Sunday, 30 December 2012

Hey! I have news!

Alright dear friends.  Here's the big news.

I'm not even going to make you wait.  I'm just going to come out and say it. 

I really don't like those people who say, "Hey! I have news!" and then ramble on for fifteen minutes about how they didn't know how to tell you, and would you like the good news or the bad news first. 

I mean, if you don't know how to tell me, then maybe you should have thought about it a little bit more before you brought it up, because now I'm just sitting here waiting while you find the perfect words to share news that - let's be honest - probably doesn't impact me in the slightest. 

And as for the good news/bad news question? What do YOU think? If you're really asking, I'd rather not hear the bad news at all.  Because who wants to hear bad news?  Unless it's just "bad" relative to the good news, but not really all that bad in its own right, well then I guess I wouldn't mind hearing it.  And I might like to hear it first because it might seem pretty decent until I hear the actual good news.  Whereas if you share the relatively "good" news first, then the relatively "bad" news is just wasted news because who cares about not-so-great news when compared to particularly-good-news?  No one.  No one cares about the "bad" news.  We all just want the good news.  So stop asking such a stupid question. 

What were we talking about?

Oh right. 

Hey! I have news!

I don't really know how to say this...

Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?  I'm going to give you the good news first, and then validate it by adding my own personal flavour of cynicism. 

The Good News:

Right now, at this very moment, there is a very tiny being growing inside my body.  A human being.  I mean, it isn't an alien being or something.  Although from what I can tell, it does have a VERY large head. 

Yes, yes, my eggo is preggo.  Just over 3 months preggo, actually.  And I've been reluctantly keeping it from all of you (not to mention my closest friends and family) for WAY TOO LONG.  I don't know if you guys know me AT ALL, but I don't exactly keep secrets very well.  I'm a sharer.  Which may explain my difficulty in maintaining any regularity to my posts over the last couple of months...

Going along with the good news is all the excitement! Sharing this with Hubby. Laying in bed at night thinking about what it'll be like, if it's a boy or a girl, how I'll basically have my own little doll to dress up all the time! (kidding)

But.  There is bad news, and it is simply not like me to hold it in. 

The Bad News:

The bad news is that I've never had so many mixed feelings in my whole entire life.

The nausea that consumed me for 5 straight weeks.  The confusion of what this will mean to my life as I know it.  The overwhelming pressure of not telling people, and then, even worse, of telling people who don't necessarily understand how hard it can be to tell people.  The decision to blog or not to blog this very personal experience.  The utter dissatisfaction of decaf tea.  THE LOSS OF WINE.  The frustration of bigger boobs getting in the way of my arm-movement.  The worry that I'm not eating well enough.  The fear that I will have no idea how to take care of this thing once it comes out, let alone while it's in there.  The constant fucking panic that any little twinge is a sign of something going horribly wrong. 

This is a big deal, you guys.  Some days, hours, minutes I am truly so excited and looking forward to every little bit.  Other days, hours, minutes, I just don't know what to do with myself. 


So, my own personal reality of pregnancy and parenthood is soon to be revealed.  I've even been keeping a "what I would tweet if the biggest thing in my life wasn't a giant secret" diary to share with y'all over the next few posts.  Buckle in. 

PS
For those of you who learned this ahead of time, consider this your official authorization to share the news with others!  I know the few days of secrecy has been HELL for you, but we do appreciate it.  In fact, maybe even direct curious people here, since this is where the whole truth comes straight from the pregnant horse's mouth.  So to speak. 

Thursday, 20 December 2012

Where the fuck have I been? Not shopping.

Well, not dead, in case you were worried.  Not that many of you actually bothered to check.  Assholes. 

I'm not sure what that little month-long hiatus was all about.  It has been busy, with work, and Christmas, and you know, life.  But no worse than all the other times I've been drowning in my own misery while still managing to tell you all about it. 

For the record, I did write a whole post a couple of weeks ago, but my fucking Blogger iPhone app mysteriously lost the post when I tried to save it.  I cried a bit, and of course complained to my friends on the twitter, but I never re-wrote the damn thing.  Lazy bum. 

So here I am, a mere matter of days before Christmas and I have not even written to tell you that I've actually been in a damn pleasant Christmas mood for once!  (Compared to last year...)

When we put the Christmas lights in November, I didn't even care that it wasn't the official socially-accepted December 1st cut-off -- I totally turned those fuckers on every night at 4:30 like it was Santa's goddam village. 


When I say "we" put up the Christmas lights... that *might* be Hubby.

Since then I've been singing carols, and eating junk food, and doodling elf doodles, and watching holiday movies like is the last Christmas known to humanity (which if the Mayans have any say in it, it probably is). 

Elf doodles

I think the best part about this Christmas was that we agreed with our families: NO GIFTS.  This has seriously made all the difference to my otherwise Scroogy nature.  I find I'm not stressed about finding the perfect present, or making time to shop, or falling into the front door overloaded with bags and bags of crap.  I don't have to keep track of receipts.  I don't have to attempt to WRAP oddly shaped gadgets without ripping the paper.  I don't even have to THINK about anything other than visiting with my family, staring at my Christmas tree, and drinking gallons of eggnog.  Best.  Christmas.  Ever. 



Where's Waldo Tuxedo Cat


Now, I did get a couple of small tokens for those closest to us.  And I did send some gifts to friends who live far away.  I'm not a total asshole about it.  But the giant list of things to buy?  No such thing.  And it may be one of the better decisions I've ever made. 

I hope y'll are having a wonderful holiday time, or at least that you're drunk enough to pretend. 

Thursday, 22 November 2012

Careful where you pee

At work today, before a meeting, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

I started to put toothpaste on my toothbrush, and then behind me, in the mirror, I saw a colleague come out of one of the stalls. A male colleague.  In the women's washroom. 

