©Angel Fluff™


Hurray, we all rejoice for we have Angel Fluff!

This past weekend, Jack and I invented something over a couple of beers and some espresso vodka shooters. I am certain it is going to make us filthy rich. We will live in a mansion bigger than the one in ‘The Great Gatsby’ and we will affectionately call each other ‘Ol’ Sport’ in normal, everyday conversation. This is absolutely going to happen as long as those reading this post keep their slimy hands off our idea.

This whole story starts with my disgusting, smelly older brother. I explained my brother in detail in the post entitled, “Sh!t, Dog, Sh!t.” If you haven’t read it yet, go ahead and do so now.

I don’t mention him being smelly in the prior post, but fact of the matter is: he stinks. In awkward social situations most people hold in flatulence to avoid embarrassment. In turn, we all end up with a killer stomach ache by the end of the day. The guy stinks, but at least he doesn’t suffer in silence. Might I also mention my brother is kind of a child? He busts a gut when he, well, busts a gut. If I say anything about his problem, he makes it my problem. He will cup, waft, and throw this problem in my face. He has been known to lock truck windows in the closed position with the goal of tormenting me. He always wins. I wanted to win just once.

Stinky was being his regular self and Jack and I started playing around with some solutions to the problem. I thought maybe we could invent some sort of underwear that allows the wearer to let it out with little consequence. Could we really make methane gas smell like carnations? (because roses stink).  I’ve been told this already exists in China where the streets are overpopulated. This has not yet been confirmed. The other issue with this possible solution is my brother doesn’t even wear underwear, which was an overshare on his part and I am deeply disturbed by it.

Jack made a vital comment that changed our project forever, “It has to be a pill. Everyone wants to be able to take a pill these days and have their problems magically disappear.”

I tend to slightly disagree, but it is easier and less ‘diaper-like’.

There are already pills out there to aid in digestion or stop gas in its tracks. This is going to be a pill that allows you to let it rip and instead of invading the noses of others, you will be nurturing them.

Jack wanted to name the invention “Angel Dust”, but I believe that name is already taken by some sort of street horse tranquilizer. That is not the message we would like to convey to the masses. I knew it was our destiny the second the name rolled off my tongue, “Angel. . .Fluff”.

I think we’re on to something here.

The All-Inclusive Jim Shockey Experience


Jim Shockey, My Boyfriend Thinks You’re a Cool Dude.


Jack of Most Trades met his hunting idol on Friday. Before we left for the city, Jack pondered out loud, “What am I going to get autographed?” He looked at me and joked, “You should get your boobs autographed.”

He decided no item we own (including my chest) was good enough for Jim Shockey’s signature.

We arrived at the trade show, wandered around three halls until we discovered the hunting section, and stood in line. As we inched closer to the front of the line, Jack’s face flushed. In his defence, it was hot in there, but perhaps not hot enough to sweat bullets and sport the color fushia on his forehead.

I thought I’d distract him, “Are you disappointed Eva (Jim Shockey’s daughter) isn’t here?”

“Maybe a little.”

I have accepted the fact that I will always be runner up next to Eva. If she is doing her thing on the hunting channel, I will never get a reply anyway, so it’s best if I remain silent. I am not bothered by it because I have Channing Tatum and Ryan Gosling to keep me company.

A young lady came around with photos of Jim Shockey for the autograph. Because we love watching the various History Channel shows, we joked about the photograph being worth millions in about 50 years. I joked, Jack dreamed.

“Is your camera ready?”

“Yes it is. You getting excited?”



Jack finally reached the front of the line and skipped over to Jim like an excited school girl learning hopscotch for the first time. They shook hands, Mr. Shockey signed his name under an inspiring quote, “Shoot Straight”, and I snapped a few photos for Jack’s scrapbook.

Still excited, we headed over to another booth of interest. Jack has been desperately seeking the Gun Club near our house since we moved in. He always hears them shooting at the gun range and it has been driving him nuts. The gentlemen at the booth were very helpful and thoroughly explained the process of becoming an exclusive member of the club. One member even drew us a map to the range.

