Archive of ‘Humour’ category

Lost Sock Memorial Day

At the foot of my bed sits a laundry basket. Not a clean basket for folding, not a dirty basket getting ready to be washed. No, this basket is a special kind of basket that bugs me EVERY SINGLE TIME I LOOK AT IT.

This basket is filled with the bane of my laundry existence, UNMATCHED SOCKS.

Socks of every size, texture, shape and colour. Sweat socks, toe socks, dress socks, ankle, knee. Even old baby socks are in there, and my youngest is 10!

WHY does this happen? They go in to the wash in pairs, but somehow come out solo. I throw them in the basket, thinking eventually the second one will turn up, BUT IT NEVER DOES!!!

In the past, I have done creative things with the lone ones. I’ve used buttons and yarn to make sock puppets. I have tried using them as dusters, to clean the house. Problem is I am a lousy housekeeper, so I’d only use one a month. I’d never get rid of them at that rate!

I am going to be stuck with a basket of mismatched socks FOREVER. I can’t bring myself to throwing them out. I can’t increase my carbon footprint with something that makes a footprint! I am trapped.

Or, at least I thought I would be, until I learned that May 9th is unofficially “Lost Sock Memorial Day.”

Yes. That’s right, a made-up day that is giving me permission to THROW OUT THE OLD SOCKS. I will have one last look, try to match up a few, and then take a moment and thank all those socks for keeping my family’s toes warm throughout the winter, and then PITCH THEM IN THE GARBAGE, GUILT FREE!

PLUS. Sandal season is almost here! You know what that means??!!?? NO SOCKS FOR 4 MONTHS!

Imagine the space I will have now at the end of my bed, instead of a laundry basket mocking me! I will put that basket in the basement and be free of mismatched socks!

For now.

Eventually they will pile up again; I am sad to say I know this. But hey, at least I have until September.

So, go ahead. On May 9th, you have official permission to throw out those lone socks.

And, if you can’t bring yourself to do it, may I suggest a sock themed craft for Mother’s Day? The pass off is maybe your only chance!!!

 

 

A PSA Of Sorts – With Swearing. So Much Swearing.

I took August off this summer to spend a month at the beach with my kids. It’s been wonderful and hot, and it has also been very sandy. After two weeks in paradise I had to be taken a little back to reality, in the form of a mountain of laundry. So, one hot sticky morning I headed off to the local Laundromat to get us some clean beach duds.

As I pulled in, I noticed two big pit bulls tied up to a fence, in the direct blazing sun. I instantly get my pet-loving rage on, but take some deep breaths and think, okay, maybe they’ve only been there for a minute. Relax and mind your own business.

I go in, start my laundry, and keep my eyes on the time. Now it’s 20 minutes. They’ve been there for at LEAST THAT LONG, short leashed to a fence, summer sun beating down on them. I wander outside to check on them. One is muzzled, but he’s managed to get his tongue out, which from a distance I can see is dry, and the other is lying on her side crying. NO WATER. They don’t even have water. My rage is rising faster than the already too hot temperature.

Now IT IS my business. I get my anger in check, walk back into Laundromat, and look around. There are a few different Grannies doing loads of laundry, a young mom, and a guy who looks like Eminem who is shirtless, with his feet up on the counter, refusing to move them for a senior who is trying to get her cart by. He is covered in tattoos, and has the word “MERCY” tatted across his forehead. BINGO.

I march over and say “EXCUSE ME, but are those your dogs over there?”

Well, my rage was met with equal instant rage. This guy starts yelling at me, all up in my face, asking why I’m just judging him by the way he looks, assuming that he’s the owner of pit bulls, because that kind of dog and their owners are always judged, that this is the same as racial profiling. (It isn’t)

I let him rant for a minute or two, then pause. “Yeah, but are they YOUR pit-bulls? To which he answers yes.

I tell him that he needs to get those dogs out of the sun and some water immediately, or I’m going to call the cops. I start to walk back out towards the dogs and he gets in my face again.