I didn't even notice right away.  I said "Oh, hi! How are you?" and then it clicked. 

However, being the kind and compassionate person that I am, I decided not to point it out.

But then the conversation kept going.  How has my week been so far? Have I been on a business trip lately?  Am I going to this meeting too?  Are we late?

I kept chatting, sort of brushing my teeth in between sentences. 

Finally, he made a move for the door. 

And then he stopped.  Stopped dead.  Looked up.  Stared at me.  Stared at the door.  Stared back at me...

"Wait..."

"Yep."

Realization sinking in... slowly.  Surely his brain was taking its time to compute how this whole scenario was even possible.  This conversation should not be occurring in this particular place. The elevator, sure. The cafeteria, of course. But the washroom?  Huh.  Surely she's the one in the wrong bathroom.  But no, this is her floor. They must be co-ed bathrooms.  No, that doesn't make sense.  ...

It took him a while, but he did eventually come to grips with reality. 

"Oh my.  I'm so sorry."

"It's fine.  No harm done."

I just couldn't for the life of me figure out how he didn't notice when he walked in and there were no urinals, and he must have wondered what those little mailbox-type garbage cans in the stalls were for.

I didn't bring it up at the meeting.  I didn't want to embarrass the poor fucker. 

But I did proceed to tell everyone on my team afterward. 

And then I blogged about it. 

I'm no saint. 

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

Today was a highlight

Today was not an entirely bad day.  Things picked up around lunchtime.  Here's why:

I decided my cubical was lacking a serious amount of cake-related items.  There was not enough of a cake situation surrounding me.  I needed a circumstance in which cake was a prominent player. 

Luckily, I had the means and the wherewithal to rectify this sad misfortune. 

Off to the cafeteria. 

And then.  THEN the absolute bliss resulting from the purchase of a giant chocolate marshmallow s'more score bar cake square. 

Officially one of the best decisions I have ever made. 

I mean, it was surely at least 3,463 calories of pure sugar and lard, and it definitely sat in my stomach like a brick for a couple of hours afterward, but this was by far the most wonderful thing that has happened to me at work in at least 3 months.  Maybe even better than the boardroom wine and cheese party. 

The high that followed this massive caloric intake was entirely well-received and really quite exciting. 

From there, I was motivated to wish my friend and coworker a happy birthday by creating a sexy French character (Jean-Francois-Pierre-Luc) and then drawing his face on a balloon - complete with notes of admiration en français.   Unfortunately, Jean-Francois-Pierre-Luc's girlfriend (Miss Babette) was not pleased, and expressed her distaste via pink balloon a couple of hours later. 

This little rouse paid off, as I later received a slice of homemade chocolate banana bread as a thank you. 

The musical icing atop an already great cake day was the soft-rock radio station that played Faith by George Michael,to which I fully rocked out during my drive home. 

BOOYAW





Monday, 5 November 2012

Three reasons you should vote (for Obama)

As most of you probably know, I am not an American.  However, up here in Canada we do happen to follow American politics, American economics, and, most importantly, American vampire and zombie television shows. 

We North Americans aren't that different from each other - many of our values, laws, and ongoing debates are quite similar.  Our cultural influences are much the same.  We like to visit each other.  We're often lumped together when traveling to other parts of the world.  We're two very developed, very democratic, and perhaps very ego-centric, countries.  (And I can see Alaska from my hoWse!)

But, having visited the US several times and with some very close friends living there, I can safely say that there are several things I adore about Canada that are seemingly lacking in large pockets of the grand ol' US of A. 

There are countless reasons that I insist that you vote tomorrow.  But there are specifically three main reasons that I politely suggest you vote for Barack Obama. Like three genie wishes.  Or three magic beans. 

*******

Number 1 - Abortion is legal in Canada. 

Abortion is legal, and will likely stay that way for the foreseeable future, if not forever.  We are not reopening the abortion debate, despite some regular and recent attempts. 

Now.  Depending on the person and how he or she presents the argument, I can in some cases tolerate an opinion different from mine on this.  

I cannot, however, over-state the importance, in my opinion, of allowing a woman to make FREE choices that are best for her and her body.  I mean, we make adoptive parents jump through a shit-ton of hoops, and even bio parents do an awful lot of planning and soul searching before making a decision to grow tiny humans.  I would like to trust women (and their partners, and their doctors) to make good decisions, even when I know many of them can't or won't.  That's what being FREE is about. 

Even if we took this abortion choice away, I cannot even begin to fathom how the fuck we would regulate it.  Would a judge decide for me? Would there be a list of criteria?  Would I have to prove I was raped?  Would there be a scale of "rape legitimacy"?  Would there be a binder full of women representing a series of case studies and indicating who is abortion-worthy and who is not?

This is a fundamental paradigm about woman that ties into all sorts of questionable policies and approaches that I simply do not support.  Birth control.  Equal wages and career ambitions coupled with flexible work hours (for men AND women).  Parental leave (which is a full 12 months up here).  Support in the workplace.  Support at home.  Politicians talk a lot about support for families, but they talk little about support for the parents that lead them. 

Number 2 - Gay marriage is legal in Canada. 

The government does not attempt to pass judgement on our relationships.  Well, sometimes I'm sure it does, but legally, if I love someone, I can marry that person and I am offered all the rights and privileges and responsibilities that go along with that. 

Hubby and I didn't think we needed marriage, but we wanted it, and we love it.  It makes me want to cry heavy, ugly tears that a country as apparently progressive and innovative as the United States (a country that allowed SLAVERY not many generations ago - from which black Americans escaped to Canada) could possibly withhold this right from all its people.  Let alone that everyone sits in judgement on the issue. 

I support you, and whomever you love, no matter who you are.  To be honest, I'm not even opposed to polygamy if everyone is a willing partner and there's no observable harm to the children.  Call me out if you wish, but it's really where I stand.   People deserve to be happy. Just let people be happy.

