Little Squirt

I was chatting with my Mum tonight and Dad decided to join in. It always makes for interesting convo when Dad's on the other extension.

After catching up on the weekend, we got to talking about hair. We were laughing about the time I cut all my hair off within an inch of its life. My Dad was not so crazy about the idea then. And he's not so crazy about the idea now. He's very opinionated about my hair. Funny enough, he doesn't have any.

Anyhoo, I was saying how every one needs to do their own thing with their hair. And my motto, especially when it came to that particular hair cut was "live and learn." Diddo for the time I couldn't be patient and wait for my bangs to grow so I shaved them off. Right before a professional photo shoot.

The three of us started dishing on the hair wizardry of a local salon talon and how she once convinced me to perm my [uber naturally curly] hair.

Mum: "I don't remember that!"
Me: "I do. And so does my therapist."
Mum: "I don't think I would have let her do that to your hair. Where was I?"
Me: "Mom, you were right there. She convinced us that the perm would "counter balance" my natural curl."
Mum: [laughing] "I really don't remember that! When was this?"
Me: "It was the summer before Grade 9. Remember, I had to walk around town with a mini-spray bottle of water in my pocket so I could keep spritzing my hair so it would stay wet. It went totally frizzy when it dried. I spent the whole summer looking like a) I took A LOT of showers or b) I had a major sweating problem."
Dad: "Ha! Live and learn."
Mum: "I'm going to have to dig out some old photos!"
Me: "Mum, I think my therapist wants to meet you." 

That's Shitty

Warning: the following post contains references written in bad taste and should not be read while consuming food.

I survived my first day back at work. AND lost 5 pounds. Bonus.

My anxiety level was so high about leaving my baby girl at daycare that I spent most of the early morning surpressing vomit.

Multiple coffees later...

The vomit, which didn't like being contained and pushed down and mixed with a diarrhetic, migrated further south. And roared.

Not wanting to offend everyone in the office by using the one shared washroom, I weighed my options. Quickly.

Option #1: the public washroom. Bonuses: it has three stalls. Cons: it would be a lose-lose situation. If you take the middle stall and [blam!] someone comes in, you have a person on either side of you hearing the blow by blow. Take either end stall and the poor unsuspecting SOB has to walk thru the smog.

Option #2: the handicapped washroom (also the only option which offered any real privacy). Bonuses: located at the end of the hallway. Cons: located at the end of the hallway.

Pardon the pun, but I went with option #2. Ungodly sounds and smells erupted. I think I even saw Moses. All the while, I was hoping the sound didn't echo into our office boardroom. I tried to be quick, and inconspicous. After washing my hands five times, I paused to listen for any movement in the hallwall. I needed to make a quick escape. Unfortunately, to make sure the smell stayed corralled, I had to pull the door almost closed, leaving a mere inch of ventilation. I felt so guilty, after all, handicapped people probably have a hard enough time getting to an accessible washroom only to be confronted with the horror that lay in wait.

Luckily I escaped undetected. Until they read this.

Eatin' Pants

A New Year!  Ahhhhhh, I love that New Year feeling. And that New Year smell. Yum. Unless you drank too much, then perhaps some Lysol spray is in order. And possibly a shower. Have you no self-respect? Um, that was rhetorical.

For some (myself not included) the beginning of a new year is a time to make some resolutions to do something you should be doing now but for whatever reason (insert lame excuse here) it hasn't happened. But goodness knows, there's nothing like a new year to make you get off the couch and get busy making your life happen.

Personally, I don't make resolutions. I prefer to make life happen an all-year-round event.

The perfect New Year's Day consists of super cleaning my house while enjoying a glass of white wine, and giving my closet a good going over. Clean house, clean mind. And this year was no different.

I purged my closet of things that were torn, were too small, too big, too summery, too black, and anything that my teenage step-daughter would consider cool. Since I've been a stay-at-home-mom for the last 8 months, there wasn't much left after my purge...except my maternity clothes. Apparently working out has not been part of my get busy making life happen all-year-round event.

If you've never worn maternity clothes, I highly recommend it. Even if you are not, or never will have children. Unless you're a dude. Ok, maybe even then. Maternity clothes are SO super comfy. It's like having the flexibility of yoga pants with the style of...um, somthing stylish (I've been home for 8 months remember, I'm not up on my style trail-blazers).