“IF YOU GO NEAR THEM, THEY’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF!”

I get back up in his face and say “IF YOU DONT GET THEM OUT OF THE SUN NOW, I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF.”

He stepped back immediately, I’m going to assume he could see pure fire and rage shooting like lasers out of my eyes, and my skin must have been turning green because I was going to She Hulk Smash THE SHIT OUT OF HIM.

He went out to his dogs and called me a “Dumb C***” and left. I called out after him “TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE.” Zing.

I turn back, a little shaky, but mostly pleased with myself, to see everyone else in the Laundromat giving me dirty looks.

“OH YEAH.” I said. “Like I’M the problem.”

I pack up my clothes and head back. The dirtbag and his dogs are nowhere to be seen, so I hope they found some water, and that maybe he will think twice before doing that again.

Moral of the story is, Animal Cruelty is everyone’s responsibly. Even if the situation gets uncomfortable we need to be advocates for pets in distress.

And if you are a pet owner, please think about what you are doing.

Because you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

She Hulk Smash

She Hulk Smash

 

 

 

Let’s Stop Calling Our New Prime Minister a Hottie.

October 19th was a great day for us here in Canada. We as a country, came together to make a major political change, voting out what I believe to be a terrible Prime Minister. In an overwhelming voter turnout, we as a whole said NO MORE, and voted in a young, vibrant, charismatic, smart, savvy new Prime Minister, with hopes that this man and his ideas will get us back on track to be the greatest country in the world. 

He also, in case you didn’t notice, is a bit of a Hottie!ez%20justin%20china 

The internet exploded, worldwide, the very next day that Canada had elected, and I quote:

“A Bangable Prime Minister!”

Yes. BANGABLE. I read that. More than once. This cracked me up! Who even says that anymore? Well, me now, all day long. “Do these Costco Jeggings make me look bangable?” “Does this flannel Garfield shirt make me look bangable?” (There’s been a lot of that this week.)

There was a hashtag #PMILF. The Twitterverse was on FIRE. Every paper and magazine starting talking about it, and calling him “The Sexiest Politician EVER.” I laughed, and I’ll admit, I kind of loved it. I actually felt proud. “That’s right, he’s our Hottie PM, and he’s going to make our world better. He’s going to right all of Harpers’ wrongs.”

One girlfriend asked if I thought it seemed kind of gross and sexist to say this about our new leader. No, I really didn’t. Just because he’s good looking, doesn’t take away from the fact he’s smart and skilled. The whole world knows we elected him not for looks, but for his political views and our faith that he can take care of our Country, Right? (They must!) One of his promises was to have an inquiry into the missing and murdered indigenous women of our country. That is HUGE. Everyone knows this, right? (They don’t.)

She then asked me “What if people described YOU as bangable? How would you feel about that? Imagine if people said that about you doing your job!”

ARE YOU KIDDING? At this point in my life, I would LOVE THAT. In my mind, it goes like this:

“Hey, you know that lady that walks all those kids to school in her pyjamas? TOTALLY BANGABLE.”

“Do you mean the one that claims she’s writing a book but has a nap every afternoon? Yeah. I’d hit that.” #LMILF (Lazy MILF)

“I love a woman so confident, funny AND smart, that also happens to be a total hottie. I have mad respect for that!”

So, as you can see, the comments about Trudeau didn’t bother me. (You may also see that I sometimes have a skewed sense of reality.)

At first I thought there was no harm in it, but by the end of the day, words like “objectifying, sexiest, demeaning, dismissive, belittling” made me start rethinking my enjoyment of it all. Comments like “Hey, it happens to women all the time!” or “He’s the one who posed with his shirt off, so he must like this kind of attention!” totally made me cringe. I HATE those kind of comments. I LOSE IT when people say that about women. So why is it okay for me to say this about a man? Two wrongs don’t make a right. My feeling of sisterly pride for our “Hot new PM” have quickly turned into that slightly regretful feeling you get after you’ve gone to ladies night at a strip bar, or maybe got too drunk at a wedding. I feel sort of bad for my actions. I didn’t “big picture” it. I just wanted to have some fun but didn’t really think through how it would all play out the next day. I don’t want the world to think we voted in a man because of his looks, his bangability, or curly hair. I want them to know we did this because of our hopes he can help us change our country, for the better.

