For Anyone in Need of a Good Vomit

I received a few nice emails from people after my recent post, specifically about how lovely pet ownership is. One woman even wrote to tell me that I had inspired her to look seriously into rescuing a dog. Aww.

But let me throw a small dose of reality on things, because I'd hate for people to turn around and be like, "YOU DIDN'T TELL ME ABOUT ALL THE DISGUSTINGNESS. EXPECT A BOX FILLED WITH DIRTY PUPPIES AT YOUR DOORSTEP."

Huck's dog walker just informed me that Huck has taken up the fantastic hobby of shit eating. And no, not just, "Oh, there's a little turd, let me sample it," but an enthusiastic fresh-is-best approach. How fresh? Huck gets around the three-second rule altogether by ensuring the poop of his canine pals never hits the ground.

In other words, my dog is wheezing the juice:

Jesus H. 

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I'm Sorry, I Have A Cold

From Wikipedia: Monty Python

I recently participated in some lame growing-older lady activities, namely looking at antique shops and perusing places that specialize in tea blends.

I realize this puts me just a few steps away from wearing shawls and acquiring multiple cats. I've accepted that.

Anyway, at one shop the elderly woman manning the counter was big on small-talk. After the obligatory mentions of weather and gardening (ah, yes, gardening. It's official: shawls and cats are in my immediate future), our attentions were turned to a noise just outside the store.

There was cheering, chanting, and eventually, a glimpse of what was causing all the fuss (fuss! An old lady term! I should just start stocking up on Fancy Feast now.): some guys were trotting along the sidewalk; not quite goose-stepping, not quite Ukrainian dancing, but doing something confusingly in between. (If I was being literal, I guess that would make what they were doing ... Polish?) It was clearly some kind of stunt brought on by Frosh Week. I deduced this not from a Sherlock Holmesian brilliance, but from the fact they were all wearing T-shirts that had "FROSH 13" written across them. Indubitably.

"Wow," I said to the shopkeeper. "Reminds me of the Ministry of Silly Walks."

She blinked.

"From Monty Python. You know. That sketch," I smiled.

"Oh! Now, there's a name I haven't heard in a while. What else did they do, again?" she asked, keenly.

And then my brain betrayed me, as it always fucking does.

SIT ON MY FACE, AND TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME...

"Ughh," I stammered ....

I'LL SIT ON YOUR FACE, AND TELL YOU I LOVE YOU, TOO ....

"Well, they did the one about ..."

I LOVE TO HEAR YOU ORALIZE WHEN I'M BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS...

"... well, wow, they had so many sketches. And movies. It's hard to pick just one ..."

LIFE CAN BE FINE IF WE BOTH SIXTY-NINE ....

"They're a funny group from Britain, right?" she said. "I just love British humour! It's so clever. So witty!"

And - finally - a different sketch (something completely different, if you will) came to me.

"I fart in your general direction!" I screamed in her face.

"Oh, yes, right," she politely replied, having no idea what I was talking about.

I really shouldn't ever leave my home.

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An Excerpt From My Never-To-Be-Published Children's Book

"Good morning, Jen!" said The Old Friendly House.

"Good morning, House!" said Jen as she dressed to go to work.

"It sure was nice when your parents were here visiting," said The Old Friendly House.

"Yes, it sure was," said Jen.

"They replaced the filter in my air conditioning unit with a clean one!" said The Old Friendly House.

"They caulked up my windows and sealed my leaks!" said The Old Friendly House.

"They even cleaned up my yard!" said The Old Friendly House.

"Yes, wasn't that wonderful of them?" replied Jen.

"It sure was," said The Old Friendly House. "It was like an actual adult lived here."

"Heh," said Jen.

"But now they've left, haven't they?" asked The Old Friendly House.

"Yes," said Jen. "It's just you and me now."

"OH GOOD," said The Old and Suddenly Not-So-Friendly House.

And with that, The Old Friendly Asshole House let in a hoard of ants into the kitchen.