Isn't that what marriage is about? Isn't that the "sanctity" we should be protecting?  The sanctity of a happy marriage and caring families and a supportive society that loves thy neighbour? In fact, maybe I have a problem with those sham "I'm pregnant so I better get married" marriages that end in pain and suffering and broken homes for kids that potentially were never wanted in the first place.  Where's the sanctity in that?   

Number 3 - Health care is free in Canada.

Ok, so free is a tricky word.  We have high taxes here, and in some provinces people pay a "premium" to support their health care system.  We all pay for it, and it ain't perfect, but at least anyone who needs to can go to the friggin emergency room or receive radiation for their cancer without some ridiculous fee.  And hell, people can even get cancer and not be kicked out of the system or denied.  SHOCKER.  We may wait, but patience is a virtue and good medical care is worth it.  Trust me

Some of you might call that - gulp - socialism.  Well, guess what?  I'm  not only a dirty liberal but I'm a crazy socialist too. 

Tax me all you want if it means that when I go to the doctor I don't get an invoice afterward (nor a statement from my asshole insurance company telling me the exact price of every goddam nurse and every fucking tube they stuck into my orifices). 

Tax me all you want if it means that groups of inter-generationally and socially disadvantaged people with whom I share this country need some fucking support. 

Tax me all you want if it means I get TWELVE FULL MONTHS OF PARENTAL LEAVE. 

Tax me all you want if it means I can have full-day kindergarten/preschool in Ontario, or $6 a day daycare in Quebec for my kids. 

Tax me.  I will live within my means and I will contribute.  And I will sleep better at night because of it. 

*******

Now.   Please don't mistake me here - if you're an American I value and appreciate you, and your opinion.   And I don't know everything there is to know. 

But if you refuse to vote tomorrow - no matter who for - I will hunt you down and kick you in the shin with my "poke-the-eye-out-of-a-snake" boots.

And if you're undecided, consider voting for your current president, who, despite his faults, has the drive and determination to accomplish something great for your country - and who has a vision for your future that is actually quite revolutionary and entirely well-intentioned. 

Or consider moving to Canada.  We'd love to have you. 

Wednesday, 31 October 2012

I fucked up Halloween

I totally screwed up this year. 

Despite the fact that I adore Halloween (eating and decorations without the long-term commitment and family obligations associated with other holidays that shall remain nameless), I really couldn't get on track this year.

Normally, I'm an awesome hallowennie.  I hang pumpkin lights and plastic ghosts and spider webs. 

Not to mention I'm a wicked dresser-upper. 

Last year I was a garden gnome.  (A cute one, because garden gnomes are generally terrifying.) 

The previous year I was Dorothy.  (With the homemade red shoes and everything.)

Before that I was Maryanne from Gilligan's Island.  (I could never pull off Ginger.  In hindsight, I think Gilligan himself might have been a better choice.) 

One year I was a zombie bride.  (Which was great because that was the year before my wedding. Not to mention it was before the whole zombie Apocalypse craze, making me very progressive and intuitive. )

But this year?  This year I had a great costume in mind, and I was really looking forward to it.  So were all my colleagues.  But I couldn't get on track. 

First, I had THE BEST VISITOR EVER this past weekend.  Ms Sarcasm came all the way up to Canada to see little ol' me.  She braved a delayed flight, a surprise angel-like co-passenger, good looking customs officers, a Beavertail, a giant gooey poutine, and cold rainy October days - all just to hang out with ME.  We didn't throw a raucous party or anything, but it was so nice just to have my friend hanging out in my house.

However, this meant that I didn't really prioritize my costume making and decorating.  Although I could have finished things up on my Monday vacation day (the best kind of Monday), I just ended up crying and then I didn't feel all that festive (a story for another day). 

Then, last night I was buying candy and I found all the required props for my costume.  Enter: costume guilt.  Did you know costumes cost a lot of money?  A pretty penny that I simply wasn't willing to spend. 

So I bailed.  I bailed on my favourite holiday. 

And then today, work was a fucking asshole and I just ended up crying anyway.  IN FRONT OF MY COLLEAGUES.  Which was excellent.  

Also, everyone kept asking "where's your costume?!" and I had to tell them that I was dressed as a lazy, depressed bum.  In business attire. 

What a fucking pathetic mess. 

Next year I need to get my shit together. 

Anyone want to dress up tomorrow instead?

Wednesday, 24 October 2012

Texting with Momma is a full time job

Have you heard of the twitter account Texts from last night?

These are texts that people send to their friends, usually while drunk, and then later realize how absurd they were in the clarity of the morning. 

The texts then get tweeted, starting with the area code of the text. 

These tweets are HILARIOUS you guys.

Observe:
 
 
 
 
 
 
See?  Hilarious. 
 
Well, tonight Hubby and I were shopping at Walmart when I got what I can only assume was a drunken "text from last night" from my mother. 
 
Only, it was tonight, not last night.  And she doesn't drink. 
 
Voila:
 

 
 
 
Yes, perhaps we should.   
 



Friday, 19 October 2012

Mickey Mouse massages are not for me

Yesterday I veered away from my normal massage therapist to a new place that was offering a discount.  And so I have a tip for you. 

NEVER VEER AWAY FROM YOUR NORMAL MASSAGE THERAPIST TO A NEW PLACE THAT IS OFFERING A DISCOUNT. 

This whole operation was the most Mickey Mouse performance I could've ever contemplated.  If it had been any worse, I would've just turned around and walked out.  But it was clean, and the girls were nice, and it was quiet - which is more than I can say for my own house. 

So I gave them the benefit of the doubt and just kept waiting for the situation to improve.  Needless to say, it never did. 

First of all, I left work precisely at 5:00 to be sure I would arrive on time for my 5:45 appointment.  And then I sat there - until 6:05 - reading an old Canadian Living magazine and drinking luke warm water out of a plastic cup. 

