Two Peas in a Pod


Focus on the white disaster waiting to happen

When I was in my early 20’s, I accompanied one of my girlfriends to a wedding dance in her hometown; a place where I knew no one. Back then, we were drinking buddies who met in University residence and when it came to the booze, we “didn’t mess around”.

I don’t remember much about that night other than the events leading up to something that COULD have easily been a disaster, and a bride’s worst nightmare. At this point in my life I was also what you might consider a gentlemen’s woman and pretty much every gentleman who met me, had an unsettling urge to twirl me around a dance floor (and I mean that literally). Being a little girl with almost teen-like features, I was a fan favourite as a two step, jive, or boogie woogie partner because anyone can throw around 100lbs and still look macho doing it.

At this particular event, I had had my fair share of loonie refreshments and was tearing up the dance floor with a friend of my date. We were unstoppable. Until my dance partner got a little too ambitious with the twirling and I fell to my social death. Due to my lack of inhibition, my personal embarrassment was short lived, but when I fell I narrowly missed the wedding cake which was sitting there – beautiful and virgin; not yet cut for the guests to enjoy.

This is a story my girlfriend and I often relive; folklore we share with new (and old) friends to make a point or to catalyze laughter and kinship. Today I am telling it to argue the point that my niece should have been my daughter and the apple did not fall far from the tree.

My brother was married to his love over the weekend, and there wasn’t as much drinking on my part this time (because I’m old as shit and had a third wheel), but the cake was again almost brought to its knees. As my parents were welcoming the bride into our family through a wonderful speech in front of 150 people, my adorable and energetic two year old niece was playing behind them. With one of her favourite games being hide and (sometimes seek, but mostly “hide”), she happened to choose the tablecloth of the cake table to tug and hide underneath. Her Mother gasped. Her Auntie (me) panicked, pointed, chuckled, and struggled to get her phone out in time to capture the precious moment. Who knows what could have happened if the conditions were slightly different, but I’m glad we both only ALMOST ruined someone’s wedding day.

We’re just two peas in a pod.

Bottoms Up


I’m seeing orange.

If you have ever college chugged the “orange” flavoured sunny d flat pop crap for your unborn baby, please stand up. If you can. If you’re not keeled over retching just thinking about it. Our sacrifices for our children begin before they are even born. Quite frankly, it’s bullshit, but being neurotic and controlling and a bit of a hypochondriac ensures my inability to NOT do what’s best for this little alien child.

Gestational diabetes, or “G-betes” is not a joke. It can cause a lot of complications for mother and child, including the quick growth of the baby in the womb, and to prevent widespread terror of the va-jay-jay, a c-section is often required. F THAT.

However, the screening for gestational diabetes IS a joke, and one of the few tests the lab techs actually enjoy administering. It legit brightens their day when they get to play bartender (or lemonade stand attendant).

My doctor even felt a sort of satisfaction when he broke the news that the results of my first test were 0.1 above the cut off for not having diabetes. Because they can’t say for sure that I don’t have G-betes, I have to do another test. With a little extra sugar and an extra 2 hours of my time. . .

This is when I was called in for another blood test and BABY BRAIN deemed me useless again; I completely forgot about this post until now.

So, if you’re pregnant and the dark cloud of g-betes testing is upon you, I understand and I empathetize with your bitching and complaining. We torture ourselves for fun around here. Dig it!

Bottoms up, ladies!

Ohh That’s Sharp Chedda


Labour Chedda

At the end of January, a human being poked its tiny head out of my vagina and every second since, mine and Jack’s lives have been turned upside down. In a good way. And, although this is NOT a Mommy blog, there were some noteworthy events that occurred prior to Motherhood. Here’s one. . .

If you have ever been in labour you know that once active (fml) labour kicks in, conversations piss you off and any amount of talking is not in the cards. Throughout my pregnancy I was obsessed with food and eating and this warm day in January was no exception. I needed to eat one last time before the great fast ahead of me; my last meal. My sister offered me some cheese which I accepted and gobbled hurriedly between hell pains.