"Try to ignore these!" cackled The Old Asshole House.

"Ah, crap," said Jen.

But The Old Asshole House wasn't done yet.

"Come upstairs, Jen!" shrieked The Old Asshole House. "Come see what I'm doing now!"

So Jen walked up the stairs.

And opened the bathroom door.

And discovered her toilet was flooding all over the floor.

"BUAHAHAHAHAHAA!" hollered The Old Asshole House. "WELCOME TO HOME OWNERSHIP, MOTHERFUCKER!"

And Jen winced.

And the house laughed and laughed.

"Mommy and Daddy aren't here to take care of this for you, are they?" snarked The Old Asshole House. "Let's see you deal with this, big girl!"

So Jen stood there.

And stood there.

And then wandered off non-dealingly to blog about it.

"Oh for fuck's sake," sighed The Old Asshole House.

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Oh, Internet, The Things You Don't Know ...

I've decided to edit this down and remove most of the post; the bulk of it probably should have just gone in a sparkly diary with a little pink lock.

I'll just leave it as:

1) Patrick moved out yesterday.
2) I'm "not the same girl he married."
3) There's more to it than that.
4) I feel hurt, humiliated, and betrayed.
5) I'm certain he feels sad, too.

He's not a bad person, I'm just not the same girl he married; I'm so much better than that.

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Somedays, I Feel A Real Kinship With Homer Simpson

Today I was working on the computer when I happened to look down and notice something on my thumb.

I freaked.

There on my thumbnail was a thick, bumpy, white-ish, yellow-ish, gnarled-looking growth. It was disgusting and surely fungal or viral and undoubtedly aggressive as I didn't think it had been there the day before.

I was afraid to touch it and somehow spread what was happening, so gingerly covered the gross appendage with a Kleenex and went to everyone's favourite alarmist website, Web MD:

Ugh. Fungi. Viruses. Warts. Cysts. The barfy possibilities were endless.

I unwrapped my thumb to get a closer look. It had all the symptoms of all of the things Web MD had listed. Oh, how humiliating. I kept thinking about the meeting I have to go to tomorrow and whether I could get away with wrapping the thumbnail in a band-aid and tell some elaborate story about how I nearly cut my thumb off cooking dinner. There was no way I was going to parade its sickly hideousness out in public.

I wondered if the nail bed underneath it had already died or if there was a chance of saving it. Carefully, I took a pair of tweezers and ever-so-cautiously picked at the gnarled bark covering my nail. It lifted easily and exposed a perfectly healthy, normal patch of thumbnail. And then the part that I lifted flaked off.

I yelped. And then I bravely inspected it closer.

And that's when I realized it.

It was melted cheese.

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Good Morning, Good Morning To Yoooooou

I'm still kinda feeling flu-y, so I've been conking out early each evening. Last night Patrick assured me, "don't worry about it. You need your sleep. I'll do the dishes tonight."

And this is what I awoke to:

Patrick's idea of doing dishes usually involves stacking dirty dishes next to the dishwasher, filling up the pots and bowls with hot water, dumping some utensils into said pots or bowls, and then promptly walking away. The dishes are done, man.

God, he's lucky he's cute.

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Fill in the Blank

The kisses featured on TLC's Virgin Diaries look like ________________________________.

A) A mother bird feeding a baby bird.
B) An incompetent zombie trying to gum someone, face first.
C) You. Summer camp. 1992.
D) None of the above. Write your own answer in the comments!

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I Can't Imagine Walter Cronkite Doing That (And I Won't Try To Either)

Watch the whole thing. Pay special attention to his right hand. Those are your orders.



As seen on The Soup.

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"And She's Living With A Waiter!"

