That'll learn ya, Hubby

We love our cat Tuxedo.  As stupid as he is, he's pretty damn cute. 

And Hubby likes nothing more than to mess with the little shithead. 

When Tuxedo looks entranced, Hubby likes to kick his feet to spook him.  When Tuxedo is sleeping, Hubby likes to yell "Ooooooo!" in a high-pitched voice and scare the shit out of him.  When Tuxedo is pacing around Hubby's feet, he likes to roll him up in a ball and slide him like a bowling ball across the floor. 

Even as we speak, Hubby is knocking on the wall and Tuxedo is looking all around trying to figure out what the eff is happening. 

Tonight Hubby was messing with Tuxedo as usual.  This is what happened. 

The end.

Canada Day is a MUST

Tomorrow is Canada Day.  And Hubby and I happen live in the national capital, so venturing downtown to witness (and maybe take part) in some festive antics is necessary.  

On top of the regular fun to be had, William and Kate are here, which is expected to result in as many as 400,000 people meandering around town. And in the words of my very pregnant friend, going downtown (despite having TWO  babies busting out of her belly) is, quote: "NON-NEGOTIABLE".   

So Hubby and I will have stories for y'all upon our return.  But in the meantime, here is last year's Canada Day post.  Enjoy!

Oh, and make sure you check out the first picture.  It is undeniably the. best. photo. I. have. EVER. taken. 

* * *

Commuter Chronicles - Canada Day

Where: Downtown in the Nation’s Capital
When: Canada Day
Why: It’s unclear

Riding the bus is the best option for Canada Day celebrations in O-town. Driving is a real pain, and parking isn’t cheap, nor convenient.

The ride downtown was something else. Keep in mind, I’m used to commuting with other commuters – people in suits and dresses, with briefcases and blackberries, who mind their own business with their books and music. I am not used to commuting with high-flying hoot-in-anies wearing bikinis and carrying beers. (Yes, one particular older “lady” was wearing nothing but her red and white barely-underwear bathing suit… glorious.)

We eventually arrived, met up with friends, and had a ball. Music and buskers and beer – oh my! There were even barenaked ladies – the band, as well as topless body-painted women strolling down la promenade, garnering whatever attention they could.

News reports said there were over 100,000 people in attendance. And after the fireworks, there must have been a million people waiting for a goddam bus.

Hoards of people flooded the streets, spilling over from the sidewalks. Hubby tried to follow me as I quickly deeked through the crowds.

And then there was nowhere left to deek.

We were all pathetic cows being herded. Standing on the curb, pissed off and pitying ourselves. Just waiting for a bus – any damn bus – to open its doors. Every single bus that passed was packed beyond capacity.

Hoards of people – Hubby and I included – we so… defenseless.

We finally got on a bus. Not even the right one. We’d have to switch later. But we’d do anything not to have to stand there like idiots one minute longer.

And then it was packed. PACKED. And damn hot. And so rank that I thought I might puke. I buried my face in Hubby’s arm just to avoid smelling the air.

We made our way at a snaaaiilll’s pace through downtown. Every time the driver had to open the doors, people tried to cram in. Mob mentality. Cops were restraining people. Crowds of drunk, tired, and trapped people – all just staring at us through the bus windows with pleading faces. It reminded me of Rose and Jack floating in the North Atlantic in “Titanic” (but with less death/melodrama).

Eventually we got moving. Amen. But that was only moderately more tolerable.

At one point there was a young drunk girl standing behind Hubby. She was texting, and had totally abandoned all concern for holding herself up. Hubby became the brace to fully lean against, and, at one sharp turn, his shirt became her lifeline as she nearly fell to the floor.

We were pretty much laughing by then. It was all so ridiculous.

Next year, I will read this posting and reevaluate, making an informed decision about whether or not to attend. Probably will though. It was still a shit ton of fun.

For your enjoyment, some photos:

First, a clown escorting our friend out of the driver's seat of his little cart. And there, on the right, is Hubby, sitting in the back.  

Second, the red and white view from a high bar balcony.

And the crowds on Rue Rideau. And there, in the middle, my dear friend with her arm raised in a celebratory cheer.

And finally, the fireworks behind the Peace Tower.

_

Laughter is the best medicine. And Xanex.

If you follow me on twitter, you know I've had a painful day.  Asshole Depression and Bitch Anxiety strike again.  When will this let up?  Never, apparently. 

But I have an amazing doctor who has graciously upped my meds, a supportive workplace that lets me work from home occasionally, and numerous wonderful friends (real life, twitter, and/or blogger) that helped me through. 

Not to mention that a twitter fight over Aged Canadian White Cheddar always lifts my spirits, even if I am a Cheese Nazi.  (Thanks Steph and Jacqui! #cheesegreed)

So, despite my breakdown this afternoon (after yet again facing the fact that I suck giant monkey balls), I'm back on track. 

Know why?