I love Canada and I think we did a good thing on Monday. I hope we can show the rest of the world that. I will now stop all my silly business and give this election the respect it deserves. We have a new leader, which is great, but we also (here in my riding) lost a beloved NDP MP in the collateral damage. I’d hate for her to think her job, that she has done well, was taken away from her because we can’t resist dreamy eyes and a smile. I think she deserves better than that, Justin Trudeau certainly does, and we as a country do too.

 

That Time We Nailed School Photo Day

I have never been a fan of school photos. As a child of the 70’s, in the days before digital (Yes, I’m THAT old!) we had ONE chance to get that photo right but I NEVER did. I would worry I’d blink, so I would try to keep my eyes wide open, making my photo look crazy. I also tend to have a lopsided smile.

“Don’t side smile. DON’T SIDE SMILE!” CLICK. DANG IT!!!!

See? Side smile. Can you say Retake?

See? Side smile. Can you say Retake?

 

Flash forward to now and I STILL HATE SCHOOL PHOTOS. First of all, it costs a fortune for some garbage phoney pictures of my kids. Second, this is the digital age, take 40 photos, and let us pick a good one. Not just two where my kid’s forced smile looks like he stepped in dog poop. (You know, the cringe-face smile!)

Well, last year picture day rolled around, as it always does. My younger son announced he was going to wear his suit and a tie. He also announced that no matter what the photographer tried, he would not smile or laugh, because they always make him feel uncomfortable. I told him I was fine with whatever he wanted to do. He seemed pretty pleased with the challenge he had put out there for himself, and headed off to school.

A few weeks later the proofs arrived. At pick up time, most kids were running out to show their parents their photos. My son emerged, looking down at his proofs, and slowly walked over to me, with a very serious look on his face. One of the school moms nudged me and said “Uh oh, what’s going on there?” As he got closer, he looked up, and his face turned into a bright smile.

“THESE ARE GREATEST SCHOOL PHOTOS, EVER!”

I took the proofs and checked them out. They were FANTASTIC. The first pose, my son is staring straight ahead, with a gaze that can only be called “Blue Steel.” The second, a maniacal grin that he felt made him look like an “Evil Genius.” I proudly showed all the parents the proofs, because, clearly, I had the world’s greatest son, and he had taken the world’s greatest photos. After much laughing, I promised that yes, this time we would order the deluxe package and share this magic with everyone.

Another few weeks pass and I realize the due date for ordering the photos had come and gone. RATS. Now I was going to have to pay a penalty on top of the already overpriced packages, but a promise is a promise. The two of us sat down at the computer, and headed to the photo company’s website. I had never done online ordering before for school photos, but when I did I was BEYOND delighted to find they didn’t have the standard five backgrounds to choose from, but over one hundred! I couldn’t believe my eyes!! We could take my son’s photo, and add whatever we wanted. We tried 90’s era prisms, seasonal backgrounds, flowers, dots, EVERYTHING. Suddenly my son grabbed my hand on the mouse, and yelled “STOP!!!” He’d found the background he wanted. The greatest finisher to the greatest school photo.

Let me proudly present: Fletcher. All Year Long.

Look into my eyes. Not around my eyes, right into my eyes. Mesmerizing.

Look into my eyes. Not around my eyes, right into my eyes. Mesmerizing.

 

That’s right. He’s bursting out of flames. Why is this even an option? Who knows. Who CARES. I do know that an 8 X 10 hangs in my dining room, for us to enjoy every day. We ordered everything. Fridge magnets, calendars, placemats, mugs! The company even threw in this bonus collage:

All Awesome. All. The. Time.

All Awesome. All. The. Time.