I honestly have a hard time convincing myself that the people on Fox & Friends actually believe the shit that comes out of their mouths. I mean, no one can really be this heinous and hypocritical, right? This is an Onionparody, right?:

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It Turns Out That Weeds Were My Friends

As a kid, I never understood the phrase "ignorance is bliss". This is in large part because the only other times I heard the word "ignorance" being used, it was in relation to racism. So, in my mind, "ignorance is bliss" equated to "racism is bliss" - which sounds like the sort of thing you'd expect to see on a postcard from a KKK compound or a cross-stitch in Hitler's powder room.

But now that I understand the full meaning of the word and the phrase, I can agree that ignorance can, in fact, be quite blissful.

I bring this up because today, the day after Patrick mowed our jungle of a lawn, I can now actually see more of the goings-on in our backyard. Specifically, the rat that keeps running between our neighbour's junk pile, across our property, and into our other neighbour's garden. Gross, gross, gross.

This paired with the fact that I saw a shadow dart along the ground in our furnace room the other day has turned me into a giant, jumpy, possibly (but probably not) paranoid freak.

Ugh. I'm not sure if I wish I didn't know, I just wish rat (and friends?) didn't exist in my bubble. One thing is clear: I sure as fuck won't be taking a 'vegan' approach to all this.

OMG, you're going to *eat* the rat?

Uh, no. But I won't be "humanely" trapping them only to release them into someone else'e neighbourhood either.

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I Won't Be Posting A Picture of This

Image Source.

Ever watch those nature shows and there are flies - or even bats - on large animals, biting away at them, and you're like - WHY CAN'T THEY FEEL THAT? WHY AREN'T THEY FREAKING OUT? I BET THEY WISH THEY HAD ARMS!

I just discovered that I am such a beast. Apparently, some random insect chowed down on the buffet called Jen while I was tending to our dying rose bush (see? I told you I would kill it) the other day.

I didn't realize it until I was undressing that night and felt something raw, stingy and bumpy beneath one of my lady bags.

Yeah, that's right, some nasty little insect got in my bra and bit my tit about 20 times.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

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Change Rooms for Dummies

Signs that Someone is in a Change Room:

1. The door is closed.
2. The door is locked.
3. There are hangers on the door.
4. You can see a shadow moving about.
5. There's a voice inside embarrassingly singing along to the Phil Collins song that is playing on the store's speakers.
6. The voice suddenly stops mid-Sussudio to yelp, "Someone's in here!" when you repeatedly try the handle (funny how you didn't bother to knock first).
7. If you're unable to bust the door down (despite a great effort!) and it suddenly opens, revealing an annoyed and hastily dressed person inside, SOMEONE IS IN THE CHANGE ROOM, YOU FUCKING SAVAGE.

Seems I can never go to Winners without an incident ...

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The Pin That Stole My Innocence: How A Recent Purchase May Have Ruined Mark Twain For Me

Fact: I am a total try-hard.

Proof: I recently decided that I needed a "signature item" - some charming thing I could frequently wear that would be "my thing". Most people come about these things organically, but not a try-hard. A try-hard decides this, hunts something down, and then lies through her teeth when people ask about it.

"Oh this old thing? It was my Grandmother's. I've been wearing it since I was a girl."

But before I could start giddily acting like a giant fake, I had to find that precious little something that would give me personality. I decided that an antique pin would do the trick. For whatever reason, one jumped out at me on eBay - a tiny little colourful angelfish. It felt a little familiar to me but I couldn't place it. Maybe I had seen it in one of my vintage magazines? The age of the pin was unknown, but based on the hinge and the clasp it was likely pre-1940s but still probably 20th century. Fine by me! So for the (outrageous? fantastic? fair?) price of $12, it was mine.

This is a close-up picture of my new try-hard-apolooza signature item:

C'est cute.

Naturally, I decided to do a bit of searching to figure out where I might have seen this pin before, given that it felt familiar. My magazines turned up nothing, but it didn't take long to track the pin down once I turned to Google (what did we ever do before the Internet?). Pretty darn close, no?:

Those pins are part of a collection of Mark Twain memorabilia.