Also, I assumed that at some point, as a new client, I would fill out one of those forms.  You know those forms?  The forms with the list of your injuries and problem areas and medications.  (Mine is less of a "form", and more of a "novel" - or a link to this blog.)  But no.  There was no form. 

So then I assumed the massage therapist would just ask me those questions.  I should have known better, of course.  The extent of her conversation with me was telling me where to put my clothes. 

When I crawled onto the massage table I was disappointed at the lack of amenities.  No strategically placed cushions, no fluffy duvet, no fancy bedding, no heated blankets.  This table was just a table - with 2 blue flannel flat sheets and a heating pad placed under my boobs. 

Ummmm...

But it was too late.  I was naked, and cold, and clinging to any hint of hope that at least the massage would be worth it. 

Well, as you probably know, a massage is almost always worth it.  But this massage?  This massage was weak.  I like a massage therapist to know every single one of my joints and muscles and beat the shit out of them until they feel better.  Not the case last night. 

By the time the whole thing was done, I was not only naked and cold, I was also covered in oil. 

So do I want to book my next appointment?  I should think not.

Lesson learned. 

Monday, 8 October 2012

I just want the pony treasure

GOBBLE GOBBLE. 

It's Thanksgiving here in Canada, so Hubby and I ventured down to visit the fam.  We first went to my Aunt and Uncle's house in small-town Ontario on Saturday night, and then yesterday we visited with Hubby's family in Hometown. 

Yesterday afternoon we went out walking at my happy place with Ma and Pa in law, Cousin J and her adorable dog, and Uncle D and Aunt K and their two girls.  (I call them "girls" because in my head they're still 2 and 5 years old.  Never mind the fact that it's been 11 years since I met them.)


My Happy Place.
Only, this wasn't just any ol' nature walk.  This was "geocaching." 

Have you heard of this, this geocaching

Here's what I understand:

People all over the world log onto GeoCaching.com and then they go on a treasure hunt.  The "treasures" are hidden in public places by other people and then marked by map coordinates.  Then hunters use their smartphones and GPS devices to locate the treasures (also known as "caches" to people who actually know what they're talking about).  When you find a cache, you sign your name, take a picture, and then log it on the website. 

It's all very exciting.

So we started off on the treasure hunt that Uncle D had planned out for us.  I was totally on board.  I love walking, I love nature, and I love doing fun things with our family. 

I also love treasure. 

So when Uncle D announced that we'd arrived at the GPS coordinates for the first cache, we went eagerly searching through the woods.  This went on for at least 5 minutes before we gave up.  Sorry, folks, but there was no damn treasure there.  Geocachers are LIARS. 

Despite our initial failure, we carried onward and upward.  We found the second, third, fourth, AND fifth caches.  SUCCESS! 

Although, it's possible that by the time we got to the fourth cache, I was losing interest.  I was far more fascinated by Hubby's poking stick. 


This is Hubby's poking stick. Notice its length, making surprise distance poking possible.



This is Hubby's poking face.  He needs to concentrate very carefully. 



This is Pa in Law, after having been mysteriously poked. 


I might have also been distracted by tiny hungry birds.   


That's a tiny hungry bird on Hubby's hand.  Eating birdseed that Hubby stole found.   

 
When Uncle D asked me to dig out the fourth little treasure box, I was mostly just annoyed that it wasn't the My Little Pony theme I had been promised, and that the congratulations letter was way too long. 

So it turns out that I'm not a good geocacher.   In any case, I've learned that geocaching is more about the experience of the hunting, rather than the finding of the treasure.  Just like life. 

(Although I may or may not have subsequently downloaded the geocaching app and learned that there are half a dozen treasures caches RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE.  Maybe.)
 
 

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

I don't live in Bumtown.

This morning I came downstairs with a babushka towel on my head, wearing my bath robe (aka house coat).  I was serving myself a cute little bowl of yogurt when Hubby pointed out that there was a random guy outside. 

Some ass bucket had backed his pickup truck into our driveway and was digging through our post-party recycling boxes to thieve our discarded bottles and cans. 

Now, in theory, this doesn't bother me.  In theory, if people want to get up early and rummage around through other people's trash, well, all the power to them. 

But in practice?  In practice, people are idiots and they need to stay the fuck away from my house. 

I know, I know.  I should just return the bottles to the store myself.  And if I'm not going to benefit from the bottle money, that someone else probably should. 

But I also know that the 3 measly dollars garnered by 1000 sticky beer bottles is not at all worth the headache of sorting and loading the damn things, let alone driving them around town. 

I also know that people are idiots and they need to stay the fuck away from my house. 

So, I put on my best "don't think I won't punch you" facial expression and boldly marched outside to ask the shithead if he was serious, if this was really necessary, and, of course, could he stop being an idiot and kindly stay the fuck away from my house.

Buddy wandered off, and Hubby started ranting that we were certainly, thanks to me, going to get shot - or robbed - or egged - at some point in the near future.  

But then, not FIVE MINUTES LATER, when Hubby went out to his car and there was ANOTHER wannabe-hobo with his fucking minivan backed up to our driveway... Well, needless to say, Hubby wasn't tolerating it any more than I was.

I'm not sure what Hubby said to Idiot Number 2, but I suspect it was something along the lines of "Stay the fuck away from my house.  Please."  Because Hubby's polite.

You guys.  This CANNOT be an unreasonable expectation.  I don't think it's absurd to want strangers to stay the fuck away from my house.  My quiet little street doesn't need them here, and I certainly don't need them scavenging through my stuff. 

This is a disturbing new trend.  It's unseemly.  It's annoying.  It's unnecessary.  And I will not hesitate to go marching out there every goddam week if I have to until these idiots get the hint.   



Sunday, 30 September 2012

Bazinga!

