Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Leaping. Or something.

Some things I did today to make this extra 24 hours of leap time particularly spectacular and productive:

I fell back to sleep after showering this morning.

I got a stripey mark on my cheek from the towel on my head. 

I took this picture of my cats. 



I cried about a funeral I couldn't go to. 

I got a ride with Hubby to work, leaving him to attend a funeral on his own. 

I did some work. 

I threw a donut/cookie/coffee party for my colleagues.  Yay. 

I ate a giant ginger cookie. 

I drank a cup of coffee.  SCREW YOU, TEA. 

I ate a double chocolate donut. SCREW YOU, ARTERIES. 

I annoyed my boss by being forgetful at an inopportune moment.

I remembered to eat lunch. 

I annoyed my boss by being slightly argumentative all afternoon. 

I re-wrote someone else's work. 

I made Hubby pick me up from work at 6:30, on his way home from funeral services.

I had a bath.

I twittered. 

I "blogged".

And now I'm watching Modern Family. 

Click here.  ABC .com 


I call all that success. 

Saturday, 25 February 2012

Carmen is a total hottie


I got a wicked birthday present this year.  I got to go out west for a short business trip.  But the business trip wasn't the present... aside from stupid work crap, there is one friggin sweet prize out west:  one of my bestest blogger friends, Carmen!  And we actually got to MEET.  Not just meet, but hang out.  In a bar.  With wine.  AND CHEESE.

In case you aren't already jealous (but let's be honest, how could you not be?), here are the top ten things you may or may have known about my awesome friend Carm

10) She will drive all the way from her house into the city to pick me up and take me to a bar. 

 9) She won't know what bar, but she'll find one with a parking lot. 

 8) She may or may not hit a pedestrian.  But she stops at green lights.   

 7) She'll flirt with the bartender and totally blame it on me.  But we'll get birthday shots.

 6) Her boobs are AHmazing.  (Said the old lady to the sailor.)

 5) She is wicked funny and totally gets my stupid sense of humour. 

 4) She spells humoUr correctly, because she's CANADIAN like me.

 3) She's a real human being - funny and genuine and smart and normal.  (Despite HUbby's concerns that she is some internet stalker/robot.)

 2) She is SUCH a good mom - doesn't put up with any shit! And so proud of her kids. 

 1) She won't hesitate to snuggle with me in my bed and take pictures.  But she will laugh till she snorts.  Although she'll excuse herself for snorting, because she's super polite like that. 




I had such a fun time with Carmen.  I wish she lived near me so we could hang out all the time.  I also wish all us awesome bloggers could get together more often - I'm considering Chicago this June... who's in?

Sunday, 19 February 2012

I HAVE A SUN SPOT, PEOPLE.

Have you guys read my "Dillio" page?  It very clearly states the following:

  • I live in Canada;
  • I like late night dance parties in my living room;
  • I love Hubby and my kitties; and,
  • I am in my mid twenties (continually refusing to define the point at which my mid twenties become my late twenties). 

Now.  I acknowledge the legitimate possibility that one's personal "about" page could change over time.  There may come a day when I no longer enjoy late night dance parties in my living room.  It's unlikely but theoretically possible that I could move away from Canada.  I may even get a new cat (or a new Hubby).  Or maybe even a child. 

But my age?! My age should never, ever change.  A person's ability to come to terms with his or her number of years on this planet is a long and painful process.  Once achieved, this is not a process that should have to be repeated.  At any time.  

I'm happy in my mid twenties. 

I used to miss age 21, but I got over it. 

I was comfortable with 24.  24 was ok with me.  I was usually the youngest person in the office, but still an adult. 

Then 25 hit, and I tried my best to ignore it. 

Not surprisingly, 26 was a fucking PROBLEM.  All of a sudden I was on the wrong side of 20.  I had a real issue with 26.  26 and I DID NOT get along. 

And now I'm 27.  Still mid twenties, as far as I'm concerned.  Getting too close to 30, but still twenties.  Not the youngest person around, but still young.  Loosening and wrinkling, but still looking ok. 

But now it's happening.  Age 27 is coming to an end.  Next Wednesday I will turn *gulp* 20 *gag* 8. 

No no no no no no no NO!

To make matters worse, my colleagues hosted my birthday party last Friday with my FAVOURITE Dairy Queen ice cream cake... while I was at home taking a Benilyn Day.  Although I think they saved me a piece. 

Even more fun, I'm going on a business trip this week, meaning that (given the 5 hour flight and the 3 hour time change), my whole birthday will be spent ON A PLANE.  Eight hours.  On a plane.  They had better bring me a free cookie or something. 

The only redeeming components of this week will be: a) going out West, which does happen to be a wicked cool birthday present; and, b) getting to see Carmen, which is better than a birthday present - it's like a effing birthday PRIZE. 

So while I may make it through this week, I'm concerned about my longer-term ability to accept my new age range.  I'm not sure I'll have the strength to update my Dillio.  I'm basically a pathetic old lady.  Getting older by the minute, and hating it. 