Upon finding that website, I immediately remembered having read about Mark Twain and a thing called The Aquarium Club. As I understood it, Mark Twain was without grandchildren and felt a need to fill that void. And so, he created a correspondence group of kids and he would send them an angelfish pin as part of their membership (the two pictures above are gifts from Twain to those young people). Sweet, right? That was as much detail I knew about the club at the time - and had forgotten. Somehow my brain decided that retaining facts like J.Woww's dogs' names (Lean Cuisine and Juice Box, just so you know) was a better use of storage space.

Now, I'm not saying that the pin I have was one of the pins Mark Twain gave to his Angelfish Club members (I doubt there's a way to tell, is there?). However, I squealed nonetheless about owning something that looked a whole lot like something Twain was connected to.

Mark Twain is one of my literary heroes. I pity the fool who hasn't read his work. Twain was one of the best storytellers and humourists around. His ability to write realistic dialog was all kinds of juicy goodness that many modern writers can't hold a candle to (especially the kind of writers who barf out the words "juicy goodness" to describe classic literature). He was ever so clever that even a number of his off-the-cuff quips are well known and still referenced today. (And to geekify this post even more, one of my favourite Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes is the two-parter in which Data goes back in time and meets Mark Twain. Remember that one, nerds? Yes, yes you do.)

So - it was only natural that I spend a sunny Sunday afternoon online reading all that I could about this Angelfish Club of his. In the early 1900s, Twain was working on his autobiography and dictated the following (which I found on this site, which is from the book, Mark Twain's Aquarium: The Samuel Clemens-Angelfish Correspondence, 1905-1910):

After my wife's death, June 5, 1904, I experienced a long period of unrest and loneliness. Clara and Jean [his daughters] were busy with their studies and their labors and I was washing about on a forlorn sea of banquets and speechmaking in high and holy causes... I had reached the grandpapa stage of life; and what I lacked and what I needed was grandchildren.

Aw.

More info about the pin that's like the one I have was found in this note:

... All the ten school-girls in the above list are my angel-fishes, and constitute my Club, whose name is "The Aquarium" ... The Bermudian angel-fish, with its splendid blue decorations, is easily the most beautiful fish that swims ... The club's badge is the angel-fish's splendors reproduced in enamels and mounted for service as a lapel pin -- at least that is where the girls wear it. I get these little pins in Bermuda; they are made in Norway.

Neato. But as I read further, though, I came to realize it wasn't simply grandchildren Mark Twain longed for, but granddaughters. Which ... OK ... some parents have preferences for a girl over a boy, the same can be said about wannabe grandparents, right? Twain elaborated:

I suppose we are all collectors... As for me, I collect pets: young girls -- girls from ten to sixteen years old; girls who are pretty and sweet and naive and innocent -- dear young creatures to whom life is a perfect joy and to whom it has brought no wounds, no bitterness, and few tears. 

 Ummmm? "Collecting" naive teen girls ... whom he calls pets. Heh. Well, this was just a pen pal group, right?

The billiard-room will have the legend "The Aquarium" over its door ... I have good photographs of all my fishes, and these will be framed and hung around the walls. There is an angel-fish bedroom -- double-bedded -- and I will expect to have a fish and her mother in it as often as Providence will permit.

Twain with Angelfish, Dorothy Quick

Image Source: TwainQuotes.com

Oh Jesus.

In the above, Twain was describing a house he was having built in Redding, Connecticut. He decided to call the house "Innocence at Home" in honour of his Angelfish. And that's not at all similar to any other celebrity-owned property that infamously hosted other people's children. Well, at least Twain mentioned hosting the mothers too. The girls who were a part of his club were the daughters of his friends and of people he had met on his frequent trips to Bermuda, so maybe he was also eager to enjoy the mother's company as well?

Margaret is due to arrive here with her mother at 5:45 this evening. It is an event: an event like the advent of spring after winter. The scamp will be welcome. Also her mother.

