Wednesday, April 28, 2010


Don't you hate it when your friend emails you while on vacation to tell you what a FAB-U-LOUS time they're having laying around half naked on a beach drinking free Long Island Iced Tea from a thermos and playing golf in 80 degree weather? Well I sure as hell do.

What's even MORE fun is when your parents do it. And by fun, I mean I wish I was adopted. There's still time Angelina and Brad.

Basically my parents being on vacation brings me back to my emotionally crippling childhood and the fact that my parents went on vacation every year. WITHOUT my sister and I. (Except this one time when I was 10 and all four of us drove from Nova Scotia to Virginia in a Buick with my gastro-intestinally challenged Uncle. Did I mention the lack of air conditioning? Note to self: the smell of 5-day old ass really hangs around a Buick interior. Hightlights of the trip included me fainting in line waiting to tour the White House, swimming in the hotel pool atrium during a thunder and lightening storm, and peeing my pants at the top of the replica Eiffel Tower). Ah memories.

Now that I have kids of my own, I can understand why my parents might have wanted to get away once in a while. ONCE IN A WHILE.

But my parents still go at least once a year sans kids. Right now they're in Florida. And emailing updates of their jet-setting snowbirding adventures south of the border in Yankeeland. Or calling...

Call #1 (Time: 10:45 pm, Paul and I are in bed)
Me: [Caller ID reveals it's Mom's cell] "Hello?"
Me: "Hello?"
Nothing. I hang up.

Call #2 (Time: 10:46pm, still in bed)
Me: [Caller ID reveals it's Mom's cell, getting worried] "Hello?"
Me: "Hello? HELLO?"
Nothing. I hang up.
Paul: "It must be important, I hope everything's ok."

Call #3 (Time: 10:47pm, half out of bed) 
Me: [Caller ID reveals it's Mom's cell, again, even more worried] "Hello?"
Me: "Hellooooooo?"
Nothing. I hang up.
Paul: "Geesh, I hope nobody died."

I am reminded again of my childhood when my parents went to Cuba, and my dad electrocuted himself plugging the hairdryer into the wallsocket. Luckily my Mom is a nurse.

Call #4 (Time: 10:49pm, standing up pacing)
Me: [Caller ID reveals it's Mom's cell yet again, and now I'm getting slightly frustrated] "You've got to be f@#$ing kidding me?"
Me: "Mom, if you can hear me, I can't hear you!"
Nothing. I hang up.

Call #5 (Time: 10:51pm)
Me: [Caller ID reveals surprise surprise it's Mom's cell, I'm laughing hysterically by this point because what else are you going to do.]
Me: "Hello?"
Mom: "Hi honey! Oh, were you in bed?"
Me: "What? Um, yes, Paul and I were trying to get some sleep. Mom, it's almost 11pm here and this is the fifth time you've called."
Mom: "It is?" (laughs)
Me: "Yes, Mom." I regaled the tales of the 5 phone calls, pretty much exactly as written above which only makes my Mom laugh even harder. Plus I'm really funny when I'm overtired. She tries to explain the situation to my dad, aunt and uncle who I can hear yaking in the background.
Mom: "Oh, well I'm not wearing a watch."
Me: "Uh huh. Well, get one."

Unphased, my Mom continues to tell me how beautiful Florida is, the weather is so warm, the beach is fanfuckingtastic, the people are so amazing they poop gold bars. I'm happy for them and everything but the closest thing I've been to a vacation-vacation was during March Break three years ago in winter.

Ok, so I'm slightly jealous. Maybe I'll make myself a Long Island Iced Tea.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

A Little Sample

Yesterday I was sitting out on the deck, enjoying a nice glass of [*special*] lemonade [read: alcohol-infused]. Paul was manning the BBQ making supper (chicken and potatoes).

Paul: "I'll have some samples ready for us to try in a minute. I love trying samples."
Me: "Uh huh. So what else do you like to sample honey?"
Paul: " Ha ha. Nice condensation babe."
Me: [laughing] "Do you mean connotation?"
Paul: "I guess that would make more sense."
Me: "Only very."

Paul maintains he is not good at English (unlike moi), because he is an Engineer.  Good thing he's cute.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Old Bag

Today a client (whom I never met before) left me [three] voicemails in which he referred to me at least six times as an "old bag" which I found highly offensive. I mean, I'm not even 35 yet!

The same gentleman also suggested I get off my "fat ass" and "do my job." Whoa nelly. Does he really think I have a fat ass? I found it highly ironic that eariler today I had considered getting myself a pair of maternity pants, because all of my pants seem to have shrunk in the wash.

Just another Thursday.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

What The Cuss?

I got a call tonight from my nephew Zach (age 14). He and I are always playing pranks. And by pranks, I mean calling each other using bad fake accents trying to trick one another. Unfortunately, my British accent sounds like a lot like my Chinese accent. And last week, my Australian accent tanked like a 5-day old bran muffin. I knew I had to get creative.

Zach: [something incoherent and teenagery]
Me: "Hello?"
Zach: "Uh, hi Erika, it's me."
Me: "Hello?"
Zach: "Erika!"
Me: ' anyone there?"
Zach: "Arg, Erika. It's me."
Me: "Hello...I can't hear you?"
Zach: [louder] "ERIKA CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
Me: "Yes Zach, I can hear you. You don't need to scream."

I like getting calls from Zach. Mainly because I love him, but also to test out some new comedy material. Zach has a great sense of humor (he gets that from me).

I told him about my new favorite movie - the Fantastic Mr. Fox and my latest catch phrase, "What the cuss?"

