Fact: I am PLAYFUL.

In honour of Miss Sarcasm's Operation Play More, here is a list of things I've done recently that I consider "playing" ...

1) I BOOKED A TRIP TO CHICAGO.  With other bloggers.  Yeah.  To drink beer and eat pizza. And to be ridiculous.  Because that's my specialty. 

2) I smeared yellow dandelion goop on my friend Phil's arm.  And then I ran away.

3) I made s'mores on the fire.  Yes, the fire.  That Hubby made.  This weekend.  In our house.  In June. 

4) I took off from work and bought popsicles for my colleagues.  And then I ate them.  K, not all of them, but at least two. 

5) I went to see Snow White and the Huntsman with the girls.  And I squealed childishly when the trailer for the final Twilight movie played.  And then I squealed even more when almost every scene in Snow White was the same as those in Twilight.  Like, THE SAME.  (Except for the ones with Charlese Theron.  Charlese Theron is a beautiful genius.)  Oh, and I also spent $4.51 on the smallest bag of peanut M&Ms known to humanity, simply to avoid eating the GREEN BEANS my friends were snacking on.  Losers. 

6) I became a #gooseabductor.  Rather, I tried to.  Not really geese.  More like goslings.  I've not yet been successful, but I haven't given up.  Hint for other potential goose abductors: mother geeses don't like when you try to abduct their babies. 

Cheesy Chicago

If you were on twitter last night, you may have noticed all the commotion.  There was basically an uprising - a rebellion against lameness and boring day-to-day life. 

That's right.  #CheesyChicago is a real thing.  I and my fellow cheesers Miss Sarcasm and Begging Answers have spent almost a year talking about this.  And now it has finally come to fruition. 

We have officially booked a bunch of rooms at the Palmer House hotel in downtown Chicago and we are takin on the town!  June 22-24, 2012.  Be there or be square. 

All the details are at Cheesy Bloggers, or you can email or tweet us/me anytime.

This is seriously happening, and it's seriously going to be more fun than you've had in years - probably.  We're going with or without you, but we don't want to go without you! 

Consider joining us.  Speaking from experience, there is nothing cooler than meeting up with blogger friends who know you, and understand you, and totally get your sense of humour.  Plus, what could be better than a weekend of deep dish pizza, endless laughs, and lots of beer?

When in doubt, SHOW BOOB.

Four things made me smile today.  I have enumerated them here for your interest. 

ONE. 

Miss Sarcasm and I decided that if that Santorum ass bucket were to win the election, she would move up here to be my neighboUr.  On the other hand, if Obama wins, I will be moving down there.  But then we decided that she and I would just combine and rule the two nations ourselves.  The Stefanna Cheesedom of Canmerica.  With a national dish of poutine and Beyonce (chicken, not singer) on our coins.  And an "anti douche, anti idiot" statement in our citizenship pledge. 



Knock knock, motherfucker

TWO.

Hubby called me at work to report a suspicious vehicle on our street.  It was sitting parked with the engine running for several hours.  When an equally suspicious van approached, Hubby became particularly concerned.  And so, naturally, he called to ask me if alerting the police was overkill.  Because he's reasonable like that.  As much as I wanted to avoid a repeat of last time, I do hate weirdos.  "Hell, call the cops! Weirdos!"  Although it turned out to be nothing, I'm glad Hubby is monitoring the neighbourhood. 


THREE.

Miss Sarcasm told me to "show boob." Wait, what?  Ok, I have to do a presentation for a bunch of tenth graders tomorrow.  I'm supposed to talk about my boring career.  BORING. Unleeesssss I show boob.  Boob showing is always the highlight of any presentation.  Fact.   


FOUR.

Hubby texted me to ask if I wanted chicken alfredo for dinner.  This was good for two reasons:  first, I was hungry and had no intention of making any food; and, second, I was upstairs in the bedroom.  In other words, he offered to make me dinner, AND my kickass iPhone made it possible for me to accept said offer instantaneously.  WIN/WIN.  As an additional bonus, this was the best text conversation we've had in a while...

Crazy neighbours, shoveling, and other cheesy things

It's my week over at Cheesy Bloggers.  It's my week every third week, actually.  And if you're not already following me (and my genius friends Ms Sarcasm and Ang) at our WICKED ASS bloggy site, you are missing out on some seriously cheesy/hilarious stuff.

Simply because I love you, and I want you to partake in the pure hilarity that happens over there on a daily basis, here is my post from this week. 

But I insist that you go check out Cheesy Bloggers.  Because it's cheesy.  Enough said. 