So ... maybe not. While I may not be a big time writer, I can assure you that there is a big difference between saying, "The scamp and her mother will be welcome" and "The scamp will be welcome. Also her mother." Trust.

I hope I'm just jaded from hearing too many modern tales of old men and their not-so-innocent adoration of little girls. This all could still be completely grandfatherly ...

To Dorothy Quick, he wrote:

I went to bed as soon as you departed, there being nothing to live for after that, & the sunshine all gone. How do you suppose I am going to get along without you? For five hours this has been a dreary place, a sober & solemn place, a hushed & brooding & lifeless place, for the blessed Spirit of Youth has gone out of it, & left nothing that's worth while. Aren't you sorry for me, you fresh breeze blown from fragrant fields of flowers?

To an 11-year old? Really? He later described "worshiping" Dorothy in his personal writings. Alrighty.

Twain with Aquarium Club
member Irene Gerken
Image Source: TwainQuotes.com

Reading further, it sounds like the press at the time made a point of noting Twain's friendships with young girls (like in this 1907 article about Twains recent voyage where he "made a particular pet of little Dorothy Quick, daughter of Mrs. E. G. Quick of Brooklyn, and during the time he was on deck would not let her out of his sight.") - but never went to so far as to suggest impropriety.

However, it's clear that some people close to Twain were somewhat cynical about his Aquarium Club. Twain's daughter, Clara, who had been overseas, was so not impressed with her father's activities and basically demanded that he take a step back from the girls. What she specifically said to him isn't recorded, but I imagine it was the 1909 version of saying, "Dad, that is fucking creepy. Cut it out."

Twain's biographer noted that immediately after Clara's return to America, the Twain household stopped saving the correspondence from Twain's Angelfish and the home's name was changed from "Innocence at Home" to the much less little girl-friendly "Stormfield".

Yup.

I'm holding out hope that everything was truly innocent in this club because I just hate the idea of an admired genius like Twain turning out to be some kind of perv. Suffice to say, I now have a better idea of how Michael Jackson fans feel.

But me and my little pin are skeptical. I know it's selfish, but I really hope my new signature item isn't tainted with gross-old-man vibes.

Because that's not very charming, is it?

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My Latest First World Outrage

The other day Patrick offhandedly mentioned to me that a new bakery had opened up just down the street from us. Unlike most of the things he says, this got my immediate attention.

You can pretty much bet that any time the word 'bakery' is mentioned in my presence, I'll stop what I'm doing and make this noise:

(Link)

"Yah, it's an Albertan or Saskatchewan bakery or something?" he said. "I think it was called Prairie Girl."

And that's when I nearly crapped myself.

Since moving to Toronto from Alberta over ten years ago (OMG! Ten years?), I have been missing the sweet, sweet edible love that is western baked goods. Matrimonial Cake, Peanut Butter Slice, Puffed Wheat Squares, Regular and Mint Nanaimo Bars, Alberta Honey Tarts, Lemon Poppyseed Cake - and the Grand Poobah of prairie treats: Saskatoon Berry Pie.

*Droooooool* Source: Saskatoonberry.com

Whenever I've described Saskatoon berries to people, I hear, "So, they're like blueberries?" No, goddamit, they are NOT like blueberries. They are heaven in the mouth. They are sweet orbs of love. They are a taste sensation that your little Ontario minds can't wrap around. And when you put Saskatoon berries in pie (or pierogies, tarts, cobbler, crisp, pancakes ... *slobber*), you create perfection. Pure, calorie-filled perfection.

Surely a place called Prairie Girl Bakery would carry this western staple and satisfy my fix. So, despite being in the midst of some editing work, I put on my underwear shoes, grabbed my purse and headed out.

If you read my blog regularly, you'll by now know that if I've gone into detail about something I'm excited about and have a big, long lead-up for it, you know the story is headed toward something soul-crushing.

Like this:

Fucking. Cupcakes.