The cheese left a strong, lingering after taste in my mouth and as another contraction came on I exclaimed, “Ohh, that’s sharp cheddar!”
All labour attendees in the room burst out laughing (including el prego). Have you ever laughed while in excruciating pain? It sounds a bit like this:
“HAHA owww, oh God!”
“HAHA owwie, stop it, stop now!”

With another deep cleansing breath, I was able to let the contraction go, but I couldn’t let the cheese situation simmer, “WHAT kind of cheese was that?!”

That’s Meshed

IMG_0506 (1)

We just don’t mesh like pees and carrots.

Since becoming pregnant I have learned a lot of disturbing things from my sister, other over-sharing mothers, AND from personally experiencing some of these “things”. Early on I stumbled across the phrase “mesh panties” and when my Google search didn’t quite get me where I wanted to be on the topic, I asked my sister about the phenomenon. Mesh panties are meant to be worn postpartum to keep HUMONGOUS pads in place. I heard somewhere they were quite comfortable and one woman’s personal heaven. HEAVEN?! Sounds like a sad and unusual version of the happiest place in the Universe.

Through my travels into Internet forums and Mom Facebook Groups, I have also become aware of the incontinence-underwear-postpartum-trick. I decided my best adult diaper option was to try before I buy, so I sent away for a sample from a popular female hygiene conglomerate. The other day the purple box arrived in the mail and Jack took the package from me. It finally dawned on me the can of worms he was about to open, so I smirked and giggled a little. Jack didn’t make it past the initial packaging because of course he knows what brands are for the lady bits, and he would prefer to keep his knowledge in the area to a minimum.

Later on that day I took an experiment upon myself. My loins were burning to try on my new underwear and Baby Brain took over. I did something uncalled for, something faux pas, and maybe a little disgusting.

I tried on a pull up in the living room in front of my husband.

Let’s just say the fit was less than desirable with a tight bottom and very saggy front. Add that to the fact that I was wearing a DIAPER and you will understand Jack’s reaction. He burst out laughing and chased me down the hall like a paparazzo.

“Don’t run!”

“Don’t take a picture of me in a DIAPER!”

“But it’s funny.”

“NO, it’s not.” (It kind of was)

“I know, I shouldn’t laugh at you. I’m sorry” (I would have done the same thing).

Laughers, you are probably thinking, “THAT’S MESHED!” And you know what, it is; I’m siding with the mesh panties on this one.

In Case of Emergency



Tums: #3 of my top 3 list

Earlier this week, Jack of Most Trades was awakened at 6am by a panicky wife screaming, “something’s on fire!”

Jack ran for the fire extinguisher and rushed through the haze to the basement. I suspected the furnace so we cut the power to it, but the smell of an electrical fire was widespread which made it nearly impossible to pinpoint the problem. We didn’t know if there was a fire in the walls or if we would be required to make a quick escape.

Jack ordered me to start collecting “important shit” just in case evacuation was imminent. (Later, we determined the furnace the culprit and evacuation was not necessary).

Shaking violently, I collected my wits and our material possessions with the most financial and sentimental value. Firstly, and most obviously, I packed our wedding rings. Aside from our house and our vehicles, they are our most expensive possessions. Plus, I like diamonds. I paused to think a moment and decided our passports were important, so I slipped those into my purse along with the rings.
Lastly, in the heat of the moment, I grabbed my Tums antacids from my bedside table. My cheap, completely replaceable, miracle heartburn pills were higher up on my delusional priority list than our computers (full of important business information), my DSLR camera, and my wedding dress. All of these briefly crossed my mind, but my pregnant brain was only capable of processing the most ridiculous one. And yes, Jack had a great laugh at my expense over this one!

To summarize, the top 3 things deemed most valuable to me (during an emergency) are as follows:

1. Wedding Rings
2. Passports
3. A bottle of Tums

On the upside, if Jack and I ever want to renew our vows in Mexico, I’ve got us covered.