*******

I hope you don't have a special shoveling method.

Who has a crazy neighbour?

I do! I do!

Actually, most of my neighbours are nice, some are even super fun, but there are inevitable quirks that show up from time to time. Obsessive compulsive quirks, for example.

Last week we got a shit-ton of snow. Not as much as we're used to up here in the Great White North, but still. It all came at once. In one giant dumping on Thursday morning. The whole sky was white with big fluffy flakes falling at a rapid pace. I thought it was nuclear winter.

Anyway, it was falling so fast that there was really no point in shovelling it. Unless you're crazy.

I was getting ready for work and I pointed out to Hubby the funny neighbour across the street, shovelling away. Only, the whole driveway was already covered in another layer of snow by the time she got to the end.

And of course I thought this was HILARIOUS.

But then Hubby made it even funnier.

Hubby: "Oh my god. No. Keep watching. Watch what she does."

Me: "Really? What?"

Hubby: "Just watch."

And I watched, from behind the bedroom curtain my window, while nutbar across the street finished the end of her driveway. AND THEN STARTED OVER AGAIN.

She just started at the top.   Again.

Me: "No!"

Hubby: "She does that all the time! Watch! She even has a special method."

Yep. She sure did. She first shovelled down a layer, and then over. And then down, and over. And so on, until the whole giant driveway was RE-shoveled. Which was clearly the funniest thing I'd seen in weeks. So I obviously ran downstairs to take a picture. Obviously.

I love my neighbours. But man, sometimes people are nuts.

******

Have you got a crazy neighbour story? Email it to CheesyBloggers@gmail.com  and I'll post it for all of us to enjoy. Also, please check out this week's Spreadable Cheese. It's totally worth it. I'm super clever and I found some funny stuff for y'all to look at. So go ahead. Now is good. Go!

Not every day sucks - today notwithstanding

I had a good day yesterday.  For three specific reasons. 

Number One, I posted a "how to quit being so selfless and considerate" like-Cosmo-but-so-much-friggin-better quiz on Cheesy Bloggers. 

If I've learned nothing over the last several months by fighting nasty-ass Depression and Anxiety, I've at least learned this: I simply MUST find a way to ease up on myself.  I need to check-in once in a while.  I need to give myself the same credit and forgiveness I'd give others.  I need to make room. 

My old habit of shoving every simple (yet unwanted) emotion into the depths of my soul only meant that I eventually maxed out my capacity and the whole effing shit-show just exploded black depression bile and red anxiety toxins all over my life. 

Hence the quiz.  This quiz will gauge how well you treat yourself - regardless of how well you treat others.  You should take the quiz (HERE) and email it to CheesyBloggers@gmail.com.  Then I'll "evaluate" your responses with my very "advanced" and "scientific" scoring "strategy". 


Number Two, I applied some of my new "mindfulness" depression and anxiety strategies EXPERTLY. 

A douchebag was sorta trying (inadvertently, I think) to take advantage of me to support his own ego trip.  My first inclination was to just go along with it and hope he'd get bored and move on.  I could see through him, so it didn't matter.  I was also afraid that if I blew him off he'd badmouth me.  And I thought it'd just be easier to put up with it, rather than nip it in the bud. 

Well, despite my reservations, I NIPPED THAT SHIT IN THE BUD, man.  I politely expressed my disinterest in having anything to do with him and saved myself the pain in the ass of letting him walk all over me. 

This may sound stupid, it's a huge accomplishment.  I said "No thanks" even though my gut reaction was to say, "Well, ok, I guess, if I have to, and if I can't get out of it, and if it might turn out badly."


Number Three, I got home only to find the most exciting possible thing in my kitchen (aside from Hubby).  I found a UPS package!  From my darling friend Miss Chicktuition!  I entered her photo contest and she sent me my winnings!  This was seriously the chocolate topping on my peanut butter cake.  Thanks Jacqui!

My "Stay Away From My Mug" Mug; my "Terribly Witty Ideas By Me" notebook; my pink pens and stickies; and a ridiculous amount of adorable chocolate that got eaten within five minutes.  And of course, Miss Chick's button. 

*** You should know that I wrote this earlier this morning before my day at work went to shit and then my car starting making the worst noise in Canada.  But whatever. 

A white tutu, a blow pop, and the scariest things that EVER happened

You guys. Are you aware of what special event is taking place in less than one week?

Yes, yes, you guessed it. I will be shaving my private parts.

No, wait, that's Tuesday nights. My mistake.