Six weeks ago, I was clever enough to decide, with adequate advance notice, to throw Hubby a SURPRISE 28th birthday party.  What was originally just a fun idea became a perfectly executed reality as of yesterday afternoon. 

Last month I told Hubby not to make plans for the Saturday of his birthday.  I said we were going somewhere.  I had plans for us.  Just the two us. 

Clearly, I was a LIAR. 

Although I did have plans, my plans included 20 or 30 of our closest friends shouting BAZINGA at Hubby as he obliviously walked into the house. 

So Friday night, Hubby's actual birthday, he and I had a nice dinner at a nearby restaurant.  Hubby spent most of the meal convincing himself that he'd figured out my Saturday plans.  He was quite certain that we'd go see a favourite local band.  He quizzed me repeatedly, watching for my reaction.  "It doesn't even matter what you say," he said.  "I can just read you."  Oh really, Hubby?  You can read me?  Wow.  That's IMPRESSIVE.

Little did Hubby know, I'd been playing him like a fiddle for weeks. 

I started by asking his friend Larry to come to town, and get Hubby the hell outta my house for a few hours while I laboured. 

Then, I convinced Hubby to take a break on Saturday from roofing our house.  "You deserve a break, Honey.  It's your birthday for christsakes." 

Next, I asked my hilarious genius friend LB to tweet me, inviting me for a late lunch on Saturday afternoon.  Hubby would see the tweets and his subconscious would be incepted with the idea that I'd made plans. 

This meant that when Larry made an "unexpected" visit to town and wanted to hang out during the day, Hubby was free to do so.  The only rule was that he HAD to be home BY 7 O'CLOCK.  We had plans, of course. 

When Larry and Hubby left at 1:15 yesterday afternoon, by 1:16 I was cleaning, preparing food, collecting beer and cheese that was hidden at the neighbour's house, picking up the cake, and making up a dozen air mattresses for our house guests.  And while Larry managed to expertly distract Hubby for SIX WHOLE HOURS, I didn't manage to sit down even once during that same six hour period. 

But when Hubby walked through our door at precisely 7pm, all our effot was totally worth it.  He basically freaked out.  It was precious. 

Aaaaannnnddd... then we all rocked until 4am.  There was guitar playing, song singing, food eating, beer drinking, and of course late night living room dance partying


Thank you Sheldon Cooper. 
International Beer Pyramid.
Hubby wearing his new "Madame" sunglasses. 
 
 
Happy birthday Hubby darling.  I'm glad you didn't have a heart attack.  Although hospital parties can be fun too, I suppose. 







Saturday, 22 September 2012

My life: the movie.

Life in this house is a matter of several stupid moments strung together into a series of idiocy that must at least merit a low budget short-film with a cast of unknown actors.

==================

Hubby:  I vacuumed the whole basement yesterday. 

Me:  Oh, great. 

Hubby:  And then, once I finished, I noticed that the vacuum hose was detached.  Just the beater was working.  Nothing was getting sucked up.  ...  So I vacuumed the whole thing again. 

Me:  *laughing at Hubby's expense*

==================
 
I was in a deep sleep this morning.  It was 4:38 am.  I was dreaming.  And then I was shockingly and abruptly awakened by a giant anvil falling onto my chest! 
 
Ok, so it was less of an anvil, and more of a Tuxedo Cat who got spooked by Hubby's pillow-flip, ran onto my chest, and pushed off into the air. 
 
But it felt like an anvil.  And I was so dazed and confused that hyperventilation quickly followed, while both Hubby and Tuxedo Cat stared and waited for calm to return and logic to reign. 
 
==================
 
Hubby:  The new IOS6 came out today.  You can update your phone. 
 
Me:  Yeah?  How long does it take?
 
Hubby:  Oh, about 30 or 45 minutes I guess. 
 
Me:  And can I use my phone while it updates?
 
Hubby:  Well, no .
 
Me:  ...
 
Hubby:  You're never going to do it, are you?  You'll just have the old version forever. 
 
Me:  Yeah, that's what I was thinking. 
 
==================

Monday, 17 September 2012

Ever been drunk before? I bet you have.

Have you ever gone to bed at 2:30am totally wham-shammered a little bit tipsy, only to find that you took the sheets off earlier that day and forgot to replace them before drinking several glasses of red wine throughout the evening?

No?

Well, good on ya, because it's tricky making the bed under those circumstances.  Trust me. 

First of all, you have to pick all the matching pillowcases of the right sizes and shapes. Then you have to struggle with that damn fitted sheet, which means you may or may not end up stumbling and falling face-first into the mattress.  Repeatedly. Probably. 

Also?  All those duvet cover buttons are fucking difficult. 

So what led to this disaster, you might be wondering?

Hubby's buddy, known around here as Larry (as in: Larry, Hubby, and Moe), came for a visit with his adorable and hilarious - and very wine-generous - girlfriend.  Let's call her Shemp. 

Shemp brought the red wine, and then when that ran out, Hubby miraculously found a couple more bottles. Before we knew it: I was winning at Taboo; Hubby was throwing Taboo cards across the room; Shemp was suggesting we play Apples to Apples instead; Hubby was spilling red wine on the carpet; Shemp was grinding a salt shaker all over the stain; Larry was showing off the speckled reddish purple spots on his socks; Shemp was vacuuming up the salt; and I was eating stuffed crust pizza. 

And then, THEN, is when things took a turn for the better.  Because that's when, my dear friends, my favourite activity of all time took place.

Late night living room dance party, y'all. 

Which if you've ever read my bio, you know is truly the best thing that could ever happen.

Now.  You'd think that all that jumping and hopping and singing and running and moon-walking and sock-sliding would somehow reduce the effects of the red wine... but I think it has the opposite effect.  Like, somehow, it gets your blood pumping rapidly so all the alcohol goes coursing through your veins even faster than it normally would.  Or something. 

