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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Ohh That’s Sharp Chedda

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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!”
*CLEANSING BREATH*
“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?!”

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”.

What the Hell Are You Doing?

Keep your gum out of my face.

KEEP your gum out of my face. Seriously.

“What the hell are you doing?” A phrase I desperately want to utter whenever someone is chewing loudly just to spite me (I’m sure).

On the drive to the Cancun airport after our deadly honeymoon, a man was chewing his gum so provocatively I felt like he was sharing the whole inappropriate experience with me. And he wasn’t even European.

You know what I mean though, right? It is less offensive (or surprising) when an Italian man wears a banana hammock to the beach than if some redneck American struts his stuff in the same attire; although . . .Jack is half Italian and I do not fancy this type of behaviour coming from him.

This type of banana hammock is acceptable.

Acceptable.

redneck speedo

NO.

It’s a matter of cultural norms and if a European man (not a Brit because they are sickeningly polite) were to thoroughly enjoy his gum by smacking his lips – I would be like:

“Okay, this guy’s got an excuse. This is socially acceptable where he’s from.”

But if a Norte Americano sits behind me in a Mexican van and pulls that shit, I’m going to fantasize screaming my lungs out at him because he’s a rude mother-you-know-what and no, I do not appreciate him “gleeking” on the back of my seat – even though only a “little” got in my hair.

Jack chews nicotine gum and he says it makes his throat tickle. He coughs, and coughs, and then makes a sucking/smacking noise with his lips, and finally ends the abuse to my ears and test to my patience with another forceful cough for good measure. If this only happened once or twice in our lifetime it wouldn’t be worth mentioning, but I spend an ungodly amount of time with my husband. So don’t be surprised if over the next few months you hear I have been confined to either a white padded room or a steel cage; witnessed continuously shouting:

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

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.

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). 

Share the Salmonella Love

Share the Salmonella Love

Share the Salmonella Love

In our prime, my sister and I shared some interesting party memories. Other than visiting the Petro beside the bar for some inebriated Pizza Pops, not too many things remain in my memory. By the way, slow clap to whoever thought of putting a microwave in a gas station (beside a liquor establishment).

One of our friends recently had a child, and he is the proudest Dad in the world! It got me thinking about this gentleman’s younger years and how much life changes when we finally decide to take the leap (ie. marriage, children, etc.)

One evening after our pizza pop-eating ritual, my sister and I witnessed one of this gentleman’s finer moments. This story is not the best nor the most crude story about “Proud Dad”, but just one of the times I happened to be present and sober enough to report the details many years later.

Boys are mean to each other. If this weren’t the case, I wouldn’t have laughed near as much growing up. Please do not confuse this with me thinking bullying is funny or right, because I do not. Innocent digs and practical jokes amongst friends is the kind of “mean” I fully support.

This particular evening, one of Proud Dad’s buddies was pouring a drink and was searching for ice in the freezer. An exclamation point and light bulb lit up simultaneously over this guy’s head when he revealed a frozen, raw chicken breast instead of ice cubes.

My thought at that moment was, “OHH NO, who’s getting Salmonella tonight?”

The answer to that question quickly became apparent as the guy removed the chicken breast from its protective barrier and placed it on Proud Dad (who was passed out on the couch). Incoherently, Proud Dad yelled at “Put-Put” (my sister) to stop being such a female dog. We tried to stifle our laughs to no avail, while the novelty of the quickly thawing chicken breast soon wore off. After placing the chicken breast in a more inappropriate area on the passed out gentleman’s body, Proud Dad’s buddy had another idea.

“Why don’t we put the chicken on the fan . . . then turn it on (and try hitting Proud Dad)?”

This part impresses me because it means someone not only paid attention in Physics class, but was able to take the learnings and apply them to a real life situation. This is also where my memory gets a little foggy. I am not sure if the fan trick actually worked, but I do recall several attempts; each time raw chicken juice spattering across the living room.

Share the Salmonella love.

As I prepare for my Stagette (Bachelorette Party) this weekend, I am relieved this type of behaviour is far in the past. However, if I come down with a bout of “foodborne illness” the day after the festivities, we know “Put-Put” is to blame.