So thanks to my laziness as a parent, we discovered that school photos can in fact be fantastic. I used to roll my eyes when I’d bump into parents and they whip out their wallets to show off their kids, but now I am one of them!

“Oh, yes, you’re right. Little Suzy does look adorable in her school uniform! President of the Chess Club you say? Amazing. Well, let me show you Fletcher. HE CONTOLS THE WEATHER.” (mic drop and walk away)

A fantastic storm is brewing.

A fantastic storm is brewing.

 

 

One Man’s Trash…

 

Early on a weekend morning you find yourself carting boxes full of old books and toys out on to your front lawn. Clothes you no longer wear, furniture that’s chipped, VHS tapes you’ve found in the basement; you put all those out too. You felt like you were up early enough yet there are already people there, ready to rummage through your stuff.

You my friend are having a garage sale.

I have VERY mixed feelings on garage sales. They really are a weird event. A plan to get rid of all your old things that never really works out for me. First of all, if I bring a box up from the basement full of toys my kids haven’t played with in years, they suddenly have interest in them again and simply CANNOT part with them. Now dusty old baby toys are scattered around my living room floor. I also don’t like people trying to barter with me over things I’ve owned and loved, trying to talk me down from the Toonie I am charging.

“No, I won’t take a quarter for it. It’s an end table!!”

I stand there, on my lawn, with a good portion of our lives out for display knowing that if it doesn’t sell I will have to load all of it up in our car and take it to a donation centre. I look at the handful of change I’ve earned so far, which is barely enough to buy a coffee, and start wondering if I just should have not bothered with the sale, but just headed right for the dump.

My kids, who were the ones who talked me in to having a sale in the first place, have long lost interest and have gone to the park to play. I can’t stop thinking of the guy that bought all our DVD’s for $5. He was so excited and kept saying “I can’t believe you don’t want these!!” I am starting to regret selling them. DO I want these? Now it’s too late. Would we ever watch Cannonball Run 3 again? I highly doubt it, but I am still feeling regretful.

The only thing worse for me than having a garage sale is the slightly embarrassing fact that I LOVE going to them. I can’t help myself. I pull over all the time and shop on people’s lawns. Over the years I have picked up so many things that will be great “DIY fixer upper projects.” I buy all kinds of furniture that I could easily refinish and that would be AMAZING when I’m done. Problem is, I don’t ever do it. NOT EVER. I don’t even know how! I usually keep all this junk in my basement for two years and then resell it to some other poor sucker off my lawn.

Despite all of this, I know that I will continue to stop at garage and yard sales. I just can’t help it. Once again my kids will leave with old DVD’s and giant sized toys and I will leave with a broken chair and some useless knickknacks.

Oh well, at least we will have some new things to sell off next year!

My latest purchase. It's salt and pepper shakers that are also a bottle opener AND a corkscrew! How could I resist?!?

 

Is THIS My Midlife Crisis??!!?? (Warning. A lot of swearing.)

So, something happened last night. I had an “Aha! Moment.” I know this is an Oprah thing, but since I’ve never watched Oprah, I am just going to go ahead and assume she means that moment when you realize you’ve TURNED INTO A GIANT FUCKING LOSER.

I was just plating our dinner (How’s that for an obnoxious term?) when I took a bite of the salad I’d made (I make salad every night, EVERY NIGHT, so I am not sure why this is a big deal.) and called out to my husband “WOW, I really knocked dinner out of the ballpark tonight!”

He didn’t really hear me, because he was busy talking over me, telling me who he would pick as his dream cast for the “Ultimate Ghostbusters Reboot.”

I stood in the doorway, holding our plates with my award winning, grand slamming dinner on it, staring at him as he then went on to say “For the record, they DON’T NEED to do a reboot. BUT since they are I love that it’s women and love the women they’ve cast, but I’ve heard they are also doing a men’s one, which is SO STUPID and thank god they didn’t do the one they had talked about years ago with Chris Farley and Adam Sandler BUT IF they do end up doing another one, and I could cast it, it would be Will Farrell, that funny Asian guy who’s in EVERYTHING right now (Randall Park), Chris Pratt and Kevin Hart.” “Oooh. Great cast!” I say. “I’d hit all of that.” I also say, because I always like to keep it classy.