Well, for one, my mom listened to me cry.  (Because what are moms for?)  And because I got some encouraging words.  And because Hubby got home from work. 

But ALSO because the aforementioned Steph, Miss SarcasminAction herself, is a GODDAM GENIUS. 

She came up with a hilarious idea to create a Blogger Face-Off.  She sought participants, and then sent out a set of questions (related to, for example, jelly shoes, Viagra, and laundry, just to name a few), and she'll now pair up respondents two at a time. 

Today she paired herself against (although she swears it's not a competition) yours truly, and it turned out great! YOU HAVE TO CHECK IT OUT! 

Thanks darlin!  You exponentially improved my très shitty day.  (Another French word for Steph, which means "very".  I'm Canadian, but she doesn't hold it against me.)

_

Ok. So I'm not so clever either.

Wow.  The fuchsia x-trainers saga continues.

I did get my shoes last week.  Yay!  And I loved them.  They were perfect. 

Or so I thought. 

But Hubby had to fuck me over and point out that they were too small. 

"What do you mean too small? I'm wearing them aren't I?'
"Your toes are too close to the end."
"No they aren't."
"Yes they are."
"No."
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"How can you tell?"

Hubby plays squash, so apparently this makes him some sort of athletic shoe expert.  Don't make the same mistake I did by asking why or how this is true.  According to Hubby, it just IS.

So I had to send the goddam things back.  And after I'd already fallen in love with them, too.  Another mistake you should avoid?  Liking your shoes before your spouse has time to inspect them.  I know.  This makes sense in terms of female-male, but not vice versa.  Whatever.  The things you learn through marriage, I guess.  

At least Adidas offers free returns.  So I packaged my little shoes up and the postman picked them up at my house.  Farewell fuchsia friends...

So all that was left was to re-re-order the shoes in a slightly larger size.  No problemo, right?

WRONG.  

All because everybody else screwed up in the first place, Adidas gave me 20% off.  Remember?  But my discount was subject to a one-time use online promo code.  ONE-TIME USE.  

So I had to call the customer service guy AGAIN and ask for ANOTHER discount for the purchase of the now THIRD pair of shoes. 

He was nice enough, and he emailed me a new promo code. 

Problem solved. 

Until I got the confirmation email that somehow indicated that I had ordered the size 5 again.  What?!  Nooooo! I want 5 and a half!  What the eff?

No, I don't know how that happened.  I'm just awesome.  We already know that.  

And I guess you know what I had to do next.  Yeah.  Call the Adidas customer service dude for the 50th time and ask for a THIRD promo code, for the FOURTH pair of shoes. 

I told him I would understand if he wanted to kick me in the shins, but he was surprisingly chipper about the whole shit-show. 

So Monday the shoes got re-re-re-ordered. 

And then I waited. 

UNTIL TODAY!!!

You're probably sick of reading this, so here is a photo journal of the conclusion to the fuchsia x-trainers saga.  Enjoy!

Sweet redemption...

Hubby wasn't home yet, so I took all the pics by myself.

And the big reveal!!!



And then I *may* have gotten carried away with the camera.  Sorry.



Lounging.

Yeah.

<3

_

Shitionary - UPDATED

I was telling you last week about my recent game of Pictionary, and the hilarity that of course ensued.  And then my blogger friend jacqui asked me when the next installment would occur... 

So.  Welcome to Shitionary.  Like Pictionary, but shittier.  

I've crafted another example of my brilliant artistry and posted it here for your guessing pleasure.

Enjoy!

UPDATED

Well, thanks for playing along!  Love you gals.  You are Shitionary masters.  I am highly impressed. 

SarcasmInAction, you are hilarious, but unfortunately wrong. 
Elle, you are hilarious and also CORRECT!
Jacqui, you are too slow (and bitter, apparently?)  :)

Elle, here is your award!  Congratulations! 

_

Have you heard? I'm AWESOME.

I have a history of exhibiting particularly awesome tendencies. 

Like when I fried a layer of dust and cat hair into my pork chop.  Or when I impaled my ribs on my vacuum - that wasn't even in use at the time.  Or, when I sat uncomfortably for two days, only later realizing that I'd been wearing my new underwear backwards. 

There are several examples.  You can read about them here.  (You know, should you want to feel much better about yourself.)

In short, I'm an effing GENIUS. 

And I proved it again today. 

I drove to work this morning.  I usually take the bus (although not lately, given the whole can't-get-out-of-bed thing), but today I took the car and parked in a lot across from my building.  I found a cozy little spot for my Civic and pulled in. 

I always have a shit-ton of stuff to carry in.  Like most women, I think.  Purse, high heels, scarf, yoga mat, dry cleaning, briefcase, cell phone, food, gifts, book, wig, spare pantyhose, child(ren), etc.  Ok, so I never carry children, and a rarely carry wigs, but I figure most women do. 

So I reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed all my shit. 

