otherwise getting ready:

40 (not bad, if you ask me.)

 

Minutes spent in hotel lobby looking like lost sheep because we couldn't remember which room the party was in and The Husband wouldn't ask anybody:

3.5

 

Awkward conversations with people I've never met and/or only see once a year that made me wish I'd feigned a migraine or appendicitis:

5

 

Times The Husband remembered to introduce me to anybody:

0

 

People from The Husband's workplace that I enjoy talking to:

5

 

People from husband's workplace that I enjoy talking to who actually showed up at party:

4

 

Alcoholic beverages (caesars) consumed:

10

 

Alcoholic beverages (caesars) consumed that were "allegedly" doubles from above total:

4

 

Minutes spent wondering if there was actually any alcohol in the bottles they were mixing drinks with or if it was all a watering-down ruse to save the company tons of cash on the open bar*:

57

 

More plausible number of alcoholic beverages (caesars) actually consumed:

3

 

Amount of tomato-clam cocktail consumed:

approx. 4 gallons

 

Amount of Tabasco® sauce consumed:

approx.1 gallon

 

Amount of Worcestershire sauce consumed:

Who knows.  I can't pronounce it, so don't care.

 

Meatballs consumed:

1

 

Meatballs that were actually meat:

0

 

Meatballs that were actually falafel:

1 (but delicious)

 

Minutes spent wishing I was way more intoxicated, otherwise having more fun, or far more inclined to take an avid interest in everybody "talking shop" around me:

335

 

Minutes spent in washroom texting more interesting people, tweeting, or just plain enjoying the notion of sitting down somewhere quiet (with a cupholder**):

29

 

Items stolen from washroom:

2  (But both were hotel lotions and just sitting there on the counter.  I'm pretty sure you're supposed to take them.)

 

Minutes spent lurking in foyer waiting for staff members to disappear so I could clandestinely steal a cute pinecone out of a floral arrangement:

18

 

Number of cute pinecones successfully stolen:

0

 

Number of times I made an arse of myself:

a shockingly low 1***

 

 

Notes:

* Verdict: no booze included in booze.  Came home shockingly sober.

** Handy cupholder in restroom.

*** During heartfelt speech about former staff member who tragically bit it earlier in the year, my cellphone starts ringing.  The Exorcist theme.  On a positive note, I had recently changed my cellphone ringer from Chopin's Funeral March, which would have been a horrible combination of both more and less appropriate simultaneously.

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My Birthday Gift, Courtesy of The Husband.

The Husband took a "sick" day today, mostly because his job drives him bonkers and sometimes he just needs a day off.  Whatevs.  It can happen to the best of us.  To me, this meant that *hopefully* he'd use some of his multitude of free hours to do something productive around the house.  Like... oh... I don't know.  Cleaning the bathroom or something.  Especially since we're having people over tomorrow for MY BIRTHDAY.  It might be nice to not have to spend my Friday night scrubbing the toilet, since it's MY BIRTHDAY.  In any case.

I came home from work to discover that, indeed, The Husband had had a productive day.  The issue is that *my* idea of productive and *his* idea of productive come from two different planets.  And we're not talking Mars and Venus, here.  They're FAR too close together.  Mercury and The Planet Formerly Known as Pluto are more likely.

The Husband decided to rearrange the house.  What does this mean, you ask?  A number of things that I'll cram into point form because, frankly, I need to get back to the tasks that are before me.

• Random stuff EVERYWHERE
• An ammunition crate (I know, I know) that was essentially my Junk Box being unceremoniously dumped in the free zone in the lobby by my husband who didn't realize it was full of stuff
• A whole crapload of papers that I'm now in the throes of sorting
• A nasty papercut on my thumb from opening the two years worth of bills I never open (who needs paper in these, the days of the Internet) that make up the crapload of papers aforementioned
• 20 minutes of tears (and approximately 50 cents worth of skilfully applied Dior mascara being wasted) as I'm sorting through said papers and find all these wonderful things from my past, for instance
  • Speeches written for me and The Husband's wedding, which, even though I'm incredibly pissed at him right now, are quite touching
  • Letters of reference written for me by various professors from my stint in The World of Academia
  • My First Paystub™
  • The pamphlet that came with My First Electric Guitar™ complete with original hex key
  • The list goes on

Okay.  Back to it.  Happy Birthday to Me.

