Yesterday I read on Facebook that a university pal and former radio station coworker of mine, let's call him Garth*, had just celebrated the birth of his first child. This made me smile because, a) I'm a sucker for babies, and b) it made me reminisce about all the crazy shenanigans that happend during my four years at university. Or as I like to call it, back when you could bounce a quarter off my ass.
We didn't use many first names at the radio station, which in retrospect, probably helped us receive less hate mail. We had been using said nicknames for so long the stories of how those names came to be are long forgotten. Or so I keep telling myself while I avoid attending my class reunion.
But yesterday I could not remember Garth's nickname. And if there's "one" thing that drives me crazy it's not being able to remember something I know. So I'll obsess about it until hours/days/weeks later it pops "like magic" into my head - ta dah! Unfortunately when it pops "like magic" into my head I get so excited that I've remembered something. And I'll blurt it out. At meetings, in the grocery store, on the toilet, wherever. It's like I have Bad Memory Tourettes.
Last night I was lying in bed with Paul trying to think of Garth's nickname. Paul gave me a kiss, and I blurted out "Spanky!" (Spanky was Garth's nickname). Unfortunately Paul thought I shouted "Spank me."
It was an awkward situation all around.
*Garth is definitely NOT his real name. His real name is much cooler. It's also the name of a particularly yummy-licious waffer.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Double Ds
When I was growing up, there was one thing I always wanted but could never have. Ok, there were actually many things I wanted but couldn't have. Mostly because of my long weird list of allergies - like chocolate and strawberries. But the one thing, above all else that I wanted, was a dog. I didn't care what kind of dog, any old dog would do. Actually, that's not entirely true. I wanted a puppy. One that I would love and teach tricks to, and not shoot if they got rabies. RIP Old Yeller.
I never went thru the "pony" phase like most little girls. I didn't have any use for a pony. Maybe a unicorn in retrospect but purely for the "wow factor". Anyhoo, every night I wished for a dog. I wished so hard I almost peed my pants. My dad (who I might add had SEVERAL dogs growing up) wasn't really keen on the idea. But I was willing to do anything. Even trade my sister to Gypsies.
After we got my sister back from the Gypsies, my dad decided if he didn't want to loose anymore of his daughters, he'd better give in. And that's when I got Oreo (the dog, not the cookie). Oreo was black and white (natch) which is how he got his name. At the time, I thought I was being very clever with his name. You think everything you do is clever when you're 12. Except maybe kissing Shane Fraser on the bus in Grade 6. Ew.
So, I swore up and down that when I got a house of my own I would get a dog. I never expected it to take 20 years to do that. But anyhoo Paul and I decided it was time to add a puppy to the mix. And that's when we got our furbaby, Dexter.
Isn't he just the cutest? He's a lemon beagle.
We didn't worry that his birth furparents had nicknamed him "Lucifer". We found it ironic that we'd picked out the name Dexter (although it has nothing to do with the handsome but twisted serial killer of the same name, nor the Nova Scotian politician). We were over the moon with our perfect pup. Even when he vomitted in my lap on the car ride home. One look at that face, and it was love. That being said, there was definitely an adjustment stage.
Like the time Dexter had a vet appointment and I volunteered to take him solo, so Paul could head to the barber for a much needed de-poof. Dexter decided to sample the corner of the leather ottoman including foam stuffing. Yum! Then he threw up on his bed. I took his bed downstairs to the laundry room to wash off the vomit only to step into flooded basement. To say our water pipe sprung a leak was like saying the Titanic hit an ice cube. Being the handy girl I am, I turned off the water valve.
I called Paul to suggest he call his brother who is a Drain Surgeon, STAT. I raced back upstairs to get Dexter's leash on when the very distinct smell of shit slapped me in the face. I did a Toucan Sam and followed my nose...right to the pile of poo on the floor. After fashioning a glove out of toilet paper, I took a quick breath through my mouth and did some waste removal. It was a two-flusher. I turned on the water in the bathroom to dedoodoo my hands only to remember I turned off all the water in the house because of the leaking pipe.
Twenty-five pumps of the hand sanitizer later...
I called Paul to suggest he call his brother who is a Drain Surgeon, STAT. I raced back upstairs to get Dexter's leash on when the very distinct smell of shit slapped me in the face. I did a Toucan Sam and followed my nose...right to the pile of poo on the floor. After fashioning a glove out of toilet paper, I took a quick breath through my mouth and did some waste removal. It was a two-flusher. I turned on the water in the bathroom to dedoodoo my hands only to remember I turned off all the water in the house because of the leaking pipe.