Saturday, 18 February 2012

Hubby on Homes

Holmes
I've been complaining about my laundry room for several months.  It's in the basement, in an unfinished room with a concrete floor.  And I hate it.  There's something extremely twisted about cleaning my clothes in a dirty storage room.  There are spiders down there.  SPIDERS.

Although we could put our laundry machines in the main floor bathroom, I find that equally disgusting, given all the poop spores floating through the air.  Not to mention that most guests would wonder when they come into my home why I've spread my entire wardrobe across my foyer.  

This is why I've been dreaming of updating my laundry room - some paint, some Ikea cabinets, a new  light fixture, and maybe even a laminate floor.  All fairly easy improvements that would make a big difference in my daily life. 

So Thursday when Hubby emerged from his lengthy "I've been sick" funk, he decided to initiate my little laundry room project.  I was thrilled.  He's a brilliant little worker to have around the house.  Free labour = happy wifey. 

We talked about it, considering all the renovation options, but ultimately decided on minimal repairs and adjustments. 

You know what happened don't you. 

This.  This fucking happened.



First he found mouse shit and tunnels in the walls (no huge surprise, as we sometimes have mice living in our damn crawl-space).  But this was a LOT of mouse shit.  A SHIT-TON of mouse shit.  It was interspersed throughout the insulation. 

So, he pulled down more and more of the drywall, only to realise that some idiot had framed the wall SIDEWAYS, rather than up and down  So the little rodents were just running back and forth horizontally across the entire side of my house.  Fuckers. 

And THEN he found some mould.  And if you knew Hubby, you'd know that he hates mould even more than he hates mouse shit.  A HOUSE WITH MOULD CAN NOT STAND. 

So the entire wall came down, all the way to the concrete foundation.  And the wall next to it.  And the ceiling. Oh, and he'd demolish even more if I'd let him. 

So now I'm left with that goddam disaster zone. 

As well as this disheveled mess. 



I know what you're thinking.  I'll be happy when it's all said and done.  Not the point, people.  NOT THE POINT.  


Tuesday, 14 February 2012

Happy creepy naked baby day

I need some soup.

Not only did Hubby transmit his viral gastrointestinal infection to me last week, but now he has passed me his dirty head cold.

I had a raw throat last night and now I can’t breathe through my left nostril. Also, snot keeps dripping out of my right one at unexpected and inopportune moments – like when I’m in a work discussion with colleagues. My eyes are also burning, which could indicate a fever, or could simply be a result of the fiery death stares I’ve been sending to anyone who messes with me. Not to mention the sneezing, which is highly offensive to my coworkers.

I also slept weird and my neck/back hurts.  I can only turn my head about three quarters of the way in either direction. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except that IT EFFING HURTS.

Luckily, Hubby’s feeling much better, providing the perfect reason for me to blame him for my misfortune.

All that said, I still have a bit of a festive spirit today. I think it’s an ugly fat baby’s birthday today, isn’t it? You know, the one with the bow and arrow? That crazy little fucker must have bitten me or something because I made a particular effort to wear red today and also made up 30 adorable Winnie the Pooh valentines for my colleagues.



Hubby also bought me some flowers yesterday, which I thought they were making me sniffly, but now I know better. The flowers are nice, but this cold is the worst Valentine’s Day gift he’s ever given me. Even worse than the time he forgot to get me a card but when he got to the store they were sold out so he bought an Easter card instead. Ass bucket.

Happy creepy naked baby day.

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

I'm back I'm back I'm back I'm back

Hubby and I are back from our beach resort vacation. 

And I have never been so glad to be in my cold and snowy country than I am RIGHT NOW. 

Seriously. 

I have a SHIT SHOW of a story for you...  but since I'm trying not to resent the whole damn thing, I'm first going to recap the good news. 

The Good News:

It was gorgeous.  It rained a little, but not much, and the sun was warm. 


The beach was AMAZING. 



Our friends were so much fun.  The beers were unlimited.  The food was decent. 



We swam with stingrays and sharks and fed the tropical fish.  We danced on a party boat. 

The staff were incredible, even teaching us how to curse in Spanish... 

Quel Diablo!


We walked an hour to the market, bought a bunch of crap, and got happily taken advantage of. 

We swam in the pool near the pool bar.  Hubby took a poolside salsa dance lesson.  We made fun of others. 


We slept in and stayed up late.  We had an elevator dance party.  We played Jenga.



We made a GIANT sand prison (because castles are too predictable). 


WE BOOGY BOARDED.  We swam in the waves.



On our last night, we partied it up, slid down the kiddie water slide around 2 am, got shooed away by security, hit up the late night bar, and went to sleep by 4:00. 

And this is where the trouble started. 

The Bad News:

Hubby woke up on our final day with what seemed like a nasty hangover... until that "hangover" got progressively worse, and worse, and worse.  My friends and I went downstairs to check out at the front desk and choke down our final buffet lunch.  When I returned to Hubb, I found him desperately ill sleeping on a bench in the hallway. 

Ummm...