So by the time 2:30 came around, and the last song had been played (BeyoncĂ©, If I Were a Boy - DUH), finding the bed unmade was a matter worth shouting and complaining about.  I nearly stole Larry and Shemp's guest bed. 

That said, it's been a while since I've laughed so hard at Hubby, so at least there's that. 

Sunday, 9 September 2012

Meet my friend Sinkhole

Remember when I told you about Tuesday's sinkhole

This sinkhole:



Well, that sinkhole has become quite the running gag around here. 

On Wednesday morning, more people talked about that sinkhole than talked about the several serious news stories impacting our city, including a provincial election and even a tragic shooting.  Unlike the other legitimate news stories, the sinkhole was novel; it was tangible; it was impacting thousands of commuters.  It was the talk of the town. 

Then the sinkhole got bigger, which just fueled its news-worthiness.  It became the size of an Olympic pool (Michael Phelps style), which meant the whole east-bound highway would be closed for TWO WEEKS for repairs - including the expensive special order of GIANT sewer pipes. 






This is HIGHWAY, you guys.  A real highway that is packed with commuters every day before and after work, linking my eastern suburb to centretown.  So I'm sure you can imagine the commuter chaos that ensued. 

Cars were backed up for hours upon hours across the city.  Of course I was thrilled to take the bus.  Our city transpo services got their shit together on this one.  They fully screwed over highway drivers by maintaining the dedicated bus lane.  BOOYAW. 

And then things got ridiculous, because that's when the sinkhole got itself a twitter account

The sinkhole tweets, you guys. 

Par example:





And then I died with laughter. 

People all over town are tweeting the sinkhole.  News stations are interviewing it.  It sends messages to the mayor. 

Folks are joking about the likelihood that the sinkhole was the attempt of our suburb to separate itself from the city. (Which, if you're Canadian and just watched the Quebec election, you can appreciate the humour.)

Somebody made a hilarious ecard. 


Bus drivers are thanking the sinkhole for allowing them to re-route onto the wrong side of the highway.  Because it's fun. 


The whole city is laughing at the disaster of a car pulled from the sinkhole's mouth. 




And then, every time I assume this whole thing will blow over, it gets even better. 

Yesterday, ANOTHER SINKHOLE (no joke) fell through on the French side of the river, and of course it started tweeting too...  


 
...making the whole ordeal so priceless that I simply cannot get enough.

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

We're all going to fall to our deaths. Basically.

For Christsakes.

It's been fairly discouraging at work lately. We're working on a big project and everywhere we turn there's a new fucking pothole in our way. "Can't go over it, can't go under it, gotta go through it."

So we patch up the potholes, or we find a way around, or we curse until we feel better and try to move on.

But sometimes they aren't just potholes. Sometimes they are giant fucking caverns and caves and mystery mad hatter rabbit holes that lead us to hell in a goddam coffin masquerading as a hand basket.

So it's frustrating.

To say the least.

And then tonight, I was pretty pleased with myself. I tolerated my day and managed to work EXACTLY eight hours. I arrived at 9:40 and then I was perfectly ready to leave at 5:40.

So I did.

I walked in the rain to the bus stop, waited, got onto a damp and smelly bus, opened my book, and tried to tune out the world for my next 45 to 50 minutes of peace.

And then, 5 minutes from my last stop, the bus just. stopped. moving. It just stopped.

Now. In a city of expert bus designers, our buses never just stop. There are bus lanes and terminals and all forms of this-isn't-a-subway-but-it's-almost-the-same-we-swear tactics that keep our buses running smoothly.

Sometimes.

Kind of.

Probably.

So when my bus came to a dead halt in the highway bus lane, my confusion slowly turned to frustration, which in my case usually leads to homicidal tendencies.

As you can surely imagine, my murderous rage didn't improve much as we sat there FOR 25 MINUTES. 

And do you care to know WHY this injustice was brought upon me?

Behold:


POTHOLE.

It was a fucking pothole, people.

No. Not a pothole. A SINKHOLE.

That's a car. IN A SINKHOLE.

That car there - the one with its ass end sticking out of the highway - is not hunting for buried treasure; it is not pretending it is a cartoon ostrich; it is not digging a fort.

No.

That car GOT SUCKED INTO THE EARTH BY THE COMMUTING DEMON WHO IS SET ON RUINING MY LIFE.

Don't worry. The guy got out ok. He just crawled out (wtf) and now he has a great story for dinner parties. 

As for me, not only did I get home an hour late, but now I'm terrified that the ground is just going to open up randomly under my feet like those apocalypse movies when the earth cracks and all the people try to run but the crack spreads and they all get sucked in and I'm obviously going to fall miles and miles to my eventual painful demise.

Or worse, I might get trapped in a muddy pit.

Either way, it ain't pretty.


Sunday, 2 September 2012

Long weekend movie mayhem

I've watched a couple of movies this weekend.  Ok, like, several movies. 

I think movies were specifically designed for long weekends - because with one extra day, it's easier to justify two-hour increments of sitting in front of a screen. 

As we speak, I'm watching Inception.  It hurts my brain to follow the detailed plot of dreams, within dreams, within dreams... but the cast is pretty awesome.  And Leo is so delicious that I barely care about the plot.



I'm actually a very skilled dreamer.  Or a bad sleeper.  I'm not sure which.  In any case, I seem to be able to direct my dreams like they were movies.  Sometimes they have elaborate characters and story lines.  I think I'm some sort of supernatural dream wizard.  Or I'm psychotic.  It isn't clear.  Of course, if I were a dream wizard, I think Leo would appear more often. 










Speaking of Leo, last night's movie choice was a good one.  Hubby and I watched The Departed.