Before Jack could comprehend the seriousness of the situation, the man had swiped what he thought was a blank piece of paper from Jack’s hands and started drawing a map on it with pen. A permanent pen. I tried to keep a giggle in as I stole a glance at Jack’s now ‘fire engine red’ face. He too was holding something back: the need to rip that ballpoint pen out of the geographical offender’s hand. The blank piece of paper was actually the back of Jack’s brand new autographed Jim Shockey photo. The silver ink was likely still wet.  

“It’s probably worth more now, don’t be sad. You want to get another one?”

Hiding his disappointment, Jack replied, “No, don’t worry about it. Let’s get out of here.”

Later, we were in the truck reminiscing about our day. Because I have a germ phobia I asked, “Did you wash your hands after shaking Jim Shockey’s hand?”

“I went to the washroom, so yeah.”

“So, you held your ‘you-know-what’ with that hand?”

Jack retorted sarcastically, “Oh my God, it’s like Jim Shockey touched my d.”

“Along with 2000 other men.”

Jack had had the all-inclusive Jim Shockey experience; his life was complete.


The map that ruined Jack’s life.

You Can Hurt Steel – PART II


Wisdom teeth are normal teeth with claws. They will never let go.

The Dental Surgeon warned us that it could be a complicated procedure due to his age and the looks of his X-rays.

While Jack was in surgery I waited much longer than anticipated. The young girl who went in right before him was out of surgery at least an hour earlier. I watched as her Dad escorted her (held her up) outside and into their waiting vehicle. Other than her drunken stupor, there was just one thing that made me open my eyes widely and cover my mouth to stifle a scream. The girl looked at herself in the mirror, poked her cheeks and started laughing uncontrollably. Like she just ate pot brownies. Then, she started laugh crying while her Dad opened the puke bag with a confused, helpless expression on his face. What the . . .

An hour later, I was called into the private waiting room while the male RN gave me the low down.

“One tooth was growing into his sinus cavity and there was an opening. It has been fixed. He is going to be sore for a few days. Make sure you follow all the directions and ensure he is taking his pills. Pull your car up to the front door, ring this door bell, and I’ll walk him out for you.”

Suddenly, I had to pee. I took my sweet time and revelled in the last few moments of freedom. I was joking about the wanting to see his vulnerability part. I saw that girl; I am incapable of holding up a drunk man 60 pounds heavier than me. He has always taken care of me, how the heck am I going to take care of him?

With my heart pounding, I pressed the door bell and waited. I could hear another nurse reassuring a patient close by, “You are going to see a familiar face waiting for you on the other side of this door.”


I think my eyes got wide again, “Whet?”

“Oh, you have gauze in your mouth, I thought it was that swollen.”

With the most serious look on his face Jack retorted, “No beb, mm ine. Just eld eh door pen for eh noose.”

“Did you just say ‘No babe, I just held the door open for the nurse?’ ”

“Yaa. I eel copletely noomal.”

“Ok. You look great. Let’s go get your medication and take you home.”

Over the next few days Jack was really sore and a little cranky. He told me the whole process was the most painful experience he has ever come across. This proves you can hurt even steel (or Thor), sometimes.

You Can Hurt Steel – PART I


Thor’s rippling muscles, steel-plated abs, and sledgehammer

Since Jack of Most Trades is late getting me his guest blog post, here’s a post about him.

When Jack and I first started dating, I was carrying around a lot of baggage and I distinctly remember telling him I didn’t want to hurt him. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “You can’t hurt steel.” This is around the time I started referring to him as Thor, because quite frankly, that is BAD ASS. All I really knew about the real Thor is he roamed around shirtless, wielding a sledge hammer. This was a fairly accurate representation of what I knew of Jack in the early days.

In December, after years of denial, Jack finally got his wisdom teeth removed. If you have ever had dental work done, you know that a unique type of god awful pain accompanies these types of procedures. The kind of pain I had a feeling would still hurt “steel”.

This was going to be Jack’s first time getting knocked out by anaesthesia and I was sort of looking forward to him showing a little vulnerability.  Jack was concerned about how this chemical cocktail worked and whether or not he would be able to feel anything. I did what any loving wife would do; I told him a second-hand story shared with me earlier that week.

“My massage therapist’s 5 year old son had to get some teeth extracted so they decided to put him out. Her and her husband stayed in the room. Apparently you don’t peacefully fall asleep. There is a good minute or two of arms flailing and fighting against it.”


