I’ll Drink to That

Men are proud beings.

They take pride in their work, and bask in the glory of completing a task by standing beside said task and bullshitting about it with their buddies. There have been many times any combination of Jack, my Dad, brother, and brother-in-law have done just that. The project doesn’t have to be lengthy, costly, or even manly to qualify for post-project celebration.

One such instance was the building of our wedding archway. The girls were inside the house getting tipsy on jello shooters prior to the stagette, and the men were hanging out in the Quonset conversing about the most architecturally sound design for the reclaimed barn wood arch. As far as I could tell, this banter lasted approximately two cosmopolitans before the work commenced. In no time, a beautiful piece of art emerged from the darkest shadows of the shed; while the wedding angels shone down from above.

Of course, I did not get to examine the arch until the next day when those cosmopolitans were resurfacing, and the aura around it could have potentially been a migraine.

What I know for absolute certain was the boys drew straws on who had to come pick us up from the stagette and I’m guessing it had to do with one of the following scenarios:

Project Supervisor: “That was hard work. Let’s have a beer.”

Project Co-Supervisor: “Look at how the pieces of wood fit together so perfectly. We deserve a beer”.

Project Co-Co-Supervisor: “We nailed it, now let’s get hammered.”

Boys, I’ll drink to that.

I am in love with our DIY barn wood wedding archway! I'll drink to that!

I am in love with our DIY barn wood wedding archway! I’ll drink to that!

Nice Lift Kit

I guess there is such thing as a lift kit for bicycles. Now we know.

I guess there is such thing as a lift kit for bicycles. Now we know.

I don’t know what I did before dry shampoo. I know I couldn’t bear to live without it now. It would be much like living without a cell phone. Or clothes. I start appearing a little greasy, get the aerosol out, chlorin-fluorinate the atmosphere, and I’m good as new. Of course, a woman who uses dry shampoo can spot a fellow dry shampooer from across the room. Her roots look lifted, less greasy, and SLIGHTLY more blonde.

I haven’t had to burden myself with a hair wash this week either, nice one!

So the fellow user and I end up high fiving with our eyes and dropping the subject.

This reminds me of bikers driving past each other on the road while reppin’ the low wave. I’m sure you have seen it before! The gesture looks less like a wave “hello” and more like a hand signal to turn, but the bikers are definitely acknowledging one other. I don’t think I would do well on a motorcycle. Naturally, I would be inclined to “big wave” (the exaggerated wave babies do when they are learning to wave) to every other bike passing by (bicycles included). I believe this is not only socially unacceptable, but it could cause me to lose my balance (which is questionable to begin with). Check out Broken Bicycle Dreams.

Similarly, you gotta KNOW a guy with a lift kit on his truck notices every other lifted truck, but he probably won’t say anything. Because he is jealous or embarrassed that his truck isn’t as big as his neighbor’s or his best buddy’s. Or his truck is bigger and he doesn’t want his buddy to feel bad. Or that they both spent so much money on something that couldn’t be more useless to human kind.

The same goes for hair and dry shampoo (except dry shampoo isn’t useless). Your friend’s hair looks freaking fantastic; even better than yours, and you don’t want to point that out because then you are going to have to have the long, awkward conversation about your “lift kits”. Which one is bigger, works the best, or gives you the most bang for your buck.

Dry shampoo – it’s like a lift kit for your hair.

I should be in advertising.

Redneck Love Letters

The apple of his black eye.

The apple of his black eye.

Jack and I had a fantastic wedding over the weekend with lots of romantic and redneck (at times) moments.

When Jack and I were getting back together, he did a heck of a job courting me. He bought me flowers and Midol when I was “under the weather”, made me some mean breakfasts (he still does this), and wrote me love letters on sticky notes.

Swooon, right?

Here are a few mildly romantic, and 100% redneck love letters I have tucked away. They STILL make me smile.

Profanity warning: I’ve married a sailor.

Redneck love letter 3

Yes, that IS a bow and arrow.

This is the card that accompanied the flowers and Midol. “Just because . . . you’re bitchy and crampy.”

Redneck love letter 5

. . . What the?