You know this process.  Struggling to layer everything onto each of your arms, wrists and individual fingers, while grasping your keys, shaking your hair out of your face, and pushing your sunglasses up with the back of your hand.  

Then shoving the car door open with your foot, while hoisting your junk over the gearshift, and between the steering wheel and your own twisted body. 

Then slithering out of the car, trying desperately not to swing the door too far, which would inevitably result in your car's silver paint ending up scuffed on the side panel of the vehicle next to you.  Which would result in you having to move your car (so as to avoid suspicion) and, of course, in having to start the whole damn process over again. 

So that was me.  Piling myself out of my car.  I pushed the door closed with my ass and then swung around in the direction of the office. 

And then it happened. 

I was STUNNED.  Boxed in the right ear, skull rattled and temple bruised. 

What happened, you may be wondering?

Well, I MAY have inadvertently walked with full force into the giant side-mirror of the effing fifty-ton monster pickup truck parked next to me. 

And when I whipped around to see what effing happened, and saw that damn mirror staring me in the face (right at eye level and bigger than my head), I may have boxed the self-righteous bastard right back. 

My ear is sore. 

And I hurt my finger. 

_

At least cough up a bunny

Spring forward, Fall back. 

Exactly. 

The Spring springs us forward into a new year, a new mood, a new series of longer, sunnier days.  The Fall, on the other hand, sends us falling a slow death spiral into the abyss of Winter... Winter in Canada.

And yet, have you ever heard of something more effing backwards in your life?
 
I haven't. 

Spring is supposed to be a happy time.  A joyous time.  A time for blooming flowers, and chirping birds, and bunny rabbits. 

Forget the fact that Mother Effing Nature doesn't follow the goddam RULES -  that it is still effing SNOWING out.  That centimetre upon centimetre of that fluffy icy white shit is piling onto Ontario as we speak.  That there is more salt on the sidewalks right now - on March effing 9th - than ever.  And that if I ever do see the light of Spring again (and don't think I wouldn't settle for a simple mud puddle at this point), I'll go into such a state of shock that you'll have to peel me off the floor following my Southern-belle-style fainting fit.   

But what about the fact that "The Powers That Be" make me give up an hour of sleep.  Sleep!  They just take it.  Steal it from me and my family.  Assault my tender sensibilities and make me adjust all over again to depressing and impossible dark mornings.  Daylight savings, my ass. 

They just take the extra hour and do whoknowswhat with it.  Probably sell it to Donald Trump so he can make more money in a 25 hour day than most small countries do in a year.  Shouldn't they give it to someone who needs it?  Like mothers, or, um, orphans (?), or something? 

Sure, it'll be lighter outside in the evenings.  And don't think I don't love a 9pm sunset in June.  But what the eff, man.  I can't go back to dark mornings.  I can't.  I can't give up an hour of my precious slumber.  Please don't make me. 

Maybe I could do it if I was getting something in return.  Some sun.  Or some warmth.  Or a goddam bunny.  Something to make me feel like there was anything in this cruel, cold, dark world to look forward to.  Aside form shoveling and scraping off my car - as AWESOME as that can be. 

So don't forget to "spring" your clocks forward this weekend.  Maybe the extra hour can be sent to Mother Nature as some type of sacrifice.  An offering.  One "spring forward" hour in exchange for, oh, I don't know, SPRING. 

_

Life Lesson

I learned an important life lesson last night. 

I was sitting in the living room with Tuxedo on my lap when the phone rang.  My Mom's number popped up on the tv screen (yes, thanks to Rogers, I have that brilliant feature). 

But when I slowly got up with Tuxedo still in my arms, I realized that the kitchen phone was ringing from upstairs (yes, thanks to Hubby, I have that annoyance to contend with). 

So I started to climb the stairs, holding Tuxedo while he wriggled. 

When I got to the top, it was very dark, so started to carefully make my way into the office.  By this time, Mom was leaving a message. 

All of a sudden, before I knew what was even happening, I stubbed my foot on something big and hard (insert obvious joke here) and was, instantly, collapsed on floor. 

The effing VACUUM.

I stepped on the goddam thing, which promptly flung the beater pole (joke here) all loony-toons-style into my right rib cage...  which then fell into the giant pile of laundry and wrapping paper all life-size-dominoes-style...  which ultimately dropped me to my knees all unexpectedly-kicked-in-the-balls-style...  and made me throw Tuxedo across the room all fling-the-football-before-you-fumble-style. 

"OW!  F%*#!!  Owwwww.  Shit!  Ahhhhh.  Owww."

Thankfully, Hubby came running up the stairs from the bathroom to rescue me. 

"Are you ok?!  Where are you?"

Where was I?  Huddled on the floor, cradling my chest, gasping for air, and ugly crying, thinking to myself (as I always do when in pain) Why do I always burst into tears like a three year old who surprised herself by tripping on her own running shoes?  Hold it in, you baby.  You're fine.  You're not dead.  And you're not a toddler. 