How dare they use the prairie name in vain! I didn't realize "prairie" had joined the ranks of other meaningless words like 'unique' and 'social media expert'. YOU KILL ME, PRAIRIE GIRL BAKERY.

Toronto surely needed another cupcake shop. But you have red velvet cupcakes, you say? WHO GIVES A SHIT. It's a cupcake with red friggin' dye in it. Enjoy eating ground-up bugs, you Upper Canadian hipster chumps! I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON IT.

WHERE'S MY SASKATOON BERRY PIE?!?!?

WHERE IS IT!?!?

AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!! AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

***

 
I have calmed down since initially writing this post, thanks to an emergency Ativan that we kept from one of my many previous run-ins with the dentist.

Now that I'm in a more mellow place, let me say that I do not bear Prairie Girl Bakery any ill will and will probably shop there one day. In fact, it's miraculous that cupcake crumbs aren't falling from my mouth and onto the keyboard as I type this.

However, should anyone know of a Toronto-based restaurant or "import" company that provides Saskatoon berries and Saskatoon berry products (besides jam and syrup - I've been able to hunt those down), please pass their name along to me. I will be their very best customer.

If there isn't such a place, there really should be. I mean, if we can get dragon fruit from Asia, we can surely ship some berries (or at worst - frozen Saskatoon berry pies) from a few provinces over, right? So, if you're an entrepreneur who wants to start a business but you just need a good idea, there it is: Saskatoon berries. And Puffed Wheat Squares. And Matrimonial Cake. Oh, also lacking? A good donair place. There - that's two good businesses (or one amazing business).

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I Can't Explain It Either

Any dream analysts out there? I have yet another weird one.

Last night I had a really vivid dream where there were a bunch of young kids on a big trampoline. I was in charge of looking after a friend's son who was playing with them. A tiny little girl nearby, whom I was amazed could even talk, asked me if I was the boy's mom. "Nope!" I replied all too happily.

Suddenly, that tiny little girl (who, in my dream, was a daughter of a friend, but in actuality isn't someone I've ever seen in my life) got knocked over by another kid and landed head-first on a water drainage pipe on the ground (no idea why that would be there).

I freaked and picked her up. She was suddenly really tiny and practically fit in my hand. She had a huge bump on the top of her head and was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. I yelled to people that we needed to get her to the hospital. The parents around me just stood there. I then looked back down to her and her head had turned into a lemon - a lemon with a face on it. I had it in my mind that if her face disappeared, it would mean that she was permanently brain damaged and that she'd literally turn into a piece of fruit (er, vegetable?). I don't remember the rest of the dream, beyond waiting for an ambulance to arrive and being angry that the "real parents" who were there weren't taking over and being responsible.

Oddly, this isn't the only time I've had a dream where children and babies became produce. This is, in fact, the third dream I've had in the last few years that falls into that category.

One was a very short dream where I passed by a school that was having some kind of emergency. The children all ran out and hid in the schoolyard by becoming watermelons in a watermelon patch (not entirely unlike Cabbage Patch Kids). When the 'bad guys' came out looking for them, I was horrified to see one of the men pick up a watermelon and smash it on the ground for fun, not realizing he was actually murdering a kid. It was one of those dreams where you're paralyzed and when you actually do scream, you wake up. Super fun, right?

The other dream occurred when my friend Siobhan was pregnant. In the dream, she and her husband wanted to go out for a date night and have some drinks. Since she didn't want to hurt the baby with booze, she transferred her fetus into an onion and asked me to take care of it. I had to carry this onion everywhere, and even wore a fanny pack to put her baby-onion in (now that's a sacrifice of both fashion and dignity!). At one point, a little flake of the onion's brown skin fell off and I crapped myself, not knowing what that meant. I was pretty sure the baby was still deep in the onion, but had no idea if she was now less protected. I was also scared that Siobhan was going to came back and freak out on me over it.

Eee? Any theories on why my subconscious turns minors into morsels? Or why something bad always happens to them?