Redneck love letter 1

Construction Worker Syndrome: Jack likes to add emphasis with the “F” word

Redneck love letter 6

Never happened.

Redneck love letter 4

Again, I apologize for my husband’s lack of filter. He just really “F’ing” loves me, and I love him too!

Kindergarten-level drawing skills and all.


Undercover Decor

This is a dog dish. I don't have a dog.

This is a dog dish. I don’t have a dog.

Last week when I was assembling the lasagna and drinking my twisted tea, I was getting frustrated with the amount of clutter and mess going on in our home. The housekeeping at our place is definitely a health and safety concern.

Jack was on his way home from work when I mentioned my current lack of interest in Housewifery.

“You are going to get a surprise when you get home. A hurricane swept through here about an hour ago and the house is in shambles.”

“What? Did it rain there?”

“If tomato sauce is rain, yes it did. It rained red.”

“Huh?”

An example of my wittiness while I’m drunk.

To lighten the subject, I came up with a game (also while half cut).
The name of the game is: “Guess How Long That’s Going to Be There”. Don’t let the length of the name fool you; the premise is simple. When you place something on the counter, table, floor, or otherwise, take a moment to guess how long that object will sit there collecting dust.

When Jack bought his new iPhone I told him not to even bother getting it wrapped up because the box and bag would sit at the kitchen table for a month. I got an eye roll and that was that. When we got home Jack removed his phone to play with it and left the bag at the kitchen table.A month later I was finally able to rock out the “I told you so”. In this case, I’m not so pleased with myself and my obvious home neglect.

You see, it’s not exactly my fault. It’s no one’s fault really. We all fall victim to “Undercover Décor”. At first, something that doesn’t belong somewhere looks out of place, but it’s easy to ignore. As time goes on things start to go unnoticed and eventually, they become part of the décor.

House guests start reaching for compliments on your décor because they know you’re an obsessive-compulsive cleaner and there has got to be a reason why THAT’s, THERE. Maybe it’s a new feng shui-type fad?

“I LOVE your candy bowl, it goes perfectly with your kitchen table!”

“Oh, thank you.”

That’s the dog dish, and that’s not chocolate.

How to Build An Easel

Like a fine wine or the whiskey that shares his name, Jack gets better with age. As his beard grows longer and more fruitful, he adds to his trades and becomes handier. It is tough to fathom how his projects have such positive outcomes when he never plans and only measures half the time. I’m not necessarily talking about quality of workmanship, but he has a hell of an imagination, will get the job done faster than anyone I know, and is not afraid to spend a few more minutes hiding flaws and presenting his masterpiece as though it were professionally crafted.

Our detached garage seems to be stuck in a sink hole and last spring it was floating. To remedy the problem, Jack dug a small ditch last summer and installed eaves troughs on our garage a few weeks ago. Originally the eaves troughs were laid on the ground to catch the water, and a guidepost (that was in his truck from work) was attached to the end of the trough as an extension. Eventually, he installed the system properly, but I bet if I paid the garage a visit I would notice another impressive “McGuiver “ situation.
Jack is a solution man. I have been troubled by the logistics behind showcasing a piece of barn wood wedding artwork that Put-Put gave us for Christmas. I am lucky that Jack was feeling particularly crafty the other day, because not only did he throw together an easel for me, but he successfully solved my seating chart predicament.

How To Build An Easel
by Jack of Most Trades

1.) Cut down a tree with a chain saw.
2.) Cut tree into approximate 6, 3, and 1.5ft lengths. No, don’t measure.
3.) Make a letter “A” with the tree.
4.) Drill screws into wood.
5.) Hide screw holes with an entire roll of jute twine.
6.) Add tripod.
7.) Hold tripod up with more jute twine.
8.) Proudly present easel to your girlfriend as “rustic”.

As much as I joke, I was impressed with Jack’s throw together project this time. See?

(Note: he did not make the sign; he’s not THAT crafty)

Pretty! If you look closely, you can see the eaves trough in the background.

Pretty! If you look closely, you can see the eaves trough in the background.

So He Thinks He Can Dance

My Illustrative Rendition of Dance Monster "Jackerlake"

My Illustrative Rendition of Dance Monster “Jackerlake”

I have created A MONSTER!