“But you won’t consciously experience that part. And you won’t feel anything. Even if you do, you won’t remember it.”


“You might puke when you wake up though.”


“Some people don’t have a great reaction to the medication. You will definitely feel groggy and high. You might also feel sick to your stomach. But you’re steel so I’m sure you will be fine. I didn’t throw up when I got my teeth pulled.”

Re-living this situation, I don’t think I would be good at raising kids.

To Be Continued . . .

Sh!t, Dog, Sh!t

I said shit, not sit.

*I am writing this under the assumption that “shit” is not a swear word and I apologize if you are offended.

The following story may not be exact, as it happened to my dear friend and brother. Don’t be concerned about the details. The reason I’m telling it is to provide a solid foundation for another one of my rants. . .

As we were driving home from some sort of fun activity, my brother spotted his neighbour out walking his dog in the subdivision.

“Do you see a bag in his hand?”

I thought I’d humor him, “Nope.”

“He keeps walking his dog by our house and the dog either shits in the ditch or on our lawn. The guy never picks it up!”

“Oh. So what are you going to do about it?”

My brother is the most relaxed person out there. Not too much bothers him and if it does, he rarely shows it (other than when has an “owie”. Hypochondria is probably genetic). He also never gets excited over anything. He can’t even fake it. Maybe he can fake it, but he won’t put the effort in for anybody. You can overhear him talking to a stranger on the phone and he will say two word sentences in a monotone voice. No effort. Sometimes he calls me and I have to play 20 questions with him to get him to tell me why he called. The guy doesn’t just call for no reason. He always has a plan; he just ain’t sharing unless you coax it out of him. Do you feel like you know him now? Good, so his answer to my question will floor you.

“I already went over to the neighbors’ and told him to start picking up after his dog!”

Such passion.

“Good. What did he say?”

“He denied it and said he always does!”

“But we both know that isn’t true. How did you respond to his lies?”

“I told him I better not have to go over there again!”

“Or else?”

“I’m going to throw all the existing shit on his lawn so that I can tell if it happens again and then I’m going to show him.”

“If that doesn’t work?”

“I’m going to go take a huge steaming shit on his lawn (or doorstep, I can’t remember)!”

“That is going a bit far and I don’t think it’s legal.”

“I don’t care. It doesn’t look bad now, but once the snow starts melting you are going to see all the shit and it is terrible!”

I chalked this up to my brother growing a spine and trying out his new ‘grumpy old man’ identity. Until today.

With the warmer weather, I have been walking around our subdivision to clear my head and come up with new blogging material. I didn’t have to walk more than 10 steps before this post wrote itself. There it was in the quickly melting snow. Emerging from its winter slumber to thaw in the mid-afternoon sun and ruin my life: a big pile of dog poo. Now, I understand I live in the country. However, it is still a subdivision and the road that connects the houses is shared by both vehicles and pedestrians. Essentially, all winter long people are walking their dogs and allowing them to shit directly on my sidewalk. And guess what? They don’t bag it.

There is something about the possibility of me inadvertently stepping in a pile of dog poo that is extremely unsettling. It is true; I don’t have a dog so I cannot fully understand the dynamics of a dog and master relationship. I think there is only one thing to know. People are a—holes.

There would be nothing objectionable about dogs running rampant in our neighborhood (because they do). At least unleashed dogs have the common courtesy to poo in peace. They have this instinct to go to the bathroom away from others. That means they are going to venture into the tall grass or woods to do their business. Good, great, perfect in fact. Instead, people train their dogs to poo on command and on a short leash.

“Foo Foo, go poo poo.”

The owner then has to walk AROUND their dog’s business to avoid stepping in it themselves. You’re an irresponsible jerk. Now I have to keep my head down and zigzag around the little brown land mines on what was supposed to be a relaxing walk.

Something stinks in this neighbourhood, and it smells like shit, dog shit.

Princess Bridezilla


“I’ll go praying mantis on you.”


I don’t think I will ever get married. . .

