Two Peas in a Pod

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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.

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Bottoms Up

orange

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!

In Case of Emergency

 

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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.

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

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Share YOUR Story with Lady Leisure


Have a funny story about an unfortunate event that happened to you? Email ladyleisurelaughs@gmail.com 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”.

Impulse Buys; Not DUI’s

Garage Sales: Trade your shit for cash.

Garage Sales: Trade your shit for cash.

Garage sale season is upon us and if this were the past couple of seasons, I would be PUMPED! Now the wedding is over and my house is full of absolute crap. It’s borderline hoarder crap, most of which I would be embarrassed to donate to the less fortunate. I want to turn it into a pot of gold just as much as the next guy, but you know what? That’s just not feasible.

If you’re wondering how many people actually sell their shit and make loads of moola, I estimate the rate to be approximately  +/- 0 out of 10. If you’re counting the hours of labour dedicated to pricing, cleaning, and counting, you’re looking at a net loss. Even if you recruit the neighbors’ kids to man the garage while you tan on the deck, you’re still out the cost of ice cream. And now you have to somehow attach a horn to a horse’s head because they were clever enough to know Unicorns do not exist, but were still convinced that Uni-horses thrive in our arid climate.

What I’m saying is: don’t waste your time unless you’re desperate. If you hear the voice of desperation knocking at your door, here’s how to exchange your crap for enough small coins to roll around in them. But everyone knows coins SOMEHOW have feces all over them, so please don’t forget your Purel.

1) Toss everything into the “sell” pile. People will buy ANYTHING if it is priced under $1.

2) Don’t bother with price tags. Let the customers believe they drive a hard bargain and out of guilt they will pay more for another item.

3) To draw more people to your sale, note “antique” or “rustic” items in your advertisement. You’re probably old enough that college text book is considered antique anyway.

4) Sell items as a “lot”. Pair up desirable items with less desirable ones and price the box based on the desirable item. Yes, you’re giving stuff away, but now it can junk up someone else’s house.

5) Serve booze – but only enough for impulse buys, not DUIs. The good news is you won’t be driving so you can drink as much as you desire.

The most important thing to remember is not to bet your first born’s college fund on the possibility that you’re actually going to have a successful sale.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a yard sale to prepare for because our garage smells like garbage and has a wasp infestation in the attic.

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.

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!

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.

Sorry, Sister

Sometimes nuns are in disguise

In November of last year I had been working with Jack of Most Trades for about a month. He hired me on for some office safety responsibilities and we got to hang out like best buds almost every hour of every day. Cool, huh? We are still working together and although it has been close, we haven’t filed for pre-divorce . . .yet.

Jack and I are the first to admit we don’t “fit in” with the main floor crowd at the shop. Maybe it’s our fault, maybe it’s theirs. To strengthen the downstairs employees’ case against us (Jack specifically), one day Jack needed a hole punch and he didn’t have one, so he body checked a locked door to retrieve someone else’s. When questioned about the incident, he told me he just really needed the hole punch. To this day, there are little round pieces of paper scattered on the stairs leading to our office – a reminder of Jack’s grand theft hole punch “WTF moment”.

But there is more to the story, of course. Jack is a patient man when it comes to my obsessive cleaning and random crying fits; when he gets to work he transforms into a militant hot mess. He will lose his shit on a weekly basis. Where he rarely yells at me at home, he completely makes up for at the office.
He always scream -asks me all these hard questions like:

“WHY DO YOU GET HURT ALL THE TIME?”

“WHY ARE YOU CRYING (AGAIN)?” and

“WHO THE F CARES?”

In the construction industry swearing is acceptable. You can even call someone an “F’n A-hole” and they won’t be offended. I don’t like it when Jack scream questions me with swears. And I don’t think I’m alone.

Back to November . . .

I was having a conversation about Windows 8 with a lady from the aforementioned main floor crowd, when Jack walked in.

MF Lady: “We were just talking about you.”

Jack (jokingly): “Why, what the f#cked I do?”

While speaking with the main floor lady, I had noticed a mild mannered, grey haired lady sitting on the couch in the waiting room. After Jack threw out the F bomb, I instantly felt very awkward and motioned my eyes from him to the lady sitting in the waiting room. She wasn’t just any little old lady. . .

MF Lady: “There’s a sister behind you.”

Jack: “So there is.” Turning to the nun sitting on the couch he said apologetically, “I’m very sorry about that”.

Jack quickly turned on his heel and mentioned something about “going to go pray”.

You see, Jack was raised a good Catholic boy and had he known a nun was sitting behind him, he would have never peppered us with profanity.

Jack is a good man; hole punches are hard to come by, and sisters just don’t dress like they used to.