I tried to make him eat and drink, but keeping food down was a no-go.  I decided we needed our room back so he could rest, but the front desk wasn't havin' it. 

And then I started to cry. 

They said I should take him to the resort doctor, at which point I realized that he could never walk that far. 

And then I cried harder. 

A security guard took a very delirious and frightened Hubby in a wheelchair to the doctor, who, when asked by the patient if death was imminent, responded with "only God knows that". 

Quel Diablo.  What the FUCK.

The Trauma:

At this point cellphone roaming charges became immaterial so I started making calls to our insurance company.  Hubby was rushed (hallucinating, terrified, and puking up his insides) into a cab and we took off to the hospital.

A FOREIGN HOSPITAL. 

I checked Hubby in, and they started an IV for rehydration and antibiotics.  "Anti-biotico." He had a severe gastro-intestinal infection.  Hours passed, but he didn't get better, not even a little bit. 

I sat on the floor in the hospital hallway outside of Hubby's Emergency Room curtain, sobbing like a baby.  When the Spanish-speaking doctor found me balling, they scooped us up and devlivered us to a lovely little double room, admitting Hubby for the night. 

Around this time, I was about to lose it.  I'd already employed every possible grounding strategy and anxiety avoidance tool I had at my disposal.  I was alone, and helpless, and scared out of my already-crazy mind.  I was wearing my bathing suit under a skirt and tshirt, didn't have any food, and was even missing my crazy pills.  Nobody spoke any English, Hubby was barely conscious, and I very quickly lost my cool

So I called Momma - crying and alone, and needing to hear a friendly voice.  Momma did what she does best.  She calmed me down and kept me company.  She even offered to come there, which was more than was needed but appreciated all the same. 

She gave me the strength I needed to make a million calls: to our friends who were catching our flight; to our travel agency who would have to remove us from the flight; to our resort who would have to save our baggage; to our medical insurance company who would have to pay for everything; to our neighbours who were feeding the cats; to my boss who would wonder where the heck I was; etc, etc, etc. 

All while Hubby was knocked out in the next room. 

Time passed, I slept a little, and by morning Hubby was feeling a bit better.  We thought we might be able to catch a flight home - or at least close to home where our family could pick us up. 

But when the Doctor came in, he said we needed to stay ANOTHER NIGHT. 

Another night? Seriously?  Aaaaannnnnd... crying again. 

Not to mention I hadn't eaten in 24 hours - the solution to which was to hop in a cab BY MYSELF headed to the nearby gas station to buy a croissant, a tin of peanuts, and a can of Pringles.  All while still in my bathing suit. 

The Healing:

Hubby started to improve.  He ate some soup and his spirits lifted.  We watched tv, played Crazy Eights, and waited for the day to pass.  By night, we cuddled up in the little single hospital bed together and waited desperately for someone to tell us we could go home.  We woke up to the sound of crowing roosters (!) and complained about the humidity.  I refused to document this event, but was convinced to take this single photo. 



Momma booked a flight, while I paced the room thinking that if I never saw another damn palm tree again it would be too fucking soon, wishing I could rip off the damn resort bracelet shackle, and picking at my putrid bright pink nail polish. 

Remember how anxious I was to go on this trip?  How desperate I was?  How much I was clinging to it?  Well, when that doctor said we could go home, I had never been so desperate to leave a place as I was in that single solitary moment. 

Getting the Fuck Out of There:

We packed up Hubby's goody bag of drugs and took a $75 cab back to the resort to get our bags, and then to the airport.  We spent our very last US dollar, and even $5 Canadian.  We got on the plane, sighing a giant breath of relief. 

We landed in Montreal and were about to catch our connection home, when I realized that I didn't have our second boarding passes...

There had been an error in booking, and it turned out we were going to have to spend an extra night in Montreal. 

OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO FAINT. 

This can't happen.  We need to GO HOME. 

In the flurry of everyone running off our plane to catch their connections, the Air Canada staff saved the day.  They fit us onto the plane, switched our luggage, charged us an additional 300 bucks, and WE RAN FASTER THAN WE HAVE EVER RUN to catch that flight. 

We boarded that damn plane from the tarmac and tried to recover from our marathon in the cold, dry air. 

Home Sweet Home:

Aside from a smelly/wet suitcase and some very lonely kitties, home was the best thing that had ever happened to me. 

Momma said that when she went south, she was so happy for the warmth that she kissed the hot ground.  When I got home I thought I might eat the snow. 

Hubby was still sick but we were ok.  Glad to be home.  Glad to be safe. 

The Saga Continues:

Yesterday after I took Hubby to the doctor, I got nauseous.  By evening I was feverish and throwing up while Hubby held my head.  I have not gotten off the couch since.

Hubby still can't eat anything except soup and crackers, and he slept all damn day. 

I had to miss a psych appointment, a massage appointment, and tomorrow a dentist appointment.  Not to mention WORK, which I have entirely abandoned. 

I have not come to terms with all this yet.  I am struggling.  I am resentful and bitter. 

And I may never leave my house again.

_