We sit down, I hand him 40 napkins and say “Okay. We can eat on the new couch but PLEASE be careful.” Then we watch Netflix. We don’t actually watch a full show or movie, we scroll for a half hour pointing out all the things we could watch, and WANT to watch, but not tonight, because I have super anxiety and can only handle comedies.

A bottle of wine and some chips follow, and then I force him to rub my bunion. Welcome to my Saturday night.

Seriously. WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK.

How did this happen??!!?? I used to be super fun and funny. I used to go out, and work nights and have crazy adventures and still manage to get up early and function. Now I can’t even handle staying up late. I complain about never getting invited to parties, but when I do, and the start time is after 9pm, I say “WHAAAAAAAAATTTT, WHO leaves the house after 8??” in a super high pitched voice, and usually don’t go. I went to my friend Laura’s house, and stayed until 2:30 am, and am still trying to recover three weeks later. I have actually been bragging about walking home at that time, as all the bars poured out onto the streets, and that the Domino’s Pizza was still open. STILL OPEN! Who even knew that? People under 40, that’s who. People way cooler than me, that’s who. Everyone else. That’s who.

I talked to my girlfriend about this, and said MAYBE just maybe I am having a midlife crisis. “But I am TOO YOUNG!” I said. She said “No. I think that’s about right. If anything, you should have had it about 5 years ago. Let’s face it, with your health and bad luck do you REALLY think you are going to make it to 80?”

Rude, yes. But not wrong. I don’t want to come right out and say I think I have a shorter life expectancy rate than others, but hey, some days MY ENTIRE LEFT SIDE DOESN’T WORK.

So, is this the midlife crisis? Am I two weeks away from getting a mom haircut? Is this the moment when my brain shifts to a new, comfortable spot where it stops keeping track of any new technology or cool music? Will I start wearing boxy shorts, fanny packs and cross trainers when I travel? Will all my tee shirts be from Northern Reflections? Will I start wearing bedazzled clothing??

SO MANY WORRIESOME QUESTIONS.

My biggest worry is that I have been this boring and middle aged my entire life, but that I am only realizing it now, as age brings some sort of wisdom. (It must, right?)

This was totally not what I pictured doing with my life. Do you know how I spend my days? Writing up “Fun Family Recipes” for Mom blogs that I never actually make, and get paid in gift cards. (Right eye twitches as I die a little inside.)

I can tell you this. Starting NOW I am going to make some changes. (Totally a thing someone says who’s having a midlife crisis.)

I won’t be buying a sports car or going on a fancy trip. Did I mention so far I also sort of suck at being an adult? I think I must HATE money. I have to get rid of it the second I get any, so these two items are definitely off the table.

I won’t train and run in a marathon either. I may be having a midlife crisis, but I am still super lazy. I probably won’t lose the baby weight I’ve been carrying. I won’t sky dive, change careers, or get plastic surgery.

I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it will be something. Or worse, my biggest fear, I’ll do NOTHING. Just get older and MORE BORING. I am frowning as I say this. Which I shouldn’t do, because now I have lines on my mouth that resemble a ventriloquist dummy.

40 is NOT the new 30. Only old people say that. Old people with Howdy Doody mouths and accordion foreheads.

Something’s gotta give, and it can’t be my hip.

Stay Tuned.

30. Oh 30, how I miss you.

30. Oh 30, how I miss you.

Grade 8. SO MUCH STYLE

Grade 8. SO MUCH STYLE

Early 90's. That's a lot of hair.

Early 90’s. That’s a lot of hair.

 

Sometimes, Toddlers are THE PITS!

My oldest son turned sixteen this month. I decided to make him a birthday collage of old photos. I was quite certain this is the thing teenaged boys really want. As I was digging through the memories, I couldn’t help but pause at pictures of the toddler years. Those soft little arms, that angelic face, that child that could do no wrong. Perfect right?

