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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