I decided this over the weekend while Jack of Most Trades and I toured 5 venues in the Canadian Rocky Mountains. He didn’t want to go and I didn’t understand why until the end of an entire day of BS. After only two tours, we went for a lovely lunch at a restaurant that turned out to be my dream venue. The one I told myself (I didn’t listen) I wouldn’t torture myself visiting because we would never be able to afford it. Not even if we won the lottery.  Other than the goat cheese on my veggie burger and the fact that I could taste only goat cheese for the rest of the day, I digged (dug?) that place. After getting drunk, the only way to keep an open mind after finding my dream wedding setting and having my heart ripped from my chest, we continued on with the BS.

Why the hell do men and women even bother with each other? I don’t get him and he doesn’t get me. We had completely opposing views on the venue thing. Not only that, but men don’t understand that a venue quote is NOT the entire price of the wedding. Five grand isn’t bad. You’re right, it isn’t. It’s the dress, tux, rings, cake, alcohol, decorations, flowers, photographer, DJ, JP, invitations, thank you’s, safe rides home, and all the other random shit that are going to sink us.

Whenever I bring this up, I get a, “Let’s just elope.”

NO! Although I haven’t been picturing my wedding since I was five years old like most women, I am still getting the chance to be a real life princess for a day, a weekend, a month, or really as long as I feel like pulling off the whole “new bride” act. Let me do it and I won’t go praying mantis on you and bite your head off. Princess Bridezilla has a nice ring to it.

I am still tirelessly searching for a beautiful venue (with windows) in Canmore or vicinity that will allow us to stay past midnight and preferably will let us bring our own liquor. It’s tougher than it sounds. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated.

My Favorite: Canmore Miners’ Union Hall (Jack would go bat shit if he had to have his wedding in Downtown Touristville).

Jack’s Favorite: Bill Warren Training Centre at The Nordic Centre (The scenery is amazing, but it is expensive with less flexibility).

sad bride

Don’t let me be a sad bride. Please help me find a venue.

The Big “V”


The Symbol of Peace. Also the letter V in American Sign Language.

What does Lady Leisure do in the middle of winter? She needs a vacation so she goes to Cancun of course!

My obsessiveness found us a wonderful hotel in the Riviera Maya for a great last minute price this January. Surprisingly, Jack agreed to take me.

From the time we started packing our bags until the night we arrived in Mexico, every time one of us thought about it, we would yell out, “MEXICCOO!” We weren’t excited at all. Don’t ask me who started this ridiculous act of childishness. Our plan was to yell it out every time we overheard someone say “Mexico” in normal conversation. Between the margaritas and the food coma, I don’t think we were able to hold up our end of the bargain.

Our second night at the hotel, we danced in the court yard and watched the silver haired couples absolutely NAIL the YMCA. And unlike these couples, we ended up in bed by 830PM. I blame the bottle of champagne lying in wait for us to drink after a long day in the sun. We destroyed it. Let me rephrase that: Jack destroyed it. And then we went for supper. I only realized how destroyed he was when we visited the same restaurant a few days later and he couldn’t remember what we had ordered or where we sat on our previous visit. Something had the give. We had to meet other people.

And we did. The night we met the crew, I was force fed tequila shots at gun point and of course, the wit started flowing. I took the shooters like a champion; Jack had the nerve downplay my skills.

“You’re a big vagina.”

I could have called him names in return. However, I thought I’d take another approach.

“Did you just say I have a big vagina? Well, I guess you would know. You’re right. Everyone, I have a big vagina!”

Jack’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. My job was done here.

If only I would have known we would be hanging out with these people for the rest of the week and these things, the ones you wish could be forgotten, are never forgotten.

The day we left everyone hugged and the boys put their hands in the air with their fingers in the shape of a ‘V’. The “Big V”: sign of the week.

Jack apparently over consumed all week because, again, he had no recollection of this inside joke. ”Why are they giving you the peace sign? Did I miss something?”

“Babe, it’s a ‘V’.”

His confusion was written all over his face.

“V is for VICTORY.”

And what a victorious week it was.

Crazy Garden Lady Recklessly Returns


This was last year’s garden. Ignore the grass. That was an accident.

I was standing in Peavy Mart staring at the walls of beautiful merchandise, picturing myself stacking a cart full of seeds and mini greenhouses. It wasn’t a dream. It was my yesterday.

Jack of Most Trades is somewhat annoyed at my gardening; I don’t see why 30 pounds of tomatoes at harvest last year is such a big deal. It’s not like it was drugs.