Next Monday night will be fun too, however, as it will be HALLOWEEN. The scariest night of the year.

BOO!

See? Scary.

I love Halloween. I even wrote about it on Cheesy Bloggers this week, and I hope all you halloweenies will write about it too. 

The first Halloween I remember took place at 4 years of age. I was the Tooth Fairy. My mom's clever idea I suppose. I had a white tutu and a wand. And I insisted on leaving coins on neighbours' front porches.

Other years I went as an Indian (feathers, not dots - sorry that's rude), a clown, a baby. We used to sucker some lucky parent into driving us around in their minivan to help transport our multiple pillow cases STUFFED with candy.  And these were the old days, folks - the days of can cola and mixed goodie bags. There were no effing fortune cookies and mini playdough cups back then. This was the real shit. The heavy shit.

I used to wake up early on the weekends and creep (very skillfully across the creaky hardwood floor) into the spare bedroom closet where the giant pillow cases were stored to collect a few handfuls of breakfast. I would carry it in the front of my nightie to the basement, watch tv, and stuff my face.

Until one morning Mom called my name. I came bounding up the stairs two at a time without thinking and looked up at mom... with nothing other than a blow pop sticking out of my face. "Gotcha" was the look on her face. "Oh. Shit." was the look on mine.

When I got to 9th grade I was AGHAST that Mom wouldn't let me trick-or-treat with my friends. She said I was too old. WAY TO RUIN MY LIFE, MOM. Instead I ate candy, watched The Simpsons Halloween specials, and handed out treats to little kids. Ever since then I've preferred the handing-out-candy part to the walking-around-in-the-cold part.

I still dress up though - at work. One year I was a terrifying zombie bride, and then Maryann on a 3-hour tour. Last year I followed the yellow brick road in some WICKED ruby red shoes.

I haven't decided this year, but I'm leaning toward garden gnome. Because if you know me, you know that garden gnomes are THE SCARIEST FUCKING THINGS THAT EVER HAPPENED.

Other than that I have no big plans. Maybe another pumpkin carving contest, of which Hubby will fiercely protest and then take tremendously seriously until he wins all the little kiddies' votes and gets to brag about it for years to come.

Welcome to my life.


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Day 2 - What's the point?

Holy shit, I've made it past the first day of my 30 (or 100) Day Blog Challenge.  I can call it a success now. 

Day Two is supposed to be an explanation of my blog.  Well, that's a tricky one, because the only point - the only purpose it has ever served - is to amuse me. 

Selfish?  Sure.  But that's the reality of it.  So sue me. 

This blog has never been anything but JUST FOR ME.  I've said this before.  I say it all the time.  I write what I think is funny, or what I think is a pain in the ass, or what makes me think carefully. I write to clear my head, or to get my thoughts organized, or to document a good day.  I write FOR ME. 

Whenever anyone says they've got writers block, or their readership is falling, or whatever, I always bestow the same remarkable advice:

Your blog is YOURS.  It's a representation of your thoughts and feelings.  Your best posts are always the ones that come from your own unique inspiration.  The ones you don't filter, the ones you don't censor, the ones in which you express an honest feeling from the particular moment in time in which you are feeling it. 

I rarely pre-write my posts.  I type, I spell-check, and then I click PUBLISH.  Sometimes the honesty I demand of myself - the honesty that makes this blog MINE - does put a knot in my stomach on occasion. Sometimes I wince when I click that PUBLISH button. But I click it just the same. 

Don't get me wrong.  I adore comments and encouragement from my readers.  I love hearing from people in real life who say they liked what I wrote.  I even love walking up on a colleague who just happens to be reading my words as I approach. 

And usually I get at least one amusing or supportive comment (if not several) and it makes the honesty (whether brutal, or sarcastic, or bitchy) 100% worth it.  Either I learn that I'm not the only picker.  Or I start up a conversation about guns.  Or I gain strength from everyone who tells me it WILL get better. 

Best of all, I might get a comment that makes me think I made someone else's day better, or I inspired someone, or I helped someone in some small way.  Those comments are the best ones - because they're the ones in which my honesty (the honesty that was originally just for me) shifts into being for someone else too. 

Getting two birds stoned at once.

Which is where CheesyBloggers comes in.  Cheesy Bloggers is the place where it's about everyone else.  About spreading cheesy blog love, meeting new people, and having a LAUGH.  You can even win prizes! Because life is tough - laughs are a requirement. 

Blogging is about ME, but it's about all of you too.

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I'm going to sue my best friend

We were at my best friend's cottage this weekend and I may have to amputate my left hand. 