Twenty-five pumps of the hand sanitizer later...
I got Dexter's leash on, we were FINALLY at the door on our way out to the vet with 10 minutes to get there - no problem since it's only a five minute drive. My stomach sank. Paul had taken my car keys when he left, and the spare key was in the glove compartment...of his car (at the barber - hello!). I sighed, like only an annoyed wife can, took one look at Dexter and said, "Dex, we'll have to run." Did I mention it was pouring rain? To Dexter's credit, he didn't stop (except to poo, seriously, I think he's got a problem). When we burst thru the door at the vet, we looked like two drowned rats. Ah...good times.
After many equally but less poocentric fun adventures like that, we decided to get another puppy. And along came Dixie.
Isn't she the cutest? She's a tri-colored beagle.
We didn't worry that her furparents had nicknamed her "Ms. Dot." And unlike Dexter, Dixie does not have a fecal matter, although she does urinate doing the splits.
So now we have two furbabies, a boy and a girl. We are furfilled petparents. Except...the other night I was writing on my laptop on the couch. Dexter and Dixie were curled up at my feet. There was this empty puppy shaped spot at the end of the couch. I looked at Paul and pouted, "Look there's room for three." I can't remember his exact answer but it went something along the lines of "Nooooooooooooo!" I'm paraphrasing though.
Ok, so it's two puppies. For now. Maybe it's time for a baby anyway ;)
We didn't worry that her furparents had nicknamed her "Ms. Dot." And unlike Dexter, Dixie does not have a fecal matter, although she does urinate doing the splits.
So now we have two furbabies, a boy and a girl. We are furfilled petparents. Except...the other night I was writing on my laptop on the couch. Dexter and Dixie were curled up at my feet. There was this empty puppy shaped spot at the end of the couch. I looked at Paul and pouted, "Look there's room for three." I can't remember his exact answer but it went something along the lines of "Nooooooooooooo!" I'm paraphrasing though.
Ok, so it's two puppies. For now. Maybe it's time for a baby anyway ;)
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Before I Was A Blogger...
That's me (left), aged 5-ish. Ah, the look of innocence. I'm sure that pre-bunny-boiling smile was a mask I wore while taking very detailed notes in my head about the victimization occuring in this photo. The hair. That outfit. Those socks! Clearly, my parents were partaking in all the 1970's had to offer *wink wink*.
Did I mention my dad is color-blind? Seriously. My dad still thinks I'm a blonde, like my sister. This photo explains why I almost always wear dresses, get a rash within 10 meters of wool, cry during episodes of "What Not To Wear", use a liberal amount of hair gel, have a soft spot for librarians and my therapist on speed dial.
I think all writers experienced some sort of colorful childhood trauma. How boring would it be to write about being normal? So thanks Mum and Dad - I owe you one! I wonder what you'll be wearing at the nursing home? [insert evil laugh here]
xoxo, Erika
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
This Post Is Brought To You By the Letter "L" As In Luck Rhymes with F**k
Ever notice how the word "luck" closely resembles another four letter word. A word I usually reserve for...well, ok I use it every other day. So I got to thinking, what if I wrote a post about luck, but replaced it with the word f**k. And then used them interchangeably. Just for fun.
Let's give it a try shall we? Mmmm 'k.
Ah, my husband. My MIL (mother-in-law) always says if Paul didn't have bad f**k he'd have no f**k at all. I know, I know. You're thinking, "how can someone have THAT much bad f**k?" Ladies and gentlemen, my husband is an anti-f**k magnet.
Exhibit A: when we're driving in the car, and Paul's at the wheel, we hit EVERY red light in the lucking city. Especially when we're late. But if I'm driving alone, I get green lights all the way to my destination. I guess I'm just more f**ky than Paul. Although in his defense, this could be a male-thing. I compared notes with my sister Kiki, and apparently BIL (brother-in-law) has the same kind of red light f**k.
Not convinced eh?
Exhibit B: when we're driving in the car and we hit a bump, it's always at the very moment Paul chooses to take a sip from his coffee. While wearing a white dress shirt. This can also happen if we're walking, grocery shopping, sitting on the deck, pretty much anywhere. You can dress him up, but you can't take him out. With a clean shirt anyway. Talk about unf**ky.
Still not convinced eh? Tough crowd.
