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.