No.  Wait.  Eff it.  It feels better when I cry.  Forget this.  I'm crying!  Sob, sob, sob!

Hubby picked me up off the floor and began to survey the damage (to me, but mostly to Tuxedo, who was traumatized and lurking around in fear of what crazy lady might do next).

And now I have a bruised, if not cracked, upper right rib and I seriously can't really move, or laugh, or cough, or yawn, or exhale, or lift anything. 

Are you really going to make me say it? 

Fine. 

Yes, I. am. awesome. 

And I had plenty of time to sit unmoving in my parka cape this afternoon to think about that fact. 

And to contemplate what I could possibly learn from this fluster-duck. 

And what did I come up with?

It seems that my mother was right all along.  "That's a tripping hazard" she used to say.  

So, what do I say?

Move your shit.  Move it out of the way.  Move it WAY out of the way.  Not just out of the hall, but AWAY.  Where it goes.  Not to the side of the room.  Not around the corner.  AWAY!  Right away.  Immediately.  All the time. 

Away.   

Life lesson. 

__

21st Century Revival

You may recall that Hubby and I were recently dismayed by the fact that we've lost the television remote.  Not that we don't have three other remotes, but that this one is required in order to ensure that whatever we're watching is stretched to the right screen size - wide or square, short or long, zoomed in or out.

And holy shit - he found it.  "I just had an effing revelation" he claimed.   

The whole recovery started when last night I asked him to go online and find out how much a new one would cost.  40 friggin bucks, apparently.   

"I'm telling you - it's in that couch" he said. 

"No, I checked the couch a hundred times, inside and out, under and behind cushions, behind the lining.  It' not in the couch"  I replied.

"I'm telling you, it has to be."

"No way.  You definitely picked it up with your phone or something and put it down somewhere else in the house.  You just did that last week!"

I had him there.  Last weekend he came upstairs and brought his phone, its charger, and the basement tv remote with him into the kitchen. 

But he wouldn't let it go.  This morning he repeated his hunch:  "It's in that damn couch."

"Nope."

Well, he proceeded to pull out the couch from the wall and dive in behind it.  I ignored him.  He dug around back there for a while and then his head popped up from between the wall and the sofa.

"Oh my god, com'ere!"  he said. 

"No way.  You're kidding."

When I refused to get up from my comfy chair, he explained how he "just knew it" - he just "had a feeling".  He explained how when you reach behind the pillows into the lining, you think you've gone as far as you can, but there is apparently a lining behind the lining - and Hubby was apparently smart enough to know that. 

He jumped up from behind the couch, arm out-stretched in the air, remote in hand. 

Ahh, sweet redemption. 

The obligatory victory dance and crazy laughter followed, and he is, as we speak, singing up a storm in the shower. 

Ok, so, Hubby: 1; Wifey: 3,226,517. 

_

Ring around the rosie

The busiest intersection in my suburb is under construction.  It's easily the craziest shit-show you've ever seen.

All because somebody decided to build a giant godforsaken roundabout – a friggin traffic circle.  The City was apparently awarded 2.5 million bucks to build this beast, which apparently marks “the beginning of a series of tangible measures to improve the four-kilometre stretch” of the busiest street near my house. 

Well that’s just great.

When I heard there was a roundabout website, I just had to take a look.  I learned a few interesting tidbits.

First, a roundabout is apparently different than a traffic circle.  Who knew?  Apparently a modern roundabout (I like that they call it “modern”) is an un-signalized (is “un-signalized” a word?) circular intersection engineered to maximize safety and minimize traffic delay. Unlike a traffic circle, traffic entering the roundabout must yield to traffic already within the roundabout. (I’m pretty sure traffic in any intersection must yield – otherwise the consequences are pretty drastic).

And I especially like the “maximize safety and minimize delay” part. The below list of pedestrian instructions seems to contradict that claim.

• Use the sidewalks and crosswalks around the outside of the roundabout. Do not cut across the middle of the roundabout. (i.e., avoid running through the constant stream of moving vehicles)
• Point your finger across the crosswalk to say to drivers you intend to cross. (kidding, right?) Look and listen for a safe gap in traffic. (oh my god)
• Step up to the curb. (don’t run or jump) Look at the drivers. (OH MY GOD) You decide when to step out and go. (translation: it’s your fault if you get hit)
• Start to cross as soon as you are sure the driver intends to slow or stop to yield the crosswalk to you. (how do you suppose I make “sure” of that, Mr website?)
• Watch for a driver coming in the next lane. (yeah, ok, I’ll just watch ALL the lanes) Make sure that the driver sees you. (hold a sign that says “honk if you see me”)
• Keep watching all the way across. (make sure you don’t blink)
• Wait on the splitter island for a safe (“safe” is a relative term) gap in traffic before crossing to the other side of the road. (so, what you really mean is: do it all again)
• Step up to the curb. (no running or jumping, I said!) Keep pointing your finger across the crosswalk (I guess they’re not kidding, after all) to say to drivers that you intend to cross. (or wave your sign)

So, let’s summarize:  As a pedestrian crossing a roundabout, you have to walk like a zombie with your arms out-stretched and your eyes wide - just cross your fingers (while pointing, of course) that you don’t get run over.