I don't understand why anyone would want to go back to their "regular" clothes again. Eat too much at supper...no problem. Need to conseal a small weapon, again, you're golden. Plus, just give your tum a pat, and voila - the best parking spots, or seats on the bus. So as I head back to corporate world Canada tomorrow I will be wearing maternity clothes! (If my boss is reading this, I was kidding about the weapon part).

I will be wearing maternity clothes?

I will be wearing maternity clothes...

Maybe there is room for one resolution this year.

T-Wrecks

I have yet to morph my post-baby body back into anything resembling my former physique. I venture outside for 80 minutes each day with the baby in her jogging stroller and the dogs on their leashes for a power walk, despite the cold-enough-to-freeze-the-brass-balls-off-a-monkey wind.

My wardrobe - hovering between the baggy too big things, the maternity things and the tight like a sausage things - is limited. Today I found myself choosing between bundling up in a maternity jacket or my teal Old Navy swing pea coat. I went with option B. It was bad enough that I was sporting maternity jeans. There was no way I could bring myself to opt for a baby-on-board jacket, especially without getting the neighbors talking. Again.

I had to deflate my lungs just to get the top buttoned over my neonatal ta tas. Ok, so breathing was out. Oxygen is so 2010 anyway.

The walk was uneventful, as they typically are. After all, it is my one escape from the house each day. The only 80 minutes I have to "myself" which is all mine (if you don't count cleaning up dog poo, obsessing whether the baby is dressed warm enough/cool enough, contemplating did Joani really love Chachi and why can't we extreme coupon in Canada like you can in the US).

After duty called for the dogs, I reached down to pick up the steaming pile but discovered the flaw in my choice of coat. Because my chest was so constricted, I couldn't move my arms out very far from my body. Like a tyrannosaurus. Except the tranny is trying to bag crap. So I really had to bend down. And that's when my maternity jeans slid south.

I'd like to say this story ends with me keeping my dignity. But let's be honest, after you've had a spotlight on your v-tunnel in a delivery room, dignity becomes extinct.

364 Days

Forgive me blogger for I have sinned. It has been 364 days since my last confession post.

My transgressions were many, and typically involved gluttony (hey I was eating for two). I have survived Paul going to Afghanistan. Almost giving birth to our daughter in the front seat of an SUV. Gaining weight, losing weight, gaining weight. Indulging in obsessive compulsive cleaning. Not showering for more than 24 hours. Feeling sorry for myself. And most of that's just from today!

I thought life was too busy for you blogger. And now my writing muscle has all but shrivelled up and died a painful death, like Lindsay Lohan's career. Even though I shunned you blogger, you were never very far away [because I like to keep my laptop close incase there's an important status update on Facebook].

But I'm ready to turn back to my writing ways blogger. With your help. And more coffee.

What can I do to atone for these sins? Say 7 Hail Mary's Drink 7 Bloody Mary's?

Done! Perhaps I should add consuming too much alcohol to my list of sins? Yeah, I was only kidding. There's nothing wrong with my sense of humor.

I'm back bitches!

Run In

Paul and I made a break from the house during a Saturday morning rain storm with the kids in tow. After some minimal-bank-account-damage shopping, we went to a local eatery for some lunch.

My food cravings are out of control. I wanted potatoes! So, without thinking, I ordered fries AND potato skins for a nice little carb/grease double whammy. I will never eat potatoes again. And I've banned the kids from saying the "p" word for a least another week. Even hearing the word makes the vomit start to rise.

Paul had the steak, Aidan a hot turkey sandwich and Kenzie opted for poutine.

After we were good and full (read: food coma), we took the kids to see the new Dream Home. Our city has several "Dream Homes" which are built and tickets are sold in support of local hospitals. It's fun to go and look at the show homes to see what a million dollars of home construction and design looks like. The kids always run around declaring what bedroom would be "theirs" if we won the house (which is always the master bedroom - hey, what can I say, my kids have good taste).

We'd just arrived, and were touring the formal dinning room when 11-year old Kenzie turned to Paul and I, and in a louder-than-it-needed-to-be voice annouced that she had a case of "the runs." She ran to the only operational and open-to-the-public washroom where she stayed for our entire tour of the house.