I think I could live without my left hand if I really had to, but if I do have to cut it off, I will most certainly sue my best friend for mal-treatment via cottage dock and severe emotional trauma. 

I was TRYING to do something nice, too.  One of my fellow cottage guests thought it would be a good idea to put her dog into the canoe.  I don't know about you, but I know very few people who can stay balanced in a canoe, let alone a damn dog. 

So I was trying to help the friggin thing out of the boat, leaning over the edge of the dock.  (And I can neither confirm nor deny the consumption of alcohol on said dock - because that could be detrimental to the outcome of my legal proceedings.)  I was kneeling on the dock, leaning over the side into the canoe and trying to help Hubby lift the doggie to safety. 

Well.  Somehow I shoved my hand into the edge of the dock and managed to jam 324 pieces of ancient wood chips into my palm.  And it's possible that something I ate or drank - I'm not sure what - may have inhibited my ability to recognize and respond to my impending panic attack. 

Basically, I shouted at nobody in particular, showed my bloody wound to Hubby, and then took off up to the cottage to find... I don't know what. 

Luckily my nurse friend Sarah was able to save me from this crisis situation by offering to conduct a cottage-style open-hand surgery. 

I sat at the picnic table with my left hand face up on the table and my right hand on my white wine anesthesia while Nurse Sarah dug out the 752 pieces of dock shrapnel that were embedded into my flesh.

I tried to read a book as a form of distraction, but mostly every other word just came out as "fuck". 

Our other friend came up to table and told me that Hubby asked if I was ok.  I looked up, and there was Hubby frolicking in the lake beneath a capsized canoe.  "Yeah.  He looks really concerned." 

In the end, Nurse Sarah couldn't even get the last bastard piece of shrapnel out of my hand.  She said the laceration below was a hindrance to a safe operation.  And she didn't have her scalpel.  She said my skin will hopefully discharge the foreign body within a day or two. 

Either that, or we'll have to amputate. 

And by the looks of it, it'll be the second one. 

UPDATED:

Given that my palm is two times its normal size, leaking some really nasty shit, and isn't even the correct flesh colour anymore, I went to see a nurse today.  After digging around in my hand for a few minutes she determined that I'll have to come back for another medical "procedure" on Thursday. 

Awesome.

This cheesy post also appears on Cheesy Bloggers.
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A first kiss to be proud of

Over at our cheesy blogger headquarters, Miss Sarcasm In Action came up with a genius writing prompt for this week.   First Kisses.

See?   Genius.   Miss Sarcasm is amazing.  Without her, this whole administration would crumble.

So I'm going to tell you about my first real kiss.   By "real" I mean a kiss that was exciting and fun, and that I actually wanted to partake in, rather than a kiss I simply felt obliged to give up.  The first un-boring, un-planned, and un-awkward kiss of my young life.

I was 17.   It was a gorgeous summer and I did nothing but work at my retail job, swim in my mom's pool, tan on my mom's deck, and drink pink grapefruit Loaded Soda in my mom's basement.  All of which set the stage for some intense flirting between yours truly and a cute blonde kid.

He was pretty much in love with me, and I took complete advantage of it for weeks - like all reasonable 17 year old girls would do.   I had him wrapped around my little finger.

Little did I know I was wrapping myself around his, too. 

It seems, in hindsight, that our friends were working against us.   Or with us.   Whichever.   They were implementing their master plan to get me and the cute blonde kid together.   We were left alone on several occasions, and teenage infatuation began to blossom.   One night in particular our friends took off like pranksters, and we were left alone in my basement. 

Once curfew began to approach (his, not mine), we started to walk up the stairs.   The adorable blond kid led me up the steps with my hands on his hips behind him.   I walked him to the front porch.   It was late on a warm and lovely July night. 

Then my crush asked me, gently into my ear if I would "go out with him".  Of course I would. 

He started to walk away down the porch steps, with our hands still linked and beginning to separate.

And then, then something must have come over me.   I grabbed his hand and pulled him back toward me.   Me one step higher, him coming closer.

And then I kissed him.   Kissed him the most memorable kiss.

Two weeks later we were head over heels in love and inseparable.   We were intertwined.

After a few years we got an apartment together, and then packed up our lives and moved away from Hometown together.   And almost two years ago we got married.   Finally.   And not. one. single. thing. changed.

Next Tuesday will be our 10 year anniversary.  A milestone.  Even more than nine years, and eight years, and every milestone before it.