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Hallowe'en.

Well, hallowe'en is as good a time to post as any.

Over the past few years I've become increasingly disenchanted with female hallowe'en costume choices.  They seem to be becoming less and less creative and more and more akin to sticking "sexy" in front of whatever comes to mind.

In the spirit of the season, I have decided to give you ample time to prepare your costume for next year from the list below (in no particular order), which I have crafted using a random word generator.  They're all yours.  Run with them.

1. Sexy Pimiento
2. Sexy Escutcheon
3. Sexy Ellipsoid
4. Sexy Humidor
5. Sexy Committeeman
6. Sexy Numismatist
7. Sexy Pragmatist
8. Sexy Outbuilding
9. Sexy Reagent
10. Sexy Pergola

Love,
Robynn 

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Lost vs. Twin Peaks - The End Result

A long time ago in a blog far, far away, I wrote a somewhat scathing missive about idiots who complain that Lost is trying to emulate Twin Peaks.  I'd like, if I may, to go back to that for a moment.

I finally got around to watching the series finale on the weekend.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  I'm WAY behind the times.  But that's what happens when you don't have cable and have to wait for everything you want to see to come out on DVD.  Cons: I'm behind and have to very carefully limit my web browsing so I don't spoil things for myself.  Pros: I can watch whatever I want, whenever I want, without the constant annoyance that is commercial advertising.  So there.  (And now would be a good time to mention that if you're more behind the times than I am and actually care about how Lost turns out, there are NO spoilers here.  Except that the smoke monster is actually The Other Guy From Wham!.  Who knew?)

So let's get back to my somewhat scathing missive.  I still stand by everything that I say, the highlight I believe to be my statement that Burt Reynolds equals Hitler for the sole reason that they both have mustaches.  To recap, the similarities between Lost and Twin Peaks are as follows:

• Both have trees
• Weird things happen

This is where, now that I've finally completed the entire series, I'd like to make an addition.  Twin Peaks and Lost are very similar, but not for the reason(s) you probably think.  They're similar to ME in a very personal way that has absolutely nothing to do with convoluted plots or trees.  

Not since Twin Peaks have I had such horrible separation anxiety after finishing a television series.

Every single time I've watched the Twin Peaks series through (and it's been a great many), I've felt very melancholy at the end.  This isn't because of how the show turns out, and I'm not going to go into it here since either you know or you don't by this stage of the game and it's too long to explain.  It's because I end up feeling very, very attached to the incredibly well-developed characters.  Even though they all have flaws and some of them annoy the crap out of you, they end up being almost like friends - people you expect to see every week who constantly surprise you and whom you can't wait to learn more about, good or bad.  And when they're gone, you miss them.  A lot.  I miss John Locke almost as much as I miss Special Agent Dale Cooper.

Wham.  There's your similarity.

The End.

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Take Two Goats. They're Small.

Wow.  You ad one (ONE!) bhangra playlist to your Grooveshark account, and BAM!  Targeted Advertising.  I took a look.  It's kind of like Plenty of Fish, but instead of looking for someone who tickles your own personal fancy, you give your login credentials to your mom and dad and they run a search to see whose dowry includes the largest number of goats.  Also, just in case you were wondering, you can't go in seeking a casual encounter.  The first quick-search drop-down list limits your choice to either a "BRIDE" or a "GROOM" - there's no "LET'S GO FOR A COFFEE AND SEE HOW THIS ALL PANS OUT" option.  

I couldn't find anything on their return policy.

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Glee! (In No Way Associated with the TV Show I've Never Seen)

It appears that they've repaired what I was griping about most recently.  Score 1 for the little guy.  Or more accurately, medium sized girl.

 

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Kicking Off the "Weekend of Criticism™" - Like Festivus; No Pole

Hi internet peeps,

In what may be a vain attempt to make myself feel better after the crappy day I had at the end of a crappy week at the end of a crappy month, I've decided to launch my first annual* "Weekend of Criticism™", brought to you by the people who shot the person who said, "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."  This will be a fun-filled weekend of laughing at the expense of others and calling everything on the internet as I see it in real time.  Nobody is safe.  Not even you!