This sounds like a splendid idea.

You should check out the little demo on the website. It’s pretty hilarious.

_

My 14-year-old self

Someone recently asked me what I would, if given the opportunity, tell my 14-year-old self.  My first thought was that my 14-year-old-self would never listen to what I had to say - my 14-year-old self would have absolutely no interest in any advice herself from the future would have to offer. 

But here goes.   

Don't date the same person more than once.  If it didn't work out the first time, it is unlikely to work out the second, third, or fourth time.  

Date whomever you have a connection with, if that person treats you well.  Make the decision to date a person based on what you think, not what others might think (or what you think others might think).   

Believe in yourself.  Have confidence.  But don't be surprised if you fake it more than you mean it.  Don't worry about what others are thinking or saying about you.  If you knew how seldom they thought about you (or how little it mattered), you wouldn't care. 

Try to avoid doing anything that you will truly regret in hindsight.  Not necessarily getting into mischief (you should get into some mild mischief), but more to do with being less than kind to someone.  Maybe you made fun of them behind their back, or worse, to their face.  Or maybe you simply ignored them or judged them in some way.  Avoid that stuff.  You won't like yourself later - and neither will other people.

Don't eat cafeteria crap.  It's bad for you, and you have no idea how many gross hairs or skin cells have found their way into your fries.

Make memories.  Take pictures and cause a minor ruckus.  Skip class occasionally and have brunch with your friends.  Go to dances.  Participate.  Come up with new ideas and implement them.  Play cards in the hallway during your spare period.  Memorize at least 20 lines of your favourite Shakespearean play.  Go on a ski trip.  Try everything at least once.

Study.  Even if you can still get 90s without it.  Someday you'll wish you had studied more.  Do your best, but do it on your terms.  Don't push yourself too hard, and don't let others push you.  Achieve things, but achieve them at a pace that works for you.  Set your own goals and be your own reward. 

Buy a yearbook every year and get everyone in school to sign it.

Trust your teachers.  Most of them.  Some won't be perfect, but some will be there to help you.  Remind them what it was like to be a student.  Be reliable and hard-working, and when you need a break they'll be happy to provide it.

Finally, at my university graduation ceremony I heard something that made a lot of sense.  It's a famous quote by Winston Churchill, that has since been misquoted so many times that it's probably been taken totally out of context.  ...But the story goes that Churchill went to a school to give a speech.  He stood up, looked at the students and said: "Never, never, never, give up.  Never give up."  and then sat down.  It doesn't matter if the story isn't quite true, the sentiment remains the same. 

_

Crunch, crunch, crunch

Hubby and I were awakened out of a blissful sleep at 5:00 this morning.  We could hear Patches making loud crying noises.  

Nothing too out of the ordinary, really.  She often makes that angry drowning cat sound when she's about to throw up.  (She sometimes inhales her food too quickly and then runs away to throw up her un-chewed pellets.  Don't worry... she eats them right back up again.)

Anyway, her sounds melded into my dream until my subconscious was trying to rescue a cat from the back of some random kitchen cabinet.  Hubby pulled me out of my half-dream when he said "sounds like Patchy's throwing up."  "Mm hmm" I answered, trying to ignore it. 

But he was awake, and when Hubby wakes up, he has to go to the bathroom - he can't just go back to sleep... that would be silly.  So he climbed out of bed, walked by Patches at the top of the stairs ("You ok, Patchy?") and went into his bathroom.   

I was trying to go back to sleep, but I could hear something else.

 Crunch, crunch, crunch. 


I thought, hmm, she must be eating regurgitated pellets.  But then it started to sink in.

Hubby came out of the bathroom and I mumbled "She's crunching on something."

He went back to the bathroom to turn on the light , and then back to look at the cat.   

"It's a mouse!" he confirmed. 

Yep.  I friggin KNEW it.  I knew it.  "I knew it!"

That's why I didn't get up and check for myself.  I had a sneaking suspicion.  And in our house, all mouse-related hi-jinks are Hubby's department.  I want nothing to do with them.  (In fact, once, at our former house, I ran out of our kitchen into the living room, perched myself on top of the arm of the couch, leaned across the door frame to the phone, and called my mother in a panic when I thought I saw one under the stove.  True story.  I just can't deal with rodents.)

When I finally sat up to look at Patch, Hubby was slouched over, arms out-stretched, in his 15-year-old and barely-there (but apparently very comfortable) "sleeping underwear", chasing our fat cat down the stairs.

When he retrieved Patches it was apparent that she had very effectively eaten most of the mouse's face.  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

"Good job Patchy"  he said.  Congratulating her on her catch.  Nice.

