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)!

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 very...er, 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.

Hello Ice Cream, It's Me Erika

There is not enough ice cream in the world to motivate me today. Perhaps this is because ice cream now gives me a bad case of projectile diarrhea. Then again, is there ever a good case of projectile diarrhea? Pounds lost be damned.

It has been 10 days since my last jelly bean. Coincidentially, it has been 10 days since I've been at work.

Vacation is a funny thing. And by funny, I mean boring. I remember now why I don't take vacations. I don't know what to do with myself when I'm off-the-clock and not shacked up in a tropical hut with Paul sipping penis coladas.

There are things I want to do: write a book. But I have writer ADHD, hense the blog. I'm all about the short snappers. But lately I can't even muster the creativity for a post, let alone a whole chapter. So, I decided to morph my book into a clever collection of short stories. Snapity snap. So far, I have a clever collection of possible short story titles. Perhaps I can just do a book of short story titles?

This drives me crazy to no end, ie. the bottom of a wine glass.  I totally need to get out of this rut. I keep waiting for some thing, some one to bitch-slap me back to my self-inflicted goals. I know I should be the one to deliver that kind of a blow. But I'm really getting into Ellen and Oprah and other possible procrastinatingly-friendly daytime TV research.

Barber-Ah

Paul agreed to let me cut his hair. On purpose. [Insert evil laugh here].

Paul's hair could be cut every week it grows so fast. Like a Chia Pet. In fact, it should be cut every week or it turns into a male version of the bouffant. Personally, I prefer my man with a closer cut. Not quite David Beckman short, but then again, not quite Edward Norton long. More of a Bradley Cooper length.

Paul is used to going to a "fancy" barber where the girls have things pierced that shouldn't be, tatts, tight clothes and big boobs. My barbering wardrobe of choice...yoga pants and a tank top. 

I routed out my trusty hair clippers which hadn't been used since...well, they had actually never been used [shhhhhh].  Luckily (for me) it came with some handy "how to" instructions. [Note to self: try not to let your test subject see you reading "how to" instructions. It really doesn't instill confidence.]

The last time I had cut a guy's hair, I used scissors. I also ended up cutting off a tiny piece of his ear. Drama ensued. And my son has never let me forget it. Personally, I think it gives him character. Who needs a fully intact ear? People need quirks.

After a quick pep talk ["I will not make Paul look like Da Vinci"] I took a deep breath, and plugged in the clipper. I turned it on. I turned it off. I turned it on again.

After the 5th "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I asked Paul if I could have a quick glass of wine before I began. I find I am a better bowler after a glass of wine, so I assumed the same applied to hair cutting. Afterall, they both involve hands and shiny objects. (For the record, Paul wanted a sober stylist). 

Now I was getting a bit nervous. After all, what if I ruined his follicle hotness?

Sometimes when I get a bit nervous, I get the giggles (this was one of those times). I flicked the switch and started buzzin' away. I tried to go slow and steady, but every so often the clipper would surge and a loud "ZZZZzzzz" erupted. Naturally, this was followed by a look of horror from Paul, wondering if I'd just given him an unintentional bald spot (I didn't). But the look on his face made me laugh even harder, which only made Paul more paranoid. He kept asking whether he could cut my hair in return (for the record, cutting girl's hair is SO different).

To make a long story short (no pun intended), I did the best job I could. Unfortunately, the best job I could made Paul's head look pumpkin-esque. And there's this one spot, not matter how many times I cut it, still stuck out. I begged Paul to try some pomade. It helped. [Slightly.]

Perhaps not everything that comes with "how to" instructions should be attempted. I mean, how could guys hair be so complicated? I wonder if this is how the Trump's barber feels.

If It Ain't Broke...

During my single mom years I was accustomed to doing certain things without imput, and on my own. If I wanted to rearrange the furniture, I did. Paint the walls Antiqua Sunset, no problem. Cook fish cakes, yummy. I became very multi-talented, I had to.

When you're married, you have to keep you're partner in mind unless you find the couch especially comfy. I don't get out the tool box anymore, because I know Paul likes to do the "man thing" and give the home repairs a go. Although I do miss sporting my pink tool-belt (it's bitchin').

So what's the problem you say? Oh nothing much, except the balance of my sanity.

We had some "fix it" things on our to do list: hang a shelf, install a phone, hang a picture. Jobs which should have taken 30 minutes. Altogether. Tops.

The shelf hanging went ok. Installing the phone proved to be a bit more tricky. Paul had to put a new phone plate in the room. While hooking up the wires to the plate, one of the wires somehow found its way into a cut on Paul's hand and he electrocuted himself. Several choice words later...the phone was connected. But without a dial tone. Against my better judgment, I let Paul go downstairs to the basement, and poke around the electrical panel. He disconnected and connected wires. He flicked switches. Several choice words later...the phone still did not have a dial tone, and now none of the phones in the house worked.

An hour and a half later...

All of the house phones were back in working order (including the newly installed one). We had one task left to go - hang a picture. We picked the perfect spot. Out came the drill. Out came the F-bomb.  Paul had managed to drill through a water pipe inside the wall and now water was leaking down thru the dry wall. Talk about luck!

There is now a 6x6 hole in the wall where the drywall had to be cut, the hole filled, and wall patched. God love Paul. He tries, he really does. But I'm considering putting a lock on the tool box, and hiding the key. Preferably nowhere near electricity.

**During the writing of this post, Paul informed me he broke the downstairs toilet. I think I'm going to have to either hurt Paul's male pride, or we're going to need to move to a new house soon.

New house it is!

Mind Your Mouth

Instead of reaching for my usual bottle of Boost yesterday at lunch, I opted to dash across the street from my office building to "Sounds like Tubway" for a wrap.

I was greeted by the usual "Sounds like Tubway" guy who is always in one of only two possible moods: mysteriously brooding, or fun and flirty. As soon as I saw him, I knew which mood it was going to be. He wearing a black button shirt (which I'm sure is not part of the standard-issue Tubway uniform); the collar was popped, and there was major Saturday Night Fever decolletage happening. Wait, is that a GOLD CHAIN?

I couldn't look, and I couldn't turn away. Just. Order. Something.

So, I ordered my usual chicken bacon ranch wrap. Cheese, yup (shredded). Veggies, yup (lettuce, onion, tomatoes, green pepper, pickles). When "Sounds Like Tubway" guy is in a brooding mood, he puts on a little bit of veggies, despite pleas for "more more more". When "Sounds Like Tubway" guy is in a fun and flirty mood, he puts on lots AND LOTS of veggies. Enough that if you were eating a sandwich as your only meal that day before a weekend of love-making it would be enough to sustain you. We're talking VEGGIES.

Bit of pepper. Almost done, minimal talking to avoid mentioning something about the chestfest happening at eye level.

And then...the sauce.

When "Sounds Like Tubway" guy is in a brooding mood, he puts on lots of sauce, despite pleas for "just a little bit." When "Sounds like Tubway" guy is in a fun and flirty mood, he puts on lots AND LOTS of sauce, despite pleas for "just a little bit".

Me: "Woa, guy. You're squirting that sauce all over the place. I like it saucy but not THAT much."
OMG did I just SAY that?
Tubway Guy: [smiles]
Ok, be cool. Pretend you did not just say that.

He rolls up my wrap. It's so full of veggies, it barely closes.

Me: "That's so big, how am I going to fit it all in my mouth?"
OMG did I just SAY that?
Tubway Guy: [winks]

I pay for my wrap and dash back across the street. How will I fit it in my mouth indeed, what with my foot in there and all.