I like this movie.  It's damn violent, but Jack Nicholson, Martin Sheen, and Alec Baldwin are pretty excellent. I don't love Matt Damon's performance, but that's ok. He's still cute. And his Boston accent reminds me of Good Will Hunting, which can never be a bad thing.  But I dare say, Marky Mark is the highlight:  "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe fuck yourself."






Yesterday was also a day for love stories. 

First I watched Cold Mountain.  This is certainly one of the most beautiful movies ever made.  I've loved it for years.  Since before Jude Law became a bit of a wiener. 

I also watched The Lucky One.

Although I generally dislike Nicholas Sparks, I have read a few of his books (hoping for something romantic). Sadly, they're all mediocre. I've since decided to stick to his movies, because the books are not only a bit blah, but they're lacking certain gorgeous men such as my boyfriend Ryan Gosling, the handsome Channing Tatum, and the surprisingly yummy adult Zac Efron.



The last on my list of recently watched is Jurassic Park

Now.  Please do me a favour and acknowledge that this film represents one of the most terrifying concepts of all time.  I mean, LARGE, SCARY LIZARDS ARE CHASING AND BITING PEOPLE.  A circumstance of which I'm quite certain none of you can deny the sheer terror.   


Naturally, when it ended, I was happy to see that Jurassic Park 2 The Lost World was set to follow.  Which I watched in full, despite the fact that I think Jeff Goldblum puts on a pretty rough performance.  I have to admit though, his whole style is pretty hilarious.  I'll always like his appearance in Friends the best. 







Wednesday, 29 August 2012

Day 10 - Hubby is TOTES ADORBS

Hey, so, do you guys remember my 100 day blog challenge

Me neither.

I started it nearly one year ago. 

Nice, I know. 

But I've come back to it tonight, and I'm expected to tell you about someone or something I am proud of. 

Well goll-ey me, I am proud of Hubby. 

Not only did he recently;

a) play guitar at his brother's wedding (AHmazing);
b) start bossing around managing a couple of guys at work; and,
c) listen to my whining do some vacuuming, grass cutting, laundry washing, AND grocery shopping (commendable, no?) ...

But he is also entirely TOTES. ADORBS. 

Last night, for example, Hubby was considering potential lunch recipes.  He brought me to hysterical laughter when his characteristic confused sideways head-tilt, hair-scratch, and face-scrunch reminded so much of Pa-in-law that I wanted to immediately call Ma-in-law.  Only it was 8:40 and I suspected she'd be sleeping. 

In another example, despite the fact that Hubby bought $300 worth of groceries tonight (PUKE), he was most excited about his purchase of several pieces of glass tupperware (tupperware isn't glass I suppose, but fuck off). 

Glass tupperware is something I've wanted for a very long time (I'm a boring old lady, I know, but fuck off), so naturally I was moderately interested.  Hubby, though, sat on the floor like a kid a Christmas unpacking his new acquisition. 

Hubby: "It's a good brand too!"

Me: "How do you know?"

Hubby: "Because I researched."

Yes, he really said that.  And yes, I burst into laughter. 


These are only a few recent examples of Hubby's adorability.  I'll be sure to re-read this next time he pisses me off.   

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

Fuck, I'm nearly out of my twenties.


If you've been reading my crap for a while, you know I've gone through a transformation of late. 

It seems to have started with my Asshole Depression last year - which taught me to get a grip, take care of myself, and acknowledge reality. 

I also found some dark humour that I didn't know I had.  And my dear friend LB describes me as a recovering people pleaser.  I don't really give a shit anymore.  I have less shame, more strength, and I'm more comfortable in my own skin - even if my skin is fatter than it once was.

All of these new things can be attributed, in a twisted sort of way, to losing my path and then having to find a new one - essentially, it all goes back to failing

That, and, that normal process of growing. the. fuck. up.  Age and wisdom and all that  jazz. 

Let's be clear.  I've always been a 40 year old at heart.  I go to bed early.  I've had Hubby since I was 17 and we've had a house in the suburbs since we were 24.  I like Fleetwood Mac.  I take stay-cations. 

But the last couple of years have been a growing process for me.  An improvement, I think. A new paradigm altogether, in which I see, act, and face my life differently than I used to.  And I like this new me.   

Which is why I ADORE that my aunt, uncle, and young cousins saw this book and immediately thought of me. 

Fuck! I'm in my twenties.
By Emma Koenig.
Buy it here

This book is a perfect representation of the shift in my world view.

For example, cursing -slash- hating things:


I still take this approach.  Although maybe you could add a "this" and "that" and "you" to follow each of those fucks. 

Biting off more than I can chew:


Ugh.  I was SO like this in my teens and twenties.  I was a superhero.  Not anymore.  My Asshole Depression fixed that RIGHT up.  Now?  Weekends and evenings are precious, I don't always feel like leaving the house, and work can wait.   

PRESSURE:


Extremely applicable in my 20s.  Now, at 28, I've chilled out a bit.  Or at least I'm able to acknowledge when I'm freaking out, so I can fucking DO SOMETHING about it. 

Regrets:


This one I'm working on.  It does seem rather impossible, doesn't it?  To hate so many things about yourself and your choices so early in life?  Although I have lightened up on the self-judgement, it's still there.  Lingering...

Oh, hysterical meltdowns are aplenty:


This is more like me NOW.  I used to ignore the potential for a breakdown, whereas now I not only anticipate and expect a breakdown, but I plan my lunches around it.

The classic "waiting for life to start" syndrome:

 
 
I'm still figuring this out.  Am I encroaching on THIRTY YEARS OLD?! That CANNOT be.  I'm still such a childish asshole. 
 
And the related "David After the Dentist Confusion" syndrome:
 
 
 
I've been known to have some less than lucid moments of "where the fuck am I, what the fuck happened, and how the fuck did I get here."  Haven't we all?
 