"Ew!  Wash her!"  I said.

Yes, I wanted him to wash all the mouse guts out of her mouth.  Not an unreasonable request, I don't think.

"Are you kidding me?!"

"No, she's probably got bones and blood and diseases all over her!"

"Oh my God..."

"Just do it!"

So, Hubby went and got one of his facecloths and held down a very squirmy and unhappy Patches while he scrubbed her face.

This morning we weren't sure whether to praise or punish her.  In any case, her new nickname is Mouse Mouth.  Yummy. 

This post also appears at Cheesy Bloggers. 
_

Island Living: the stand-out event

As mentioned previously, Hubby and I returned to The Island yesterday.  

Island living is really something special.  Every trip is filled with fun and funny activities and happenings.

Ultimately, though, there was one particular island-life event that really stood out.  Island living, as it turned out, had really rubbed off on Hubby. 

We were all seated on the dock enjoying island-style "cocktail hour" (i.e., cheese and crackers).  I looked up at one point, and what did I see?  Hubby, at the edge of the dock, climbing onto a giant tube with a white plastic lawn chair in one hand and fishing rod in the other.  He proceeded to paddle himself out to the raft - apparently, to catch himself a marlin. 

And then, to make it the matter that much worse (or better, depending) he somehow coaxed the children into delivering him a bucket of minnows and a hook and bobber for some serious live bait fishin'.  Oh, and of course, a beer.  

The children were furiously collecting all the necessities for the mission.  They decided to send only one representative out on the tube.  The youngest little darling  was the obvious choice, (perhaps, I can only assume, due to her small size and therefore aerodynamic efficiency across the water, as well as her least-likeliness to drink the beer).  

The little one wiggled onto the tube - bucket and beer in hand.  The only problem with the plan turned out to be that her little feet didn't reach the water, so kicking her way out to the raft was a no-go.  Head Master Mike decided to jump in to rescue her - that is, to rescue the mission.

He successfully delivered the obligatory fishin' paraphernalia, but decided that island life does not include getting to the raft without getting wet.  And, so, Mike removed the plug from the giant tube.  It deflated almost instantaneously and Hubby was left adrift.

Brilliant.

Hubby stayed out there for a while, big-time sports fisherman.  

He began offering various children money to bring him back into shore via canoe, but eventually got over himself (or got sick of showing off his fishing skills, I don't know which) and jumped in the water fully clothed - complete with fishing rod, bucket, plastic lawn chair, and beer bottle in hand - and swam back to the dock.  

It just goes to show ya - there is truly no life like island life.  It's spectacular, and it's contagious. 

Nine Years

Will you take this man to be a constant pain in your ass?  To snore, to always forget to put the BBQ cover back on, and to piss with the door open?  Do you promise to tolerate him, even on days when you really don’t want to, as long as you both shall live?

I do.  

Will you take this woman to be the most wonderful/frustrating thing that ever happened to you?  To be a relentless backseat driver, to make you do your own laundry, and to irrationally nag at you pretty much all the days of your life?  Do you promise to accept the fact that you are always wrong (even if you aren't) as long as you both shall live?

I do.

I now pronounce you husband and wife.  (Suckers… ) 

The thing is, for some people, the “I dos” don’t change anything.  For Hubby and I, not one iota of our lives was altered by the vows.  (Except that I started referring to him as “Hubby”… but then again, I kinda did that anyway.) 

We’ve been wed-locked for almost a year now, but it really doesn’t matter.  We’ve been living together for nearly six, and been putting up with each other for nine altogether.  

Nine years.  Today, in fact.  

Nine years ago today, a 16-year old Hubby asked me if I would “go out with him”.  Nine years ago today, I kissed him for the first time on my mother’s front porch. (He’ll say he kissed me – LIES).  Nine years ago today, our lives changed – our lives really started.  

And yet, it feels like much longer.  Has it really only been nine years that my life has revolved around his?  Has it really only been nine years since we were those lost little kids so ass-over-head in love?  Only nine years since he picked me up every day after school in his Gran’s 1988 white Chevy Cavalier?  A lifetime has passed.  

And now, nine years later, my life revolves around his even more.  And we are still, I think, ridiculously, pathetically, embarrassingly, and honestly in love.  And he still picks me up when I work late, only it's in a 1998 red Chevy Silverado.  

It’s really been no time at all.  Only a fraction of our life together.  We have at least 50 more years to constantly bicker about EVERYTHING, and to hog the covers, and to put up with each other's irrationalities, unconditionally, as long as we both shall live.  And even longer than that, no doubt.  

Nine years.  Not that long, really.  But long enough to come so far, to change so much.  But somehow not long enough to be long enough.  Not long enough to call it forever.  Not long enough to get it down-pat, to stop making mistakes, to make it perfect.  But not long enough to get utterly sick of each other either.  

Nine years.  Oddly nestled somewhere between the tiniest fraction of time and the longest forever after.  