I have had the pleasure of working with people wanting to quit smoking. Although some of them succeeded, many others were plagued by the addiction following their every move. I know what addiction is all about, and I know what someone will do for their drug of choice. Gardening is my drug, my addiction. It makes me happy. By the end of the summer, I end up hating it because it’s a lot of work, but by mid-winter I long for my thumb to be a little greener.

Again, this was my yesterday. I spent a good half hour searching for the best seeds and calculating what would be my best move in order to get the most bang for my buck. I kept the bill under $20. That’s about the cost of an expensive pack of smokes in Canada. If I said I wasn’t going to go back over and over to stock up on the latest trends in garden paraphernalia, I’d be fibbing.

The following is a re-enactment of how my addiction exploded yesterday.

In my mind I was thinking, “I NEED more plants. I only have so much garden and flower bed space. I NEED to start growing more plants NOW. I only have so much sunny window space in our house.”

And I was saying to Jack, “I almost bought another greenhouse today but I refrained.”


“I mean one of those seed starting mini greenhouses.”

One. Two. Three . . .

“I NEED you to drop what you’re doing and build me a greenhouse.”

“OK. I could.”

He better not be patronizing me.

“Out of all recycled materials,” I added.

“Find me some plans.”  

And that is how I scored myself more future plants. I don’t mind waiting because I know I will eventually have more. I am OK with the 36 I started yesterday. This is a lie, I’m not OK.

I can’t wait to see what this greenhouse looks like. Probably much like the dog house Jack built out of an old deck. He spent hours on that thing so his little princess could have 5-star accommodations (and I’m not talking about me). The house had its own deck with partial sun and partial shade, and even though it wasn’t pretty, it did the trick. I need to emphasize how many hours, cuts, nails, and wood this project required. I think he used an entire deck from a real sized house. And it really did nothing for the curb appeal of our real sized house. Maybe that’s why Jack is so adamant on having plans this time.

I wonder if he has time this evening to just whip up a greenhouse for me. You know what, I’ll do it myself. Can’t be too hard, right? And it’s not like every labour-related task I do outdoors turns into a disaster. Like every time I mowed the lawn last summer. The mower got stuck in a hole and I couldn’t get it out or I ran out of gas so I just left it there. Every time. I would just tell myself, “I was done anyway” or “It makes for a good lawn ornament.” What about the time I chipped away all the ice from the down spouts (blog post “Down Pout”)? That was helpful and definitely NOT a disaster.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

I’m Going To ‘Eric Church Song’ You So Hard


If Mr. Church is Creepin’, so am I.

Back to this comfort thing. Why struggle with wedgies, fredgies and all other random-gies when you can wear sweat pants. In the winter, fleece is my fabric of choice. Runner up would be sweat pants disguised under the name “yoga pants” as long as they don’t hug my curves too perfectly. The last thing I want is to attract the wrong type of creep.

Last week, I proposed I work out with Jack of Most Trades for once. Considering he works out almost every night and is practically Ryan Gosling, I thought I would try to force a common interest between us. I don’t think I have too much in common with Ryan Gosling without forcing it upon him, unless he likes eating chips and watching the Notebook. Could one “Notebook” Ryan Gosling? Anyway, Jack accepted the challenge and asked if I was going to change into workout clothes.

Change? No, my clothes are useful in any situation. I cannot fathom how I could possibly slip into something MORE comfortable. When you stay at home all day, you don’t need to change out of your fancy clothes to cook supper or go for a run, or go to bed (as I proved yesterday when I realized at 4PM I was still wearing my pajamas and just said f@ck it). You’re already sporting “yoga pants” and a baggy hoodie over a raggedy t-shirt, normally with some sort of sauce stain. Over time, your fiancé will tell you that you look sexy in your around home clothes and actually mean it. It takes a lot of conditioning and trickery to get to that point and I’m proud of reaching the milestone.

I didn’t end up working out with Jack that night for reasons most definitely in my control. Reasons involving lack of motivation on my part and my sneaky plan to seduce Jack in order to get out of actually breaking a sweat.

“Come over heerree in the bedroom with me.”

“Babe, I have to work out.”

“You can be on tawwwpp. It is like working out.”