Zach: "Huh?"
Me: "You know, instead of what the !@#$ you say what the cuss. Cuss is another word for swear (kids these days, so uncultured). "What the cuss" can work in so many instances, I've been using it at least 5 times a day."
Zach: "I still perfer "What the deuce."
Me: "Yeah, I use them interchangeably."
Zach: "So guess what, I'm grounded for months and months."
Me: "What did you do now?"
Zach: "Nothing, I just forgot to empty the dishwasher...once."
Me: "Zachhhhhhh."
Zach: "Yeah, it's true. I lost my PSP. So I told my Dad, well if you're taking that, I'm taking your TV. And Dad said, you can't something away from someone when they paid for it. So I said, Dad, I paid for my PSP. And then he said, well it only applies to adults."
Me: "Sounds like you were winning that argument."
Zach: "Yeah, well, I'm still grounded."
Me: "Don't worry, I'll put in a good word for you."

And I will (are you reading this Kiki?). If not, I'll have to make a call.

In addition to being funny, I also like to take pity on Zach. Not only because that's just the kind of good person I am, but also to ensure that I am his number #1 cool aunt (sorry Amy). I am not dissuaded by the fact that Zach only has two aunts. I am that competitive.

I wonder when my other nephew whats-his-name gets bigger (he's only 3) will we have the same kind of great relationship Zac and I do? And even better, I'll have another chance to be the #1 aunt (sorry Amy)!

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Wet n' Wild

You know when you have what you think is a great idea, and then later it turns out that the idea was actually pretty dumb? No? Really?

I was away on business, at a conference, with my coworkers. Said conference just happened to be in my hometown.  The hotel we were staying at who shall remain nameless (sounds like "Falliday Bin") had a hot tub and pool with waterslide (bonus!). Some of us (aka the fun ones) decided after a long day of sitting in training sessions, we'd hit the hot tub and relax. We'd already been poo-pooed the night before by hotel staff for wandering thru the halls with open liquor bottles. Over-starched hotel staff can be such Debbie Downers.

Ever the creative bunch, we decided to fill up some disposable coffee cups with our drink of choice (in my case, wine). After all, it is completely of the ordinary to see people drinking coffee in a hot tub.

So we're relaxing, drinking our "coffee" when the Falliday Bin pool boy comes over to us and thanks us for behaving ourselves. Mmmkay. To me, that sounded like a challenge. And it meant it was time to let loose. I would also like to note that this pool boy was many things, none of them being a boy or cute, and all of them being creepy.

We chugged our "coffees" and moved out of the hot tub and into the pool, where the temperature was somewhere between refreshing and hypothermia. No doubt so pool boy could see some nipples. Never one to be just a floater, I could hear the waterslide calling my name. Perhaps it was the effects of my second cup of "coffee."

I rallied the on-lookers, and got the crowd pumped for my slip n' slide. Not one to pay attention to warnings (exhibit A: my first marriage), I flung myself down the slide feet first, despite the obvious lack of gushing water.  Lack of gushing water can mean two things: #1) the baby is not ready to be born, or #2) you are heading down the waterslide at a slower speed than normal. Option #2 is good, because the ride lasts longer. 

At the end of the slide, I got ready to swim. Assuming like most sliders that the trough emptied into the deep end of the pool, I was posed for some doggy-paddlng, only for my left foot to be met by the distinct slap of a concrete step. Apparently, there is not a deep end at the bottom of the slide, but a rather large concrete step (which is a very weird place for a concrete step if I do say so myself).  Because of the lack of gushing water, I dropped off at the end of the slide, instead of shooting into the middle of the pool.

Once I resurfaced, I drank in the adoration of the spectators, I also drank in some chlorine. And then I cat-called, "I think I broke my foot." Never one to let pain interupt a good time, I ventured down the slide several more times before calling it a night.*

*Calling it a night meant grabbing some poutine (hey, I AM Canadian), playing a heated game of "Left Right Centre" and then catching a cab with my coworkers to the local bar/pool, to win the night's Karaoke prize. Note: we will forever be known as "Charlie's Angels" which is ok, because I've been known as a lot worse things.

Hey, what can I say? I've never been one to let a broken bone/heart/appendage stop me from having a good time. And it's not like I didn't seek medical attention. There was a, short fireman/paramedic at the bar/pool hall who examined me. Yeah, I was a little skeptical at first too, like what are the odds? But he showed me his badge and everything. I didn't know paramedics even have a badge! But whatever. I was doing the responsible thing and getting checked out in between sets of "Help Me Rhonda" and "Bootylicious."

One of my coworkers (aka Charlie) stepped in because he heard me yelling "No! No!" and thought this guy was a sicko with a foot fetish. I assured Charlie, he was trying to touch my gimpy foot to see if it really was broken. The paramedic said, in his medical opinion, my foot was not broken. Just f**ked up. Which is quite the medical term.  So I limped and danced the rest of the night away to chants of "Go Gimpy, it's your birthday" which was weird because it was actually Charlie's birthday.

The next day I limped right into the Emergency Room. I felt like an idiot explaining to the doctor how I potentially broke my foot. Not as much of an idiot as when I once explained to a doctor about the time I broke my hand playing balloon volleyball against my cousin Anita (don't ask!). Turns out the fireman/paramedic was right. I didn't break my foot. But I did get a cool pair of crutches. And by cool, I mean, pain in the ass (and other places - it hurt to apply deodorant for a week).

I learned a valuable lesson on that business trip...if you want to win Karaoke, skip The Beach Boys. And once you "earn" the nickname Gimpy, it will stick forever.