Being the ever supportive step-mom that I am, I pretended I didn't know my step-daughter and quickly ducked into the urber-garage. That poor million dollar bathroom probably never knew what hit it.

Slide Into Home

It is a bazillion degrees (celcius) here in city, Canada. You think I'm kidding?

It's so hot I actually slid off the toilet seat and onto the bathroom floor because my ass was sweating so much.

Yeah, it's hot like that.

Before I Was A Blogger...

Ah yes, the Robinson sisters. Back when we were innocent, and I knew how to rock a pair of Addidas short shorts and a page boy cap. [It's no wonder my parents didn't encourage me to become a fashion designer and it's no wonder I had to explain to random strangers that I was actually a girl, and not a boy].

It's like we're holding onto each other for dear life! But that was back when I was...7? I have no idea how old I am here. I'm the worst with ages (especially my own). I think I'm 5 in every photo I see from when I was a kid. This might explain why I'm always forgetting how old I am, even now.

I said MIGHT explain...

Anyhoo, we had our share of fights. One time I was pretending to catch fish (the fish being my sister's feet - what can I say, I had a great imagination even then!). Unfortunately the "fish" were ticklish and my sister kicked me in the jaw, driving my teeth through my tongue. There is also an apartment wall in the city that will forever be mamed from the high heel that was thrown into it. Luckily my reflexes have improved over time. Thankfully my sister's aim has not.

For the first time in our lives, my sister and I are both the same hair color (L'Oreal Intense Red). There was this one time in university I wanted to become a blonde. So I bleached the red out of my hair. I couldn't decide which shade of blonde to try (why are there so many shades of blonde!?!), so I did what any self-respecting single mom would do - I let my three year old pick for me. Aidan opted for "Tahitian Sunrise". Apparently sunrises are bright orange in Tahiti. I had to work that morning at the university, so a quick fix was in order. I tried to cover the sunrise with a dark chocolate brown, and ended up with midnight black. It was the only time that I've been all four hair colors in 24 hours. Basecaps and dark alleys were my friend.

For the first time in our lives, my sister and I look like we're sisters. It's a nice feeling. Maybe I'm not adopted after all.

Teenie Weenie

[Disclaimer: I apologize in advance to my mother, who is probably reading this.]

There are certain things I want to cross off my "list" of things to do before I die. Like a bucket list, but I was on to the idea way before the movie ever made it hip. Besides, you know how I like my lists.

So when I got the opportunity to par-take in a bachelorette party over the weekend, I said "sign me up!" [Seriously, you had to get on the list, they're weren't just letting ANYONE in].

This party had several things going for it. #1. I was invited (so obvious), #2. they were going to be serving cosmos...out of a keg! and #3. there was going to be some "entertainment" of the hunky naked variety.

Now I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I (up until this weekend) had never set my eyes [knowingly] on a stripper. I certainly hadn't seen a [professional] strip show (unless you count my Carmen Electra strip aerobics workout video). Afterall, I grew up in a small town. If you called a stripper, he was probably going to turn out to be your grade 12 English teacher, or the local grocery bagboy.

To be honest, I was dead curious. And NOT for the reasons you think. All my weenie wiggler* knowledge came from TV and movies. I was wondering how he was going to fit all those $1 coins in his g-string since Canada no longer has a $1 bill (or even a $2 bill). It brought new meaning to the phrase, shake your money maker. I mean, he could really hurt himself swinging all that coin in his banana hammock.  Luckily our hostess (aka my sister-in-law) thought of everything - she'd gotten some $1 american bills at the bank. We played some games which will remain anonymous, and I won a fistfull. I tucked them into my bra (for safe keeping).

I was informed the stripper's name was Tommy (probably not his real name). It seemed kind of unimaginative for a stripper name. I was expecting something exotic like Wild Bill Hiscock or Doctor Feelgood. Sigh.

Alrighty. I could look past the bad name. I was told by my S-I-L that Tommy would be arriving dressed as a cop. Hmmmm, Officer Tommy. Slightly better. Unfortunately he was an hour late, so by the time he showed up with his pimp (I kid you not!) we were well refreshed. My lips were dry from all that drinking and salavating, so I ran to apply some lippy before the main event. I ran into Tommy (literally) in the hallwall. He smiled. Like someone who knew a secret. I noted that his cop hat seemed a bit too big for his head. But who am I to judge? Small headed strippers need to work too.