Shaken - and stirred

Yep.  There was an earthquake yesterday.  And not a ‘Hmm, I wonder what this is’ earthquake, either.  More of a ‘Holy shit what the eff is happening?!” type of earthquake.

People keep asking: “Did you feel it?”

What do you mean ‘Did I feel it?!’  Of course I friggin felt it!

I was in my office.  On the top floor.  The 21st floor.  At first, I could just hear it.  I thought maybe people were working on the roof.  ‘Cmon guys’, I thought.  ‘It’s the middle of the day.  Cut it out.’

And then it kept going.

And it wasn’t just loud.  It was SHAKING.  Really wobbling.  Literally quaking beneath my feet.

I jumped from my desk and stood in the opening of my cubical (as if the cubical walls could be considered a safe door frame – idiot).  I just stood there, knees slightly bent, staring at my colleagues.  They were just staring back.

“What’s happening?!” I said a couple times, almost shouting.  “What’s going on?!”

They were all just staring back.  They didn’t know either.

Did something explode?  Had something hit the building?  Is it collapsing beneath us?  This can't be an earthquake… we don’t get those here.

Then a nearby co-worker (who was on the phone with someone in another city) confirmed it:  “It’s happening there too” he told us.

I started to kind of panic. What do we do? How are we going to get out? We can’t take the elevator. But it’s 21 stories down. Can we get to the roof? No, bad idea. Should we hide under the desk? Should we wait for an emergency announcement? Or get the eff out of here now? I’m trapped. I'm exposed, and I am trapped.

My phone rang and I knew it was Hubby.  I reached over to my desk and grabbed the receiver.  “I know!” I said as I picked it up.  We were both almost laughing.  I don’t remember the conversation.  The building was still shaking when I hung up.

All this in a matter of 30 seconds.  The shaking subsided (after what seemed like 5 minutes).  It’s amazing how many thoughts you can have in a few seconds when your heart and mind are racing.

“I’m going to puke” I said.  “Or cry. …Or pee my pants”.  Then I giggled.  Surreal.

I started packing up my purse to evacuate, but I wasn’t sure we should.  We did anyway.

My legs shook the whole way down the stairs - adrenalin rush.

We sat on the grass (not really far enough away from the building) and ate strawberries.  Fire trucks were around.  And people were everywhere.  Some had fluorescent vests and megaphones.  Everyone was all hopped up.  Almost giddy.

Eventually people started making their way home.

But everything was fine.  Even politicians were making jokes… “You know, when the Liberals were in power, there were no earthquakes!” “Yeah, we like to shake things up”.

Yeah.  Fair enough.  I guess it was pretty funny in the end.  Who knew that such an event could be so friggin hilarious?  And despite my still-shaky knees, in hindsight, I think the whole thing was a goddam crack-up.  (Except for my calves - my calves are sore from the 21 flights of stairs.) 

Check this out. 

Wow. I’m really awesome.

I’m really starting to believe that this is not my imagination.  I think I truly am losing it – my intelligence/sanity, I mean.

The other day I was in my bathroom, about to wash my face, and I called to my husband: “I think there’s something wrong with my arm.”

He came into the room and I told him about how I’d spent the last few days studying these dark freckle speckles on the back of my left hand and wrist.  They were miniature specks, kind of like a rash.  But with very tiny dark dots.  And it wasn’t itchy.

I told him about how I’d spent the last few days trying to get them off.  About how they were only on one arm.  About how at first I thought maybe they were the remnants of mascara splatter, but how that didn’t make sense, because days had gone by and they hadn't washed off.

“Something must be wrong with me” I said to him.  “Maybe I have a disease.”

He came over to me, and gently took my hand in his.  He pulled my arm close to his face and examined my skin.

He then quickly flung my hand away from his face and, just as quickly and calmly as he’d walked into the room, he walked out.

“It’s spray paint!” he called back to me.

Oh wow.

I’d spent a day last weekend spraying some plastic patio chairs.  And then spent the following four days trying to figure out what disease I had.  I'd spent at least 15 minutes of my life over the last couple of days trying to scrape the speckles off, and when that didn’t work, I was sure I must be ill.  I was this far away from Googling my condition.

So, there’s no doubt about it now.  I am awesome.

Commuter Chronicles - Eff you, Rent-a-Cop

Sigh…

You may recall that I’ve recently had a wrench thrown into my regular commuting routine.  The mall that I park at before taking the bus each morning is no longer (as) supportive of the ‘park and ride’ concept.

So I’ve been walking a little further in the morning (and waiting a little longer between bus pick-ups) to get a route closer to my house.  Fine.

I have still been able to ‘park and ride’ on Thursday mornings, however, because I have an early French class (and there’s more parking spots free at 7 am than at 8).  It’s particularly convenient, because I have Yoga on Thursday nights – which is located in the mall.  Excellent.  So Thursdays still work out as they should.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, when I started my car, I was horrified at the disgusting sound coming from the engine.  Shit.  I ran into the house to get my husband to drive me to the mall (which left me without the convenience of going straight to Yoga after work).