Let's start off with this dilly of a pickle that was the first thing I saw on Facebook when I got home:

For the love of <insert deity here>, why is "healthy" in brackets?!  What happens if we take it out entirely?  Watch out for seemingly foods?  Is that like a garden hose cleverly disguised as filet mignon?  Oh no!  Look out!  But wait.... "healthy" is in brackets.  That means the seemingly food should be actually good for you even though it's not really food.  Hm.  I know.  Look out for that... cow?  It's not quite food yet, but is kind of good for you in moderation or whatever.  (Screw moderation; meat is delicious.  It *is* made out of meat, you know.)

Regardless.  Brackets must go.  "Watch out for seemingly healthy foods that can actually increase abdominal fat."  There.  All fixed.  Bah!

*Note: May actually become semi-annual, monthly, or even bi-weekly "Weekend of Criticism™".  It depends on what kind of life I'm having and I don't want to limit myself to once a year quite yet.

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An Open Letter To Social Networking Attention Whores

My dearest darling Facebook friends, specifically of the female persuasion,

I've got a lot of you.  Now, considering that I like to surround myself with quality somewhere in the vicinity of equal to my own, a healthy proportion of you are pretty damned gorgeous.  However, there is a tremendous (and icky) class difference between people who are gorgeous and live their life happily and quietly basking in their goreousity, and and people who pull the "lookatmelookatmelookatme!" card.  Check out the following photo caption, and if it sounds anything like what you've captioned your photo with, stop it.  You sound *exactly* this ridiculous.

 

"Oh my god, I can't believe I even posted this.  I look SO fat.  Don't even look at it.  I have such a huge zit and my hair is a total mess.  I need botox and I'm so homely.  No wonder I can't find a boyfriend.  &c."

When I see you make comments like that, do you know what I think?  That you're a comment-hungry attention whore who needs someone to validate the fact that you're beautiful every second you're alive.  It's pretentious and unbecoming.  I know it sounds mean, but come on.  Everyone has good photos and bad photos.  If you don't like it, don't post it.  If someone else posted it, remove the tag. Give us all a break and stop fishing for compliments.  You drive me and everybody else bonkers.  Maybe the reason you can't get a boyfriend is because you're an asshole.  Just sayin'.

Love, Robynn

(Disclaimer:  Photo of Doutzen Kroes stolen randomly from the Googlyweb™ because I think she's pretty.  This message in no way implies that Doutzen Kroes is a comment-hungry-attention-whorish-asshole.  She may be a very nice person.  I wouldn't know.)

 

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Behold! HELMETCAT!

Okay, so do some of you recall a story I've told about a cat that I used to have who was kind of brain-dead because my Dad found him in our backyard frozen in a snow bank as a stray and took him in and he didn't die but he DID lose half his ears and half his tail and was just really not very clever (but I guess maybe he could have been a stupid cat *before* he was frozen, we didn't know him then) so we used to have to send him out at night with a little football helmet because he was a scrapper and would pick fights with other neighborhood cats but was too much of a dunce to fight back so he'd end up getting his face all gashed up because he'd just sit there?  Remember that story?  If not, I'm sure you do now.

Anyhow, here's photojournalistic proof of HELMETCAT, at long last unearthed from my Dad's cornucopia of slides in the basement.

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Robynn's Rant of the Day: Vancouver Drivers

Seriously, people.  I'm sick of living in a city where all of the drivers appear to have unearthed their drivers' licenses from the sticky pink shrapnel at the bottom of a discarded Cracker Jack™ box.

I almost got hit by a car this morning.  And by "almost got hit by a car" I mean "my pants got hit by a car, but fortunately my leg did not."  Why?  Because some jackass in a BMW didn't want to wait for the bus in front of him and cut around him to turn right.  Turn right into my leg, more like it.  Sadly, I was so shaken up that I didn't even flip him off.  That's so unlike me.

Strangely enough, the only thought that went through my head as my 33-year-long life flashed before my eyes was, "I should have bought the Gucci bag."  I would have linked to it directly, but it's not even bloody available any more.  This just makes the situation so much worse because now I can't even do the one trivial thing that is evidently and shallowly the missing link in making my life complete.  I'm not sure what that says about me.  "Screw you, starving kids in Africa!  To hell with you, Nepal!  Mama needs a brand new bag."  I suck.  And I digress.

Smarten the hell up, Vancouver!

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A Late-Night Haiku by Robynn

Half eaten poutine

in the street; that’s okay, the

seagulls will eat it

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Neat. Social Networking is Actually Good For Something Besides Killing Time and Playing Farmville.