Ok, forget the lippy. I hauled ass back to the livingroom to get a good seat. The music started... Ladies and gentlemen, what I witnessed was so...so...words can't even describe it. Oh wait, maybe they can. Bare with me.

First of all, it is NOT like the movies. Strippers (well, from my extensive experience with only 1) do not do "tricks". There were possibilities (and I'm not talking crazy Cirque de Soleil shit or anything), but nada. The buck literally stopped there.

Secondly, Officer Tommy was not wearing a standard-issue g-string. He was wearing nothing under his uniform. Now I've never been a police officer, but I think they do a fair bit of bad guy chasing, which could lead to some unpleasant chaffing if you know what I'm saying.

I spent most of the time covering my eyes. I couldn't watch this naked train wreck. Although, to be fair, he never was completely naked. He carried a small (very very small) hand towel in front of his *ahem* pistol, and then later a baseball cap. I found that very odd.

I quickly learned that Tommy was working hard on the girls who's money was peeking out of their bras. So I did what any self respecting married woman would do - shoved my money up my unmarried girlfriend's dress.

Before Tommy was done doin' his thang, our party was crashed by three teenage boys who were walking by and saw the stripper through the window blinds. Also, very odd.

Not to be put-off, my S-I-L asked if we wanted to go to the Rodeo! Turns out the Rodeo is a meat-market country and western bar and not an actual Rodeo. I was bummed, but perked up when I got ID'd at the door. I was just a little too excited about being ID'd so the bouncer took a good look at me (up and down) and decided I was at least 19. Gravity strikes again!

No sooner were we in the door when I was accosted by some yankee looking to take me for a twirl on the dancefloor. I politely declined pretended to be a foreign national who did not speak English. I was debating introducing myself as Ho No from the Orient when I was saved by my S-I-L with two words "mechanical bull."  I almost peed in my pants, not just because I was saved from attempting to pull off an Oriental accent, but because I could strike something else off my list. Hopefully, I would not be introducing myself later as Ho Down.

Now, I've never actually seen a mechanical bull in real life. But they look so fun on TV and in movies. Apparently I need to get out more instead of using TV and movies to do life research. Sadly, my showdown with the bronze bronco was put out to pasture (they only take the mechanical bull out during special occasions and having a famous loveable blogger come to your establishment does not count).

I guess I still have a few things to do on that list.

* I cannot take credit for the affectionate term "weenie wiggler". This is what Paul calls male strippers.

Bad Romance

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.

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.

To make a long story short....actually, it is kind of a short story. Oreo only lasted two weeks at our house before my mom took him back to the breeder. Turns out he was needed for a very special doggy mission to space! I always knew Oreo would go places. But still, I cried my little redheaded heart out.

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 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 ;)

Before I Was A Blogger...

Yes, because bloggers were once real people too... I've decided to start a new recurring segment (to the horror of my parents I'm sure) called "Before I Was A Blogger." Featuring pictures of moi.

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

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.

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.

Le Freak

I was chowing down on supper last night (hamburger sans bun, with some sweet potato pom frites on the side) when I noticed something was amiss. My arm looked different somehow.

After careful inspection, I noticed "it." One singular arm hair blowing in the breeze.  How can one singular arm hair blow in the breeze you might ask? Well, it can if a) it's an inch+ long and, b) you are an arm-hair freak and/or a character in a Dr. Seuss book. Paging Thing Two.

It reminded me of my nephew Zach. He may possibly not talk to me EVER for sharing this story. But hey, that's the price you pay for being related to a blogger. Zach has one singular armpit hair that's like two inches long. Not exactly shocking for a 14 year old boy except Zach has no other armpit hair. None. It's so freaky!  Even more so because he decided to name it his "pet", and balked at shaving it. I'd hate to see Zach's future therapy bill. 

No therapy for me though (this week anyway, my doc's on vacation). I did a little arm-hair-ectomy and yanked it right out. Not exactly dinner table manners. But hey, that's the price you pay for being married to someone with OCD a blogger.

What's Up Doc?

After Waterslidegate I decided it might be best to find a family doctor.

I found a list of local MDs accepting patients and called numero uno on the list (she was also the only doctor on the list but that a whole OTHER blog post) and took the first available appointment.

Three weeks later...