I then started really thinking back to those years, and maybe, just maybe the Golden Child wasn’t so perfect after all. He was a toddler, and I am here to say sometimes TODDLERS ARE THE PITS.

I love when people refer to the tough stage as “Terrible Twos.” That’s because they’ve never spent time with a three year old. Three year olds are straight up a**holes sometimes. Buckle up parents of two year olds, you haven’t seen anything yet.

Toddlers are adorable you say? Are they? How about their shoes? Yes. I hate their little shoes more than anything. First of all, why does a shoe smaller than the palm of my hand cost so much money? To help their foot development. I do get that, but since my son wouldn’t keep a shoe on his foot to save his stinking life, I may as well have just wrapped them in newspapers.

It is hard trying to get out of the house in the mornings with a toddler. First you sit them on your lap, facing outward, and then struggle to put the damn little shoes on their feet. “Please hold still,” I’d beg, but he didn’t care, he just had to wiggle off my lap to grab a toy. I’d get one shoe on, and he’d kick it off.

“Please Buddy, leave the shoes on. Mommy HAS to get you to daycare, and I HAVE to get to my work. I can’t be late again. PLEASE BUDDY PLEASE. DO NOT KICK THAT SHOE OFF.” He’d look me right in the face, and then KICK. IT. OFF. In the house, in his stroller, on public transit, or the worst, in his car seat, where he could somehow magically kick it to go all the way under the front seat. I would then get to our destination and have to crawl on the floor of the car, through the spilled milk and Goldfish Cracker crumbs, to retrieve his million dollar sandal. He would also try and kick me, or pull my hair with his toes while I was doing this. I don’t think there was a single day that I got to work on time, let alone clean. I was always sweaty and frazzled after our morning routine of Mother And Son Shoe Smackdown.

Sickness. OH MAN. Why do toddlers get sick all the time?? I worked part time, but my son would wake up with a fever ONLY on my work day. I missed so many days of work because of him! Sick toddlers can’t go to daycare, and no one wants to be a backup plan for your feverish, snotty kid. I do not miss those anxious times, worrying that if I called in, or worse, get the call at work that once again my child has a fever and has to be picked up, I’d get fired. Some days, by the time parents get to work, they’ve already been through a whole day, and usually a change of outfits. My second go round I decided to not go back to my job, but instead did home childcare, so I could take other toddlers off their parent’s hands and say “Enjoy your day of work with poop on your shirt!”

And, last but certainly not least, Pooping. Last minute pooping. Inconvenient pooping. HOW did you not know four minutes ago that you needed to poop? WHY do you need to the second we step into the discount grocery store so that we have to go into their disgusting bathrooms? WHY? Also, why do you need to wait until the food comes to the table at a restaurant, before saying you need to go? I had every dining out meal ruined for a two year span.

It’s hard to believe the little stinker that caused so much trouble is such a nice teenager. Sure, he STILL kicks his shoes off in the car, but at least now he puts them back on himself.

So buh bye to the toddler years, and hello to the teen years.  So far, so good!

If you have any stories or things that your toddler does/did that drive you a bit nuts, I’d love to hear it. Maybe you have a frequent clothes changer, or one who loves to sleep in your bed, with their feet or bums in your face. Just know that it won’t last forever, and one day you may actually miss it!

So Happy Birthday to my Big Boy. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Except maybe the shoes. I’m still pretty pissed off about that.

 

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Letting Kids Dress For Success

Hot pink slip on shoes. Black capri leggings with small white stars on them. A denim tunic with a turquoise t-shirt underneath. Messy curls scooped up into a ponytail on the top of the head. A flower patterned purse and oversized sunglasses. Wow. That outfit makes a statement!

The age old debate of letting small children dress themselves. Some parents cringe at what their children put on, some make them change, and some pick out their outfits for them.

I have always been a fan of letting kids wear what they want. Turtleneck and bow tie? Go for it. Seven different patterns, none matching? Perfect. Mismatched socks. Sure. Goggles all day long? Whatever makes them happy! As long as it is functional and seasonally appropriate, I don’t really see why it matters what they wear.