Exhibit C: we've been trying to sell Paul's Civic since the winter. Despite advertising, we haven't had a single call from anyone remotely interested in buying it. So we got a flashy "For Sale" sign and put it in the car window with our phone number and parked it on the street in front of our house for optimal car-selling positioning.
On our way home from work, Paul and I got a call from my son Aidan (age 13), saying that there was someone at the house about the car. Aidan told the guy that his mum was in the shower, and I'd be out in 20 minutes (if only!). Aidan didn't want to say he was home alone (smart kid). It was raining out, so the guy said he'd be waiting in his car.
I told Paul someone was at the house about the car. We were so excited - our sign worked! After 6 months of not even a single phone call, there was someone at our house who might buy the car. Now we could afford to buy flooring to finish our basement. Maybe our f**k was about to change!
We dashed in the house (still raining). I did a bit of tidying up, and was busy lighting candles to rid our house of a very odd urine-esque smell and catching up with Aidan about his day. There was a knock at the door, and Paul and the guy went outside to look at the car. When Paul came back in I heard him say, "Give me a call, and we'll figure something out." OMG. I couldn't get over everything happening so fast! Talk about f**k!
And that's when I saw Paul's face fall like Niagra. Not only was that guy not buying our car. But he'd smashed into it.
What The Luck.
Let's give it a try shall we? Mmmm 'k.
Ah, my husband. My MIL (mother-in-law) always says if Paul didn't have bad f**k he'd have no f**k at all. I know, I know. You're thinking, "how can someone have THAT much bad f**k?" Ladies and gentlemen, my husband is an anti-f**k magnet.
Exhibit A: when we're driving in the car, and Paul's at the wheel, we hit EVERY red light in the lucking city. Especially when we're late. But if I'm driving alone, I get green lights all the way to my destination. I guess I'm just more f**ky than Paul. Although in his defense, this could be a male-thing. I compared notes with my sister Kiki, and apparently BIL (brother-in-law) has the same kind of red light f**k.
Not convinced eh?
Exhibit B: when we're driving in the car and we hit a bump, it's always at the very moment Paul chooses to take a sip from his coffee. While wearing a white dress shirt. This can also happen if we're walking, grocery shopping, sitting on the deck, pretty much anywhere. You can dress him up, but you can't take him out. With a clean shirt anyway. Talk about unf**ky.
Still not convinced eh? Tough crowd.
Exhibit C: we've been trying to sell Paul's Civic since the winter. Despite advertising, we haven't had a single call from anyone remotely interested in buying it. So we got a flashy "For Sale" sign and put it in the car window with our phone number and parked it on the street in front of our house for optimal car-selling positioning.
On our way home from work, Paul and I got a call from my son Aidan (age 13), saying that there was someone at the house about the car. Aidan told the guy that his mum was in the shower, and I'd be out in 20 minutes (if only!). Aidan didn't want to say he was home alone (smart kid). It was raining out, so the guy said he'd be waiting in his car.
I told Paul someone was at the house about the car. We were so excited - our sign worked! After 6 months of not even a single phone call, there was someone at our house who might buy the car. Now we could afford to buy flooring to finish our basement. Maybe our f**k was about to change!
We dashed in the house (still raining). I did a bit of tidying up, and was busy lighting candles to rid our house of a very odd urine-esque smell and catching up with Aidan about his day. There was a knock at the door, and Paul and the guy went outside to look at the car. When Paul came back in I heard him say, "Give me a call, and we'll figure something out." OMG. I couldn't get over everything happening so fast! Talk about f**k!
And that's when I saw Paul's face fall like Niagra. Not only was that guy not buying our car. But he'd smashed into it.
What The Luck.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
This Post Is Brought To You By the Letter "U" As In Uterus
Ok, first let me start by saying I have a love/hate relationship with birthdays. Not just any birthday mind you, strickly only MY birthdays. I'm always super excited (natch, a day all about me!) which is quickly followed by plummeting depression with the realization that I am one year older, and my uterus is one year closer to shriveling up from non-use.
But this year, THIS YEAR, was one of a kind. And not in a good way.
First, I took the day off work. Let's face it, I put up with crazy stuff and rude people at work on a daily basis. Why would I want to do that on my birthday? Exactly. I wouldn't. My birthday is sacred - hello pjs and ice cream!
Paul and I were scheduled to be "kid free" for the weekend. Instead Paul got a call from his ex-wife's husband two days before my birthday asking if we could take my step-daughter for the whole weekend. Not normally an issue (I'm not a wicked step-mom), but I was hoping Paul had a super romantic weekend planned. One that didn't involve kids. Apparently I'm getting naive with age.