The Tree Pee for Ladies

The Basics of Bush Peeing

The Basics of Bush Squatting

(Lady leisure GOES where most people won’t. Giving you the inappropriate and uncomfortable topics you want. And need. Similar to TMZ or Fox News, except she’s not a vulture and people seem to like her.)

Last week, I was “on the road” with Jack, observing his workers and conducting some important safety shit. On the road sounds like either a fun road trip or playing in traffic. These are almost true, but there’s no Taylor Swift tunes, rest stops, or signs warning motorists to “Give Our Kids a Brake“. Naturally, you may conclude that a pregnant woman cannot “hold it” for 13-14 hours straight. Nature MUST call, and she does so approximately every 2 hours. To the single ladies, married ladies, or even “it’s complicated” ones, this one’s for you.

Bush squatting can be a dangerous task.  Although it has been around for centuries, if you don’t pay attention you could just not make it out of the woods alive, or worse – with pee on you. Here are the basics for a successful tree pee:

1. Mentally prepare for your heroic journey.

2. Don’t forget some form of wiping accessory. Tuck it into your pocket or shirt sleeve.

3.  When you think you are out of male eyeshot, walk two metres deeper into the forest.

4. WATCH your step. Wildlife share your el baño.

5. Warm up your quads, or recruit a tree to pull you back out of your squat.

6. Widen your stance and find a mossy area to avoid splash-back or direct hits to your pant leg.

7. Evaluate: celebrate successes, and create an action plan for future journeys.

By the end of our road trip I was going in the steep ditch with no tree cover while Jack looked on with horror. What? Sometimes, you have to scrap the basics and improvise.

Lady Leisure: going where most people won’t.

Outies Ain’t “In”

Jewel encrusted chunk of metal

Jewel encrusted chunk of metal that was once a bunch of shirt lint.

The belly button or tummy button: a part also known as the navel. The latter being a word I only use to describe oranges.

The belly button begins as the umbilical cord- the ultimate lifeline between mother and fetus in the womb through which nutrients and blood are circulated. After birth, the remainder of the cord simply turns black and falls off (gross) and what is left is no longer a functional body part, aside from inadmissible, yet inevitable lint storage.

My 18 month old niece is able to point out her belly button, and if you aren’t careful she will lift your shirt and reveal a not so young and cute, and perhaps slightly furrier version.

When I was a young “skinny b!tch”, my belly button was almost flush with my abdomen rather than indented. My sister once rattled my chains for this and I never understood why having an “innie” or an “outie” had any relevancy. . . until my sister got her belly button pierced. I slowly came to the realization that the belly button had some apparent functional sex appeal. A sexy, colorful jewel encrusted chunk of metal that was once a bunch of shirt lint.

Now that I’m finely aged, I get it. Belly buttons are not at all sexy and they serve no purpose. Additionally, it’s not funny when someone puts their finger in there by accident or by 18-month-old curiosity. It feels weird, like someone is touching your spine from the inside.

My belly is getting HUGE (in a skinny b!tch kind of way). Not only does my tailbone hurt, because I’m sure the baby’s head is the size of the moon, and I can feel my uterus stretching and contracting, but my belly button is dangerously close to becoming an “outie”. This could be the end of the world. The only “outie” I can imagine myself being OK with is of the car variety (Audi).

Simply put: Outies are “out” and innies are “in”.

When Women Get Man Colds

Man Cold

Everyone, including Nyquil commercials jokingly refer to the “Man Cold” and how pitiful even the strongest of men becomes with a scratchy throat and unending mucus reserves. I want to say that I am not a hero when it comes to the jerk-hole symptoms of the Common Cold and Flu (because sometimes we just don’t know which one has us in its death grip). This act of un-heroism was never more evident than this past week when my whining surpassed that of a 2-year-old male toddler who missed his afternoon nap . . . for 3 days in a row. Sometimes you just want to slap them, but you can’t because they are only two, OR they are yourself.

In my defence, I had a rough week of sleeping and watching television, mixed in with ultrasound and blood screen appointments. It was just a nightmare. If the walking germ transporter and source of my illness (my 17mo old niece) wasn’t so darn cute and kissable, I would almost be disappointed in her choice of spray sneezing on my cell phone.