At first, Jack wasn’t fond of the idea of having a choreographed dance as our “First Dance” and he has never been very coordinated. See the post “He Don’t Dance” for further details.

A few weeks of creating, practicing, and NEARLY perfecting our routine, and the guy now thinks he’s a professional choreographer for Britney Spears (I’m Britney Spears, I guess).

Last time we practiced our little gem, Jack became all kinds of frustrated (ie.Frankenstein, Hulk, etc).

The following sentences were uttered by an exasperated Jack:

“This is not working the way I’m envisioning it.”
“LISTEN to the music!”
“NO, that is not the right time to turn around.”
“I’m just standing here all awkwardly for you to come back.”
“I’m going to yell out “NOW” when I think you should do that part.”

If this was not humiliating enough to a former dancer, Jack proceeded to order me to sit down and watch him dance my part.

Me: “Can you just dance both of our parts at the same time so I can see how you envision it?”
“Show me that again, I didn’t really get it the first couple of times.”
Jack: “Are you asking me to keep dancing by myself so that you can make fun of me?”
Me: “I wouldn’t do that.”

And if you’ve been following the blog for some time now, you know it is out of character for me to not be making fun of Jack. But, I truly did not understand what he was wanting from me. Each time he showed me different timing and was confident he was doing it the exact same every time, and that it was the way it should be performed.

Jack: “WHY AREN’T YOU GETTING THIS?”
Settle down, Mr. Timberlake. Let’s take it from the top.

15 Signs I’m Drunk

Lasagna Interrupted

Lasagna Interrupted

  1. I just got a whole hell of a lot wittier.
  2. I started baking or cooking, but it didn’t get done.
  3. I forget what I was going to say now.
  4. People think I’m funny. I think I’m funny.
  5. I called my sister, my mom, my fiancé, and my best friend in an hour time span.
  6. I lost my phone in the laundry pile.
  7. Two twisted teas have mysteriously disappeared.
  8. In my mind I can drive, but I won’t.
  9. Someone is spilling their drink on me. Oh wait, that’s me.
  10. I’m a millionaire!! Shots for everyone!!
  11. I am amazing at pool and every other game that requires hand eye coordination (those in which I fail at whilst sober).
  12. Did I mention I was on the latest episodes of American Idol AND So You Think You Can Dance?
  13. I. JUST. CAN’T.STOP.LAUGHING.
  14. How many is that?
  15. Let’s take a picture!

Plants > Pets

Me. When I still liked cats.

Me. When I still liked cats.

I liked cats A LOT when I was a kid; specifically, kittens. I was looking through old photos the other day when I came across the one of me in the blue dress at age 2 and a half. At first glance, other than the crimped hair and frilly barrettes, everything looked fairly normal and up to par. Upon further examination, I noticed a scratch on my forearm.

Barn kittens are fluffy and cute, but can be semi-wild by the time they come into physical contact with humans. As a 2 and a half year old girl, kittens are fluffy and cute and are meant to be picked up and held until they claw their way out of the minimum security prison. Let’s just say I’ve got sick battle scars.

I think my loving and losing tens of barn kittens to wildlife, harsh winters or truck accidents (I know, Dad) resulted in my overcompensation as an adult. I don’t know if it is that I don’t like them, or that their lightning fast reflexes or nine lives frighten me. Over the years my fear of cats has expanded to dogs.

Before we go on, I don’t want you to make me out to be heartless. I don’t hate animals. I won’t kick your dog. I just don’t develop insane attachments to other peoples’ pets. Don’t worry, I won’t like your human kid either. I wouldn’t take it personally.

Let’s put it this way . . .

Have you developed a relationship with my car? What about my flourishing basil plant? I love them both, to an extent. But, you! Don’t like my car because it’s rusty and dirty and you couldn’t give less of a shoot about someone else’s plant. So please, don’t be offended if I don’t stop to pet your dog. Besides, how do I know he won’t bite, or worse: develop one-sided puppy love for me.