And finally, people are pretending:
 
 

 
This took me a while to figure out, but I've got it covered now.  It's no longer a question.  The 28-year-old me knows that, yes, people are pretending.  Everyone is confused, annoyed, self-conscious, and messed the eff up. 
 
And if your response to that is "No, not me! Everything is great!" then you're in denial. 
 
The trick is knowing that just because you're confused, annoyed, self-conscious, and messed the eff up, this doesn't make you UNHAPPY, necessarily. 
 
Just own it. Face your crap, be honest with yourself and others, never assume you know everything, and it'll be a lot easier to live.  Promise.  
 
 


Tuesday, 14 August 2012

I mostly just drank wine with a sticky face.


Cottage! Cottage cottage cottage! We went to the cottage!

K, so we don't have a cottage, but my best friend A does. Well, her family does. So every year for her birthday, all her friends pile into their cars and drive out to the lake.

And that's just what Hubby and I did this past weekend.  It all started on Saturday morning.

7:00 - Hubby and I wake up.

7:45 - Hubby starts shouting because WE HAVE TO LEAVE AT 8:00

8:15 - I get out of bed.

9:30 - Hubby starts shouting because he's done all the packing and all I've done is NOTHING.

9:45 - I vaccuum. 

9:55 - We leave.

10:01 - While Hubby is pumping gas, I offer to get him a coffee. I ask him what size but then I decide he only needs a small. He asks for medium. I say small. He says medium. I leave. The guy next to us laughs.

10:04 - I emerge with two small coffees. Both are the perfect size.

10:05 - Hubby admits that he bought too many bags of ice as we try to jam it all into our coolers. I remind Hubby that there are two refrigerators at the cottage. And two freezers.

10:06 - We realize that Hubby forgot the chicken. And the dip.

11:06 - We stop at a small town grocery store. We buy chicken and dip. And birthday candles.

12:07 - We arrive at the cottage. We want to make sandwiches. We realize that Hubby forgot to buy bread.

12:08 - The sun comes out and the alcohol begins to flow.

Best.  Cottage.  Ever. 

Sometime before sunset -  People play bocci ball. I drink wine. People play noodle wars. I drink wine. People swim and play ladder golf. I drink wine and beer. People make me dinner. I eat it. And I drink wine.

Noodle wars.
Sometime after sunset -  I make s'mores with Caramilk bars. My face gets really sticky. Someone tries to stuff a million marshmallows into someone else's mouth. I drink wine. Some other people play euchre. I drink wine. Hubby plays guitar while I shout requests in his direction. We sing. I drink wine, I think, although my memory is a little sketchy. I light candles in cupcakes and we all sing Happy Birthday. My face gets sticky again.

Later -  Hubby and I go to bed. Other people try to blame Hubby for annoying erratic iPod selections, even though he's asleep. Hubby's friend threatens to come into our room and "stramroll" Hubby. I know he won't dare because he fears me like the wrath of god. As he should. Hubby's friend abandons his threat, as predicted, adding "Laugh it up Marianna" as he walks away from our door.

Sometime after sunrise - Hubby and I get up. Hubby sits by the water.  I clean the cupcakes, cups, bottles, and gross guacamole off the picnic table. It takes too long.  I read my book for several hours in between breakfast and game  playing watching.

Later - We avoid rain repeatedly and finally give up and go inside. My friend does a puzzle. I start to help her until until I get annoyed.

Around 4:00 - Hubby and I drive home. We see a giant rainbow. 





Wednesday, 8 August 2012

Mothers are like robots. Really smart robots.

I was walking through the mall tonight, on my way to my car after my bus ride home, and I came to the elevator.

Don't judge me. I was wearing a narrow skirt, so taking the stairs would have meant certain death.

And awkward walking.

And I'm a lazy bum.

Anyway... walking to car, waiting for elevator.

And then a mom approached with her cute toddler son.

She reached across and took some hand sanitizer from a dispenser hanging next to the elevator. She wiped her hands and then wiped her son's hands.

And then I stared and stared.

I pass that elevator on a daily friggin' basis and never, not once, have I ever noticed that damn hand sanitizer dispenser thingie hanging on the wall.

Which made me think that mothers can probably spot those things a mile away. Like tunnel vision, zeroing in on it. They probably have their eyes trained to pick out every possible opportunity to clean their child.

Either that or I'm a sick pig who never washes her hands.

But I'm hoping it's the mother thing.

Friday, 3 August 2012

I'm a golf pro. Deal with it.

I went golfing tonight.  And by "golfing" I mean "sitting in the cart and drinking beer while Hubby and our friends golfed" because I don't golf. 

How people could voluntarily expose themselves to utter frustration and pain by trying to use a long stick to hit a tiny little ball hundreds of metres down a giant green field, I will NEVER understand. 

So instead, I volunteered to drive the cart.  And get the beers. 

Here.  I drew it for you. 

This is Hubby and our friends teeing off. 
That pink ball is Hubby's. 
Just kidding. 
But that is him wearing his aviators. 
Except he shoots all wonky.  A righty lefty. 


And this is me.  In my cart.  Supervising. 

Then I took some pictures. 
Boredom was setting in. 
It had been one hole. 

Me, running to catch the beer cart. 
WAIT! HELP ME!
Me, drinking my beer, paying no attention whatsoever to the golfers. 


Me, tweeting. 
Telling stories about that time Hubby tried to fake out his buddies while driving the cart. 
Except he faked too far and ended up driving the fucking thing into the waterhole. 
Apparently the best part was his popping up shouting "HELP ME!" to his buddies.
So they could help him yank the cart out of the lake. 
Nice one, Hubby.



Me, hunting for long-lost golf balls. 
Just for the pure thrill of it. 
And constantly being reminded to stay out of the line of fire of people actually playing golf on the golf course. 

The four of us eating dinner.
Hubby stewing a bit about his game. 
Me trying to ignore all golf talk entirely. 

And apparently we all became zombies.