I have channeled any of my remaining energy into compiling these miserable text messages to my beloved.

I really did; it was oatmeal.

I really did; it was oatmeal.

Fever. . . now ultrasound bladder talk.

Fever. . . now ultrasound bladder talk.

Legit complaint: The tech hit a nerve in the first arm and she had to move the needle around like a merry go round to find some damn blood in the second.

Legit complaint: The tech hit a nerve in the first arm and she had to move the needle like a merry-go-round to find a vein in the second. I am either blood-less or she is just another person who isn’t meeting my low expectations of not sucking.

In my honest opinion? I peed myself.

In my honest opinion? It was pee.

Lady Leisure’s ‘Spread the Laugh’ Series


Share YOUR Story with Lady Leisure

Have a funny story about an unfortunate event that happened to you? Email and your story could be published on the blog for our following of strangers to read, laugh, point, and share with their buddies. Each week, Lady Leisure will choose a broad topic (or two). If you have a story relating to the topic in some fashion, submit it and it could be posted to the blog.

If your unfortunate tale doesn’t relate to the topic of the week and you’re desperate to share, send it in anyway! We will use your story, first name, and location unless you state you would prefer to remain anonymous. Please be aware Lady Leisure will not post anything TOO inappropriate or offensive, but sometimes the good stories are the inappropriate ones.

Spread the Laugh, encourage your friends to do the same, and we’ll all be slapping our knees for weeks to come!

This week’s topics are: “Labour Day” and “School”.

Lady Leisure’s Brush with Death

One of the stickers stuck on me for an experimental Frankenstein procedure.

One of the stickers stuck on me for an experimental Frankenstein procedure.

Approximately three weeks ago, I was slaughtering my 7lb 10oz zucchini with the food processor to subsequently bake some deadly double chocolate zucchini cake, when I suddenly felt hungry. This was the kind of hunger that puts a pregnant woman into a deep desperation. When I say it was sudden onset I mean one second I was whistling, and the next I was “HANGRY”. I switched tasks in order to make myself a sandwich. As my desperation grew, my stomach lurched, and my world began falling apart into dark, fuzzy dots.

I thought to myself, “SHIT, I’m going down.”

I crawled to the toilet to potentially vomit or have a bowel movement (whichever came first; I was not prepared for simultaneous explosions).

 “This is it: the end. People who pass away usually throw up and shit their pants as they die.”

I became increasingly confused and felt as though I was seconds away from passing out, so I called Jack. I can’t remember our conversation other than saying I felt weird and needed help. He was an hour away and could not be my knight in shining armour, so he stressed the necessity that we hang up so he could call an ambulance.


As quickly as my medical emergency developed, it unfolded and faded into the past. I Googled “fainting what to do” and I slid out to the living room and laid down on my LEFT side. I then got a call from a 9-1-1 dispatcher.

Dispatcher: “Your husband has called you an ambulance; how are you feeling?”

Lady Leisure: “Oh, you can cancel that. I’m feeling fine, thanks.”

Dispatcher: “Ma’am, the ambulance has already been dispatched and I’m told they are on their way.”

Lady Leisure: “Well the thing is, I don’t have insurance and I don’t want to pay for an ambulance.”

Dispatcher: “I don’t know much about that, but you should allow them to at least check you out and you can decide whether they take you for a ride or not.”

Lady Leisure: (Reluctantly) “Fine.”

The dispatcher and I had a grand ol’ time as we awaited the arrival of EMS. I tried to get her off the phone so we could free up the line for a “real emergency”, but she refused my logic.

The paramedic and EMT took my blood pressure, temperature, pricked my finger, and stuck stickers on my arms and legs like I was some sort of pin cushion or first aid manikin experiment.

The verdict? Low blood pressure and sugar. I am anxiously awaiting the invoice for a diagnosis in which a confused, half dead pregnant woman had figured out on her own for free. This baby’s a REAL d!ck.