Nixon is a mini weiner dog. He might be more useful at a birthday party or a circus as the entertainment than as my friend’s pet. I don’t like him and I never have. Animals have a sixth sense and can almost read your mind. They know when you’re not a “dog person” and will do their best to leave you in peace. Nixon was born without the sixth sense. Each time I see him, even if it’s months or years from the time he last laid his eyes on me, he will remember me. He will bark, jump up, and crawl all over me with excitement. He’s like a Spanish lover I just can’t shake.

I’m not into you buddy, leave me alone.

The good news is: it appears I’m not at risk of becoming crazy cat lady. I’ll stick with my plants.

Wedding Numbers

How to Give a Piggy Back Ride

How to Give a Piggy Back Ride

I wrote this the other day because I KNEW I would be too hungover to function this week.Thanks, pre-stagette Lady Leisure. . . 

Over the past two years of being engaged, wedding shit has ruled (ruined) my life.

I now belong to 20 Wedding-related Facebook Groups; one of which I proudly Administrate.

I have crafted approximately 100 tissue paper flowers, 40 invitations, 30 guest favours, 15 silk flower arrangements, one popcorn bar, a thank you banner, and a partridge in a pear tree. We’ve got a barn wood bar and archway, mason jar chandelier, 17 tree slices, 6 table runners, and one fake wedding cake constructed by the hands of my annoyed loved ones. My friends and family can barely tolerate me at this point. I feel the same way about myself.

I decided on my perfect dress about a year and a half ago. This decision became reality when my Dad tagged along one day and cried at the first dress I tried on. (And I have proof. I have in my possession a photo of me in THE dress looking in the mirror at my Dad bawling in the background).

Okay tears, you win. Obviously this is the dress I’m getting. 

If he were present, the guy would have undoubtedly cried when I tried on the princess ballerina-ball gown-from-hell that made me look and walk (and feel) like a white fluffy minion. Thankfully, I attended that appointment by myself. No matter how convincingly my store consultant “ooh’d” and “aww’d” over how the unicorn sparkles brought out my eyes and explained how “Every girl deserves to feel like a princess on her wedding day,” I was not fooled.

Shut up. Unicorns don’t even exist. 

Lucky dress number 50 is the one my Daddy chose and I’m curious to know if maybe he forced the tears to end my dangerous obsession. I am only estimating when I say I test drove 50 dresses; I always downplay this one because people raise their eyebrows when I tell them it was more like 75. I shopped till I dropped at ten to twelve bridal shops across the province. It was an addiction; I am a recovering dress shopping addict.

I like the dress. It’s pretty and brings out my figure and shit. Would I ever want to shop that aggressively for wedding gowns again? I’d go tomorrow, next week, when I’m too old to walk, even when my daughter gets married.

Shh, darling, Mom wants to try just ONE more on, THEN it will be your turn.

I apologize in advance to my future daughter who will be unfortunate enough to receive my genes. She’s got some grandiose wedding numbers to “try” to shatter. On second thought, I apologize to my future daughter’s future husband. And my future husband.

Jack, I’m sorry for my OCD (past, present, and future). 

Tailgate This

This isn't a tailgate party!

This isn’t a tailgate party!

I pulled “a Jack” last night. He’s a traffic bully and he tailgates people so they get out of the fast lane so that he can pass. But if someone is tailgating him on the highway, WATCH OUT! Extreme road rage is one thing that isn’t a deal breaker about Jack, but could be if I were a little less evil myself.

Someone was riding my ass after Zumba class and her lights were reflecting off my windshield from behind. I could see nothing and do nothing. I tried the ol’ tapping the brakes trick.

Brake lights don’t scare you? Hmm.

So I waited until I turned on to another road, threw my flashers on, and pulled over by the mailboxes. Once the tailgater passed me I accelerated so quickly behind that a-hole, the triple threat happened: squealing tires, flying gravel, and traction control engagement. Of course I couldn’t keep up with “Tailgater A-hole” so I gave them one last flash of my brights before they disappeared over the hill. You would think this would make me feel better, but I stewed about it the rest of the 5 min trip home and the first thing that came out of my mouth when I got there was this sad story.
And you wanna know what Jack said to make it all better?

“SEE?! Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Yeah . . It does.

Ps. Jack wanted me to call this post, “If You’re Gonna Ride My Ass, At Least Pull My Hair.”

Myyy Prince.