Not only were we going to have kid-company for the weekend, Paul hadn't made any plans. Zero. No special birthday supper reservation at my favorite gluten-free eatery. Not even the thought of a drive-thru. Naturally, I diplomatically voiced my disappointment. Yelling can be diplomatic right?
I was beginning to question just what I was going to have to celebrate on the big day. You know, in addition to my decaying uterus and drive thru supper. I decided it might be best to casually mention the type of birthday cake I wanted (gluten-free cheesecake - yum!). Paul's response went something along the lines of "You want cake?!" As if I'd asked for a life-sized pink diamond unicorn statue. Not feeling like the most special wife in the world, I reasoned with myself that Paul would not be that dense. He was most likely playing dumb (he is a natural blonde), all the while planning something uber secret and surprise-filled. Minus the balloons ofcourse since my husband has resigned himself to my unhealthy fear of balloons. Apparently I'm also over-analyzing way too much with age.
Cut to my birthday. Paul made arrangements for my step-daughter to stay with Mom and Dad Paul for the night so we could go out to supper! Proof that giving your husband the stink-eye can work. I decided to let it slide that Paul agreed to pull an extra shift at work the next day.
Supper was delicious! Dessert was delicious! Paul looked delicious! But there was only one way to find out for sure. We headed home for a little boom chicka wow wow. Which is the precise moment that Mother Nature decided to give me her little present. Seriously? Oh period gods how you mock me!
The next day we picked up my step-daughter. She told us how her step-dad picked her mom up at work in a limo with roses and champagne. Then whisked her off on a plane to Toronto for a romantic weekend in some swanky hotel. Hello jaw - meet the floor. That was why I was having a non kid-free birthday weekend? I was gobsmacked that Attila the Hungry had a better birthday than I did (and it wasn't even her birthday!) Not that I'm bitter or anything. Ok, apparently I'm getting bitter with age.
But this year, THIS YEAR, was one of a kind. And not in a good way.
First, I took the day off work. Let's face it, I put up with crazy stuff and rude people at work on a daily basis. Why would I want to do that on my birthday? Exactly. I wouldn't. My birthday is sacred - hello pjs and ice cream!
Paul and I were scheduled to be "kid free" for the weekend. Instead Paul got a call from his ex-wife's husband two days before my birthday asking if we could take my step-daughter for the whole weekend. Not normally an issue (I'm not a wicked step-mom), but I was hoping Paul had a super romantic weekend planned. One that didn't involve kids. Apparently I'm getting naive with age.
Not only were we going to have kid-company for the weekend, Paul hadn't made any plans. Zero. No special birthday supper reservation at my favorite gluten-free eatery. Not even the thought of a drive-thru. Naturally, I diplomatically voiced my disappointment. Yelling can be diplomatic right?
I was beginning to question just what I was going to have to celebrate on the big day. You know, in addition to my decaying uterus and drive thru supper. I decided it might be best to casually mention the type of birthday cake I wanted (gluten-free cheesecake - yum!). Paul's response went something along the lines of "You want cake?!" As if I'd asked for a life-sized pink diamond unicorn statue. Not feeling like the most special wife in the world, I reasoned with myself that Paul would not be that dense. He was most likely playing dumb (he is a natural blonde), all the while planning something uber secret and surprise-filled. Minus the balloons ofcourse since my husband has resigned himself to my unhealthy fear of balloons. Apparently I'm also over-analyzing way too much with age.
Cut to my birthday. Paul made arrangements for my step-daughter to stay with Mom and Dad Paul for the night so we could go out to supper! Proof that giving your husband the stink-eye can work. I decided to let it slide that Paul agreed to pull an extra shift at work the next day.
Supper was delicious! Dessert was delicious! Paul looked delicious! But there was only one way to find out for sure. We headed home for a little boom chicka wow wow. Which is the precise moment that Mother Nature decided to give me her little present. Seriously? Oh period gods how you mock me!
The next day we picked up my step-daughter. She told us how her step-dad picked her mom up at work in a limo with roses and champagne. Then whisked her off on a plane to Toronto for a romantic weekend in some swanky hotel. Hello jaw - meet the floor. That was why I was having a non kid-free birthday weekend? I was gobsmacked that Attila the Hungry had a better birthday than I did (and it wasn't even her birthday!) Not that I'm bitter or anything. Ok, apparently I'm getting bitter with age.
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