A proposition that was answered with a chuckle and a head shake. How he could resist THIS is beyond me. I’m such a temptress in my baggy clothes. Pretty much The Paper Bag Princess.

On Monday, I actually went to the gym with Jack with full intentions of breaking that first real sweat of 2014*. On our way from the truck to the gym, Jack asked me if I had gym shoes.

“No, they are in the truck. I better go get them.”

As I moped back to where Jack was standing with shoes clutches tightly to my chest, I whispered loud enough for him to hear, “It’s not like I need shoes at the gym. We both know I’m going to be sitting in there scoping out the hotties.”

And I’m the one that has to worry about my yoga pants attracting the wrong kind of creep . . .

 *(I moved my arms and legs around and did a couple of bounces on the exercise ball, but I didn’t break a sweat. I did not get sciatica being active. I worked hard and sat for hours at a time and I earned that sciatic pain.)

Organic Produce is Killing Me


As far as I know organic produce doesn’t kill, but you clicked on the link so do me a favour and hear me out.

A few weeks ago, I added another excuse to my long list of why I’d rather not go grocery shopping. If you’re a stay-at-home wife or Mom (or just an unemployed train wreck like me), you have noticed the day crowd frequenting these places is nearing “special” status. If you haven’t noticed this, there are two popular sayings you should keep in mind: “You smelt it, you dealt it” and “There is one in every family (the f@ck up) and if you don’t know who it is, it’s you.” In my case, I know it’s me. It’s totally me. The f@ck up occasionally catches on that they are the f@ck up. They hardly ever let on that they know, however. They could start f@cking shit up in their sleep without blinking an eye.

What I’m trying to say is you’re an honorary member of the special day crowd. You farted and it was so pungent you blamed it on your pet, even though that’s not a pet, but a stuffed deer head. And you’re the one the rest of your jerk family members shake their head at while giving you crooked smiles and useful, logical advice you completely disregard. Hey, it’s OK to be all this. It makes you interesting, complex, and funny. To me.

My new excuse began with me chilling in the produce section of the grocery store. I couldn’t help but overhear a topic a not so worldly couple was loudly discussing.

I started listening when the wife worriedly exclaimed, “Do you remember on the news they were talking about those organic vegetables in Ontario?!”

It is usual for me to become paranoid and worried from the tone of strangers voices.

Matching his wife’s urgency, the husband replied with, “Yeah, I think I remember that!”

“It is here now.”

Now I’m wondering what is here now? I haven’t been watching the news; maybe there is an outbreak of E. coli O:157 due in part to organic spinach. Oh no, I have spinach in my cart. GREAT, I’m going to get E. coli and die. You’re KILLING ME (softly), lady. Finish your conversation so I can stop squeezing these melons and get on with my day.

“Oh, we have organic vegetables here?! How do we know that THIS bag of potatoes and any and all bags of potatoes aren’t organic?”

“I think they have to say organic on the bag.”

Shut up. Not only was that anti-climactic, but now I have to rant in my head for the next 5 minutes about how anti-climactic it really was. And you made me almost crap my pants and apparently I don’t even have E. coli.

“Look lady, I understand this food thing and what we should or should not be putting in our bodies can be a little confusing at times. You obviously just woke up from the 90’s because this “new” organic food concept is present on almost every shelf of the supermarket and has become increasingly popular since you fell asleep. Organic produce is more expensive than the other varieties because they have to follow stricter guidelines to eliminate certain chemicals. I know you’re curious so buy an organic apple and one that is not and perform your own market research. If you need a lesson on reading the food labels on the frozen convenience items crowding your cart, feel free to ask because I know you’re just dying to share the professional knowledge you heard on the news. On another subject: hold on to that husband of yours; he’s just as oblivious as you. And get your kid a tissue.”

I didn’t outright say any of this because I am a kind and normal citizen of society.

We’re in a daze because of the sugar, aspartame, salt, MSG, and just plain shit we’re devouring. You are going to get different advice on fad diets and foods you need to or should never eat from all kinds of a–holes. The only advice you’ll get from this a–hole is there is no secret food potion. That’s the secret. THINK and eat a variety of foods that give you lasting energy and happiness. Eat organic or don’t. Wash your produce before consuming. On second thought, don’t. Do what you want; Survival of the Fittest.