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We Know Our Priorities

We were spending this past Saturday doing something super unheard of for us: lazing about like a couple of pigs. I was stretched out on the bed playing Angry Birds solving math equations when our building's fire alarm went off. If you've ever lived in a condo, apartment or dorm, you'll know that a fire alarm doesn't always mean there's an actual emergency going on. Nine times out of ten, someone's burned something in the oven (or if it's a dorm - too much patchouli-dosed incense is wafting in the air). It doesn't help that the alarms in each unit are extremely sensitive - we once set ours off by simply boiling water on the stove. Guess who was making hot dogs?

As usual, one of the building's staffers got on the intercom to deliver a robotic message to state the obvious:

"Attention, attention. The alarm has gone off."

It sounded as though he was talking into the ear piece, so it came out like a mumbled droning with a lot of loud rustling - as if the phone's mouth-piece was being rubbed against his jacket.

Think we jumped up and got out? Hardly. I don't even think I moved my head. As we live on a low floor and apparently believe we're invincible, we tend to stick around the apartment unless we've discovered it really isn't yet another false alarm. Patrick is a little more proactive than I am, so he stuck his head out our door to see if he could tell if anything was happening in the hallway.

"Uh, Jen, I think something is going on," he said.

I finally lifted my double chin from my chest and raised my head. "Huh? Is there an actual fire?"

"I don't know," he said, "but there's water pooling down the hall and people are trying to sweep it away from their doors."

Fuck.

"Is it coming our way?" I selfishly asked.

"I'm not sure, it could," he said.

I got up and wasn't sure what to do. Should I go out and try to help the neighbours? Start putting our own valuables into plastic bags? And then a big, loud voice suddenly told us exactly what to do. It was nothing like the staff member who had been mumbling into the wrong end of the intercom earlier.

"Evacuate the building. There is severe flooding. You must evacuate the building immediately."

God?

"This is the Toronto Fire Services."

Oh.

On went the jackets, the shoes, the purse. We were out and quickly discovered a rain of water coming down in the stairwell.

"Patrick - maybe we should grab some stuff before we go?"

"Yes, let's be quick."

So we charged back into our apartment and grabbed the "important and necessary things." Think we got clothes? Our wedding photos? A necklace passed down in my family? Nope. Instead, we snatched:

• Our laptops
• Our laptop chargers
• Our phone chargers
• Our iPod chargers

Oh, eye roll.  Apparently the most important things in life need to be plugged in. To make matters more ridiculous, I didn't feel like we had time or the arm capacity to grab other "important things", so I instead threw garbage bags over our TV and PVR. Again, never mind the family albums or the artwork: I need to protect the PVR and its precious recording of the episode of The Facts of Life where Mrs. Garrett says the word "retarded" five times.

We then locked up and hoped for the best. In the end, we were very lucky. Despite a big ol' pipe explosion, our apartment is fine. Untouched, even. Others in our building aren't so lucky. Sigh - I feel awful for them.

Image Source: ServiceMasterClean

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Lazy Man Loaded

On Friday, we had friends over for a casual dinner party. I took it upon myself to do all of the grocery shopping - a chore that naturally also involved a stop at the mothership friendly neighbourhood liquor store. Even though there would only be six of us for dinner, I thought it was imperative that I fully replenish our bar before the guests arrived. So, did I buy an entirely unnecessary and dangerous quantity of booze for the evening? Let's let the picture from the next day answer that question:

So ... you're wearing a Cosby sweater?

No, that's my bruised arm.

But why are there so many threads coming out of it?

That's hair.

Barf. This blog should be called Jon but never John.

Har, har. I'm part Spanish - hair sometimes comes with the territory. You should have seen me before my mother dragged me to a waxer when I was 11. Until that point, everyday was Frida Kahlo Day.

Ew.

I know. Can I get back to the story now?

Please hurry. 

So - what you see is a badly bruised arm and wrist. Are these pictures:

• A result of a drunken spill? 
• What it looks like to be on the losing end