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I think it’s important for children to dress themselves. It’s a skill that promotes independence, and it makes them feel proud. It also saves a busy parent time in the mornings, so win-win!

Adults have so many rules. We have to conform, dress appropriately and behave in a certain way. Children will eventually have to do this too, so why can’t we just let them enjoy their wardrobe choices now? More than anything, I think a colour explosion of a fashion choice really let’s a child express their personality. This is so important. I want my children to think and feel for themselves. Telling them something they’ve picked out for themselves is not okay, is telling them they are wrong for liking it. I want my kids to know who they are, so if later in life they are wearing a uniform on the outside, they are still rainbow sparkles and stripes on the inside. Why should we stop that because we think it looks goofy? No one sees a flashy five-year-old’s kooky outfit and thinks “What kind of parent would let their child wear that?” They think “Oh yeah, that kid dressed himself!”

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Life is short. Let people, including children, enjoy themselves. Even if it means cringe worthy outfits. It’s a way for them to express their wonderful personalities. Boring choices are, well, BORING. We could all learn to live a little. I am firm believer that clothes represent the person. If you feel bright and colourful, show it!

Now go back and reread the outfit described in the first paragraph. Who do you think is wearing that? Hint. Not one of my children. 😉

thumbs up

Hey, You Look Like A Lady Who Could Use A Hot Dog!

I just had my coffee and read thirty five some internet articles. One was about a woman who sabotaged herself and ruined every trip she’s ever gone on, by not being organized. Wow. She’s got the problems! I can’t imagine living your life like that! Speaking of trips…

I am leaving tomorrow for a much needed one. You know, to give me a break from my job of doing nothing all day long. I fly out at 8 am, so I need to pack today.

I also need to clean my house. My sister is moving in for the week, to help out my children. Knowing that I was flying out on June 6th, I decided from May 6th on not to clean or put anything away. WHY BOTHER. I will just have to do it the day before she comes anyway, because I live with three boys and a giant dog. (Hoarders were like “Naw, this is too much, even for us.”) So the cleaning and packing should commence, NOW. Oh. I also have to wash what I want to pack, since I only own three outfits. None of which are really even appropriate for the trip. What should I wear to tour Alcatraz, PJs or a formal gown? You decide.

This should all be easy enough right? Right. BUT I do need to clean the backyard first. Why you ask? Because today is the day! We have old propane tanks scattered around, broken equipment, toboggans and recycling. SO. MANY. WINE. BOTTLES. Will my sister be in the back yard? NO. But this should only take a few minutes. Let me just load up the car for a quick run to Big Box Land to return all this junk. Easy Peasy. THEN I will clean and pack. Here we go.

GARDEN CENTRE? Ohhhhh. A place for people who care about their yards. (I wish I was one of those people.) Annuals on for .99 cents? Hmmmm. Well, the front of the house does look bare. I can’t imagine weeding a garden and planting a few dozen flowers can take that long, right? I know I need to clean but I still have a few hours before the dog groomer shows up. Yes. I decided my dog needs a haircut before I leave. It only makes sense to spend as much money as possible before a trip. I love to feel anxious about cash flow while on a vacation. I want to make good and sure to keep this whirlwind of chaos going until I board that plane.

At the hardware store, I unload all the propane tanks. Did I mention they aren’t even mine? They were in the yard 6 years ago when we bought our house. So you can totally see the need to return them TODAY. Had to be done. They were crazy heavy, and I struggled all across the parking lot with NO ONE offering to help me. Whatever.

On my way back out, the hot dog cart man called out to me.

“HEY! You look like a lady who could use a hot dog.”

Dude’s not wrong. 99% of the time I pretty much look like a lady who could use a hot dog. I’ll take this as some serious high praise, considering the source!

I wander over.

“If I was allowed to leave my cart, I would have totally helped you carry those tanks!”

See. Chivalry is not dead.