I wasn't sure about snaging a female doctor. I wouldn't be able to use my double entendre "what's up doc?" Pap smears would be...ok, they'd still be icky at best. But probably slightly less pleasant with a femdoc. When I was single (so very long ago *cough*) getting naked, save for that very fashionable paper half-dress, ensured my body would be viewed by at least one guy on an annual basis. And one who knew his way around (much like my Grade 12 biology lab partner Matt).

I fought the urge to run screaming from the waiting room, and sat patiently for my turn.

An hour and a half after my scheduled appointment time later...

My turn! I walked into office #5 as instructed by the receptionist, and waited for the doctor. Let's call her...Dr. Nice-At-First (Note: NOT her real name).

Dr. Nice-At-First came in, and started asking some basic doctoresque questions. She made notes. Now I'm not a doctor, and I don't even play one on TV, but I think if a patient told me certain things, I naturally would be prompted to ask some follow-up questions.

Example #1:
Femdoc: "How many children do you have?"
Me: "Two."
Femdoc: "So you've had two pregnancies."
Me: "No, only one."

You could practically hear the crickets in the background. Now, if I was the doctor, I'd want to know how my possible-patient had acquired a child she didn't give birth to. But maybe I'm just exceptionally curious.

Example #2:
Femdoc: "Any recent injuries?"
Me: "Yes, I tore all the tendons in my left foot."

NOTHING. Nada. I could have been run over by a car driven by aliens for all she knew. Ok, so Dr. Nice-At-First didn't necessarily have good Q&A skills. I've dated lesser men. And I was willing to overlook it. After all, you never know when you are going to need a family doc. And it's best to get one before you do, or else you're left with...THAT doctor. The one that steps on your breathing tube while trying to take your blood pressure via your ankle in ICU.

I reassured Dr. Nice-At-First I was only looking for a "just in case" doctor, and wanted to stress I am not one of those head-cases that will be in her waiting room every week. Unless they're giving out free samples. The more I talked about it, the less she seemed convinced.

Femdoc said she wanted to take my blood pressure, which was routine. And what do you know...I had a high reading. This was doing nothing for my I'm-normal and don't-need-a-doc routine.  She told me to relax, and took the reading again.  I wonder if that's what they tell you at the airport while they snap on rubber gloves.

High a second time. I haven't been high twice since university. Dr. Nice-At-First reassured me that in order to be considered someone suffering from high blood pressure she would have to get a high reading on three seperate occasions. Phew - what A relief.  I confessed that usually my pressure is so low, they call the coroner. Femdoc ignored me, and proceeded to tell me why my blood pressure might be high (coffee), and why I should keep an eye on it. Oddly she did not mention the fact that Paul mixes whites with darks in hot water washes as a possible cause. Naturally, I listened partially BEFORE I scoffed at her psycho-medicinal babble and went on the defensive why the reading was not accurate: I hadn`t been working out (torn tendons, remember?). Seriously, this doctor had the attention span of my four-year-old nephew. Sorry Ethan.

At the end of my appointment time, Dr. Nice-At-First thanked me for coming, and was showing me out the door of office #5. I turned and innocently asked what happened next, as this was my first doctor-patient try-out. Was Dr. Nice-At-First going to be our doctor? She waffled, and said she'd have to meet Paul first before committing. What the cuss? I felt like we'd just been on a first date, and was asking about date #2, and getting the "I'll call you" line. Had I'd known she wanted to meet Paul, I would have taken him with me. She said getting a doctor was personal, and maybe Paul wouldn't like her. Oh come now Dr. Nice-At-Frist, now's not the time to get insecure. I assured her Paul was looking to jump medical ship as his doctor moved. She thought maybe Paul might want to stay where he was at. What the cuss? Was she even LISTENING anymore?

I was so annoyed that I decided to give Dr. Nice-At-First the ol' heave ho. I mean, who was she to be so picky about being a "just in case" doctor?

So I'm back to being a free medical agent. I guess I'll have to lay off the waterslides for a little while longer.

Telephone

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?"
Silence.
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?"
Silence.
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?"
Silence.
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?"
Silence.
Me: "Mom, if you can hear me, I can't hear you!"
Silence.
Me: "Mom! MOMMMMMMMMM."
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 Quebec...in winter.

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

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.

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.

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: 'Hello...is 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)!