So, some of you may have seen my post from a couple of days ago regarding my recent fiasco with Budget Rent A Car.  Basically, I copied and pasted a letter I'd sent to Budget BC's general inbox after trying in vain to get a hold of a helpful human on the phone for two days straight.  I was not a happy camper.  I've said it before and I'll say it again: hell hath no fury like a redhead scorned.  If you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer, to be on the safe side you should probably be perpetually hugging me or something.  But that'd piss me off too.  I digress.

I posted this letter to my Posterous, which autoposts to my Facebook, Twitter, LiveJournal, and two other blogs that I author.  After I was done I went in to my Twitter account and tagged my post to both Budget Rent A Car's main Twitter account and to Budget BC's.  In no time, I had a reply from Ashley at Budget/Avis asking me to follow her so she could direct message me.  I did.  And she did.  As it turns out, Ashley is Budget/Avis's Social Media Specialist, and frankly, she was the ONLY person I dealt with during this whole debacle who was actually capable of getting anything done.  I can't thank Ashley enough for the time she's put in on this.  If all of Budget's staff were as conscientious, they'd be a hell of a force to reckon with.

The result?  I was provided with everything I asked for in my letter.  The only thing I was charged for was the base cost to fix the damages - no towing, no storage, and they waived all admin fees.  Essentially, $360 turned into $160.  THAT I can deal with.  I mean, I still think it's a little stupid since the damage was one of those wear and tear things that just happen.  However, I appreciate saving $200 on stupid.  Do you know how much wine I can buy with $200?

As for specifically the Vancouver Downtown Budget location, if you ever have the poor judgement to rent from them, don't expect anything even close to a semblance of adequate customer service.  Having worked in retail for 7 years prior to my life's turn to high-tech corporate wheelings and dealings, I know good customer service when I see it.  My service at Van Downtown was NOT it.  Seems it wasn't it for a lot of other people as well.  If you don't learn anything from my mistakes, pray that you end up with Ashley in your court.

Now that all is said and done, I have this to say.  Will I rent from Budget again?  No.  Will I recommend Budget to any of my acquaintances or associates?  Not likely.  Am I pleased with the outcome?  Substantially more than I was.  Will I hope that the Downtown location learns a thing or two about customer relations because of this?  Heck yes.  There's always got to be a silver lining, right?

Thanks again, Ashley.  You rock.

Robynn

p.s. I can't find a picture suitable for this post, so here's a nice picture from the trip we took the Budgetmobile on.

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This Isn't Awesome. This is a Cavalcade of Crap, Actually.

Dear Budget Rent A Car,

I have tried numerous times today and yesterday to reach personnel in the claims department.  My calls have been ignored, and have not been returned although I was assured that I would receive priority treatment.  I have been given a vast array of excuses for why my calls have not been returned, all of them unacceptable in terms of proper business practice.  The customer service I’ve received is abominable, and I am absolutely dismayed at the disregard shown for paying customers, specifically those who have paid above and beyond a reasonable sum.

My rental reservation number is *******2CA0; contract number ***8148.

The issue I am having is with your LDW, which oh so conveniently and in the very fine print doesn’t cover any areas of the vehicle subject to regular wear and tear.  When I returned my brand new (46 km on it) Volvo on which the smallest mark would have shown on plainly, I was told by the lot attendant Anthony that there was a scuff on the rim, but that it was “no big deal”.  Well, when I entered to finalize payment, the gentleman I dealt with seemed to think otherwise, and I have been charged over $360 for “no big deal”.  I demand full documentation for this cost, and want to discuss this with the claims department as the damage is purely superficial and in no way affects the car’s rentability or operation.  I expect receipts for repair, and photographs of the car proving that the repairs were in fact completed.  These I will compare to the photos I took both prior to renting and upon return.  Should any of this documentation be missing or insufficient, I will dispute payment.  Wear and tear happens.  Get over it.  Your LDW should take this into consideration – anything else is unethical.

If I do not receive a call before 3pm tomorrow, June 23, 2010, the following will take place: I will submit a dispute to Mastercard and have them refuse the charges; I will file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau; I will be in touch one of my professional contacts who is a travel troubleshooter for MSNBC, National Geographic, and The Washington Post; and I will contact my local ombudsman.

I have done a vast amount of research into your company in the past couple of days, and frankly, wish I had done so prior to renting from you.  For all intents and purposes, you are scam artists.  I’m willing to bet that the minimal damage upon my return of the car will go unnoticed by the next renter, and they’ll be charged for the same thing.  It seems to be your business M.O.
I expect someone to contact me immediately.  7**-9**-6***

Regards,
Robynn Holmstrom

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Ow

How can you tell that happy ladytime funweek is about to start?  2 ways.

1.       I’ve got a ginormous zit on my chin

2.       I’m listening to the radio and Danny’s Song by Anne Murray is like THE BEST SONG EVER right now.

3.       What the f&^% is wrong with me?!

4.       Oh, and they’ve just followed up Danny’s Song with Lady by Styx and it’s awesome too

5.       Evidently hormones make me stupid…

6.       … Because 2 ways just turned into 6, some of which aren’t ways at all

7.       See #5

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My Walk Home, as Illustrated with Pictures I Found on the Internet

So, I left work today a little after 5.

I was walking down Davie…

(Totally not Vancouver Davie Street, but whatevs.)

…when I came across $20 lying in the street.

(Like this, but folded in half and on the ground.)

I was surprised.

(Like this, but less Donald O’Connor.)

I picked it up.

I held it above my head and said “hey, does this belong to anybody?”

The strangers at the bus stop looked dumbfounded.

(Exactly like this.  But not in a church.)

I realized my question was kind of stupid, but sometimes I like helping.  I’d like it if it way MY $20 and someone asked.  I mean, how can you tell, though?  “Can you please recite the serial number?  I have to make sure it’s yours.”  Anyhow.

I said to the random man who was walking in my general direction, “Looks like it’s my lucky day!  I feel kind of guilty, though.”

(I’m TOTALLY this cute.)

“Well, if you’re gonna lose sleep I can take if off your hands…”

(Warning: may not actually be what random guy in the street looks like.  May be how I pictured him in my head.)

“Not THAT guilty.”

(Less fuzzy, more clothes on.  Same expression.)

And I promptly went to Shoppers Drug Mart and spent the $20 on much-needed cold medication.

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Grammar Ain't Awesome No More

Damned kids don’t do anything right, specifically when it comes to the English language.

I think it’s because today’s generation has nothing to make language fun anymore.

In any case, eat it up, bitches.  Pronouns make the world go ‘round.

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New & Improved Evolution Kitteh! Now With 100% More Mariachi!

Seems someone else thought it was just as great as I did and proceeded to make it better.

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Evolution Kitteh!

I sincerely apologize for the annoying music.  It’s just as terrific on mute.

This little missing link conclusively proves that cats have the potential to rule us all.

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And further to the goat post of Tuesday...

Why do I get the feeling that this is me in about 10 years?

Damned Kids! Get Offa There!

Okay, goats.  That does it.  Get down from there.  Wait a minute.  How did you even GET up there in the first place.  And what is it you think you're doing??  What the hell?!  *shakes fist*

No.  I don't wanna.  I see your warning, lady.  Get bent.

And so, I had Botox...

...and it wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be.

I didn't want Botox.

I didn't ask for Botox.

The whole thought of forcibly injecting botulism into my head didn't sit well with me.

I was medically ordered to get an injection of Botox for an issue I had with my eye.  My eye isn't really doing it anymore.  Robynn: 1; Botox: 1.  Tie game.  Better than me stapling my eyelid to my forehead.

Hm. Signs I Might Drink Too Much.

1. My guy at the liquor store notices when I change my hair.

2. I have a "guy at the liquor store".

3. I have actually uttered the phrase, "excuse me, Liquor Store Man, can you direct me to your cheap, inferior jugs of red wine?"  In my defense, it was Christmas Eve, I'd already had to wait in line for 20 minutes to get into the store, and I was going to a party where although everybody is required to bring a bottle of cheap swill to go into the communal mulled wine pot, past experience has indicated that $7 is evidently outside the budgetary restrictions of most patrons even though they can't resist the deliciousness.  (Read: Last year we ran out of wine and The Husband had to trudge home through the snow to retrieve more.  This year we brought 6L just in case.  And yes, we actually had snow in Vancouver last year.  We did this year too for about 20 minutes.)

4. All the ads on my blog are about livers for some reason.

I wonder why.