“That’s disgusting the way NO ONE helped you, struggling like that. In YOUR condition. Let me treat you to a hot dog.”

There it is. My condition. Hot dog man thinks I’m pregnant.

I am not.

I am, however, interested in that free hot dog.

“What’ll it be?” he asks.

“Something’s telling me…chicken wiener.” (  I say this in a side talking, high pitched voice. Chiiiken WEEN AHHH)

Let me just say this. At NO point in anyone’s life, should something in their brain or body tell them chicken wiener.

“Coming right up!”

YESSSS. I am totally owning today. I take my free chicken dog and LOAD IT UP with all my favourite unrefrigerated toppings, which are just warming up nicely in the sun. Sauerkraut, corn relish, hot sauce, ketchup. Mmmmm. I thank my Knight in Shining Tin Foil, head to the car, and scarf down my snack.

As I wiped my face up with a bit of leftover bun, I glanced down to see it’s only 10:30am. Hmm. Maybe that was a food mistake before noon. Hmm. Maybe it was a food mistake before a 5 hour flight. But hey! I still have plenty of time to get at that gardening. I crank some Dexy’s Midnight Runners on the radio and I cruise on home.

It’s late afternoon now and NOTHING in the house is done, but I am still super excited for my trip. I am meeting my hubby for a sweet big city rendezvous. He’s been away for a week now, and I miss him. I sent him some sexy boudoir photos to remind him what’s coming his way in two days. I’ll share one with you now, if you promise not to show anyone. I don’t want them leaked like Jennifer Lawrence’s!

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Okay. That’s it. I need to stop wasting time and GET READY.

Just as soon as I finish off that project piece chair I garbage picked two years ago. I really feel like it needs to get done today. Now where’s that sander?

P.S. If you read this, and thought, hey, pregnant ladies shouldn’t eat hot dogs! You are right!! Pat yourself on the back for nailing this parenting thing! We are all doing alright.

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year!

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year!

No. I do not mean Christmas. I do not mean the holidays, not a Winter Wonderland, not anything covered in a blanket of snow. What I mean is something covered alright, but covered in HAIR.

Movember. Sweet sweet Movember.

Remember remember the hotness of November.

Oh man, do I love a moustache. It ups the sexiness of man 87%. (According to my totally made up statistics.)

This probably comes from being a child of the 70’s and 80’s. My TV crushes were Magnum P.I., Simon and Simon, Isaac from the Love Boat. While most girls probably crushed on Luke Skywalker, or swooned over Han Solo, my heart belonged to Lando Calrissian. (How you doing, Chewbacca?”)

Magnum PI tom sellecklando

Growing up, on my street were two of the COOLEST dads EVER. On one side, we had Mr. M., who looked like a dreamier Patrick Swayze. (I know, you are saying “that’s not possible!” but it’s true. Because of the facial hair!)

On the other, Mr. L. who looked and dressed like (young) Elvis, drove a hot rod, wore coveralls and high heeled boots, and wait for it, ROCKED THAT STACHE.

So, you see, my love of the moustache runs deep. I love November so much! I see guys of all ages and styles, sporting moustaches, for a whole month, and it makes me get the lady tingles!

But, hold on. What is all this noise I hear from wives and girlfriends that have the hate-on for the stache?? I have also heard a lot of men are not participating in Movember this year, because of this.

This is where the joking around stops.

Movember is an amazing campaign to raise awareness and funds for Men’s Health. Since 2003 this project has raised $677 Million dollars, and has brought men’s health to the forefront. It has also started worldwide dialogue, getting our guys to feel comfortable being proactive about their health, and more importantly, seeking help when they need it!

The month is almost over. So ladies, if you forbid your guy to participate this year, please find a guy who did, and donate to this worthy cause! PLEASE rethink the facial hair ban for next year. And, if I can take a moment to brag, last year my very own facially (hair) blessed husband was crowned Man Of Movember at his office!

Let him give it a grow. You may just end liking it!  I can’t be the only one who loves a good stache, can I?

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