Although Hubby would tell you he initiated that first kiss that started everything, he'd be a damn liar. But he wouldn't be lying if he said that without his patience and tolerance and incomparable heart we may not have made it this far.

But I did make that first move.  At least I have that.

Back in the old days. Ok, so 2004. But that's as far as my digital pictures go.
(And yes that's a young Patches on the right!)

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Shitionary. Topped with cheese. UPDATED

Updated below...

I've had a goddam cold since Tuesday.  It started with a sore throat and then sniffles and then sneezing and then fever and now a nastyass cough with all sorts of yellowy green shit discharging from my lungs.  (Special thanks to my *wonderful* Quasi-Step-Dad who had this cold last weekend and must've given it to me.  How kind of him.)

Despite my illness, Canada Day was good.  I'll tell you about it later. 

More importantly, as part of the celebratory holiday weekend (on both sides of this glorious border!), we have officially launched our Cheesy Blogger Movement!

Thanks to the help of my friends SarcasmInAction at Musings of a Sarcastic Mind and Angela at Begging The Answer, the three of us have launched a new blogger community to share and link and laugh. 

Click on this.

It's the hottest thing, y'all.  Be there or be square. 

There are games, and jokes, and lots of opportunities to guest post.  It's all about spreading cheese.  And if you follow our site, not only will you be part of the coolest club in town, but we'll pimp you out to other bloggers.  Seriously.  What are you waiting for?  Go check it out.  Like, now. 

And when you get back, play Shitionary!  Because it's fun.

You guys were awfully quiet this time, but against all odds, someone did actually win.  In fact, she was DEAD-ON. 

Now.  Here's my problem.  I don't want you all thinking I cheated after the whole Shitionary Gate scandal, or just because the winner happens to be a fellow Cheesy Blogger founder, because I TOTALLY DIDN'T CHEAT. 

Congratulations Miss Sarcasm!  You finally won!  (I knew you'd eventually make a real guess if you actually had a clue.)  For you, my dear:

_

Oh. My. God.

So, my husband calls me this morning and whispers: “There’s a crazy guy on the front step of our house cutting himself with scissors.”

Holy shit.

I guess Guy (crazy and/or disturbed and/or high-out-of-his-TREE... to be determined) approached Hubby out front, asking for Andrew.  Hubby doesn’t know an Andrew, and he definitely doesn’t know Guy.

So Hubby retreats from the driveway into the house and locks the door while Guy wanders down the road… wanders down the road, only to quickly return to our front porch and proceed to peer into our front door, and then begin to use my garden scissors to carefully cut his right shoulder.

Hubby calls the police. 

Hubby then cautiously observes Guy from the distant family room while anxiously waiting for Cop to show up.

Hubby gives me the play-by-play via telephone.  He says he’s ready to escape out the back door if needed.  And I, of course, ask “where are the cats?!” to be sure that he will rescue Tuxedo and Patches if a hasty exit is required.

Finally, Cop shows up and is yelling at Guy to put. the. scissors. down.  Guy is laying on our front lawn/porch.

Cop cars #2 and #3 arrive.  And then the Paramedic vehicles drive up – 3 of them.

All these people try to secure Guy – one even pulls out the hose from our backyard (the reason for which does eventually reveal itself) – all while Hubby watches from the relative safety of his Panic Room.

Hubby kindly points out to me how crazy this must look to our neighbours.  Both mine and Hubby’s vehicles are parked out front, and it can’t look good.  Oh, wow, what’s going on with the cute newlyweds?  The honeymoon’s over!

I then realize that I feel really badly for Guy.  Something must be very wrong with him.  But I reserve my concern for AFTER he’s not a threat to my house/husband/cats.

Hubby eventually emerges from the house.

Cop has placed our scissors in the mailbox!  How… thoughtful?  Hubby quickly confirms that, no, we don’t want the scissors.  Cop puts his rubber glove BACK ON and removes the scissors. 

Cop then informs Hubby that when he arrived, Guy was on our front step trying to cut off some very important body parts.  

Oh.  My.  God.

And so, because Cop had to stop Guy somehow (he didn't want him to regret THAT later) Hubby will now have to wash the PEPPER SPRAY off our front door.

OH.  MY.  GOD. 

Hubby gets out the new pressure washer to blast the front door and ends up breathing in hoards of the "minor irritant"  (Cop's description) as it dislodges from our front step and fills the surrounding atmosphere.

Hubby finally goes to work and stresses about the whole traumatizing event all day.  Who could blame him?


This cheesy post also appears at Cheesy Bloggers.
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