To make my mood even better, my very clever husband then says to me: “Oh yeah – I forgot – your car was sounding pretty bad last night.”

He forgot?!

What the hell does that mean?

Apparently he drove it the night before, and between our driveway and our living room, he forgot to tell me that it was in pain.  What a mental case.  Fine.  Whatever.

So he (apologetic) drove me (pissy and pouting) to the mall and pulled up next to the bus station.  I jumped down out of the truck onto the curb, only to be approached by another effing rent-a-cop in a security coat.

What the eff do they want now?!

I tell ya – I have been quickly losing patience with this shit, and that land troll picked the wrong goddam day to mess with me.

The conversation went something like this:

Rent-a-cop: “You guys can’t stop here to get out.”
Hubby, as he’s driving away: “Well, I’m gonna!”
Me, staring at her ugly face: “Are you f*ing kidding me?”
Rent-a-cop: “No, you can’t stop here!”
Me, as I’m storming off: “Yes I can!”
Rent-a-cop: “Well, I’ll just give you a ticket tomorrow!”
Me: “A ticket?! For WHAT?!”
Rent-a-cop: “For blocking traffic and causing accidents!”

[SIDEBAR: Causing accidents?  In the parking lot?  Because we pull over to the side of the curb?  These people are effing delusional.  No doubt about it.]


Me: “Hah! Causing accidents?!  What accidents?!  You are an idiot.”
Rent-a-cop: “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then!  Have a nice day!”


I continued to glare at her until my bus came – oh, I glared her down gooood.

That was pretty much the end of it.

AND, on top of all that, I just found out that my car’s AC Compressor is going to cost $1000 to fix.

Frig.

_  

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.
_

Men and their meat

That title sounds weird.  

Rest assured, I'm just referring to meat in the truest sense - the carnivorous, North American, gotta-love-our-pigs-and-cows sense... the I-have-to-have-meat-with-every-meal sense. 

My husband loves his meat.  He loves ribs.  He loves pork loin.  He likes burgers and hot dogs and chicken wings (if they're crispy).  He likes fish now and then (if you call that meat) and he'll eat roast beef or turkey if its on his plate.  He insists on having meat with every meal - it's a staple.  He says that without meat, a meal "won't fill my left nipple".   

My husband will spend 30 minutes at the meat counter.  He'll look behind that shiny glass, admiring all his red and slimy choices, looking for the perfect accompaniment to the rest of the food he plans to shovel into his mouth.  He makes an almost daily trip to the meat counter.  He weighs the pros and cons of every choice. (Can you say OPTIONS ANALYSIS?).  He considers the price, and how much fat is on the cut, and how fresh it is, and what he'll eat with it.  He'll wander from the glass case, to the sale bin, to the meat wall, and back again, determining the absolutely perfect choice.  He'll spend even MORE time trying to find the best choice for ME, thinking that I MUST have the same affinity for meat that he does.  Guess again.  

We go through this ritual before nearly every dinner.  FIRST, we decide we want to make dinner.  (As if it's a new friggin decision every goddam day).  Then I'll ask "What do you want for dinner Dear?" (for some reason expecting him to have given it some thought.)  Nope, he has no idea.  I'll suggest things.  Usually to know avail.  Eventually, he'll come up with an excellent idea.  "I need some meat" he'll say.  

So we head off to the local grocer - not the best priced, most appropriate grocer, but the closest grocer with the best selection of meat.  We start with the produce.  What will be the side dish to his meat?  Broccoli?  Mushrooms?  Asparagus? (Asparagus is usually for a 'fancy' night.)  Then bread - we must have garlic bread.  A meal is not a meal without garlic cheese bread.  (To be fair, I do tend to agree with that.) 

Then MEAT.  In the time he is looking at meat, I am getting apples and yogurt and milk - all the regular things we run out of.  When I've finished my collection of necessities, I walk up and down the ailes searching for him, assuming he must be getting some additional supplies.  I should know better.  He's still looking at MEAT.  (And on the rare occasion that he's not looking at meat, he's spending 20 minutes searching for the best packaged marinade.)  


By the time we make it to the cashier, we have the same flipping argument in front of the poor kid at the register.  Do we want a bag?  "No, Honey, we just carried it all to the cash, so we can carry it to the car" I'll say.  Usually the decision gets left up to the poor sucker who's ringing in our purchase. 


By the time we get home it's too late to eat anyway (not that we don't, just that we shouldn't).  When I arrived home tonight at 6:20 he asked me how I was.  "Starving!" I answered.  It is at this moment 8:56 pm.  I am writing this while waiting for my loving husband to prepare my meal - complete with BBQ RIBS.  (Back ribs AND side ribs, because the back ribs weren't big enough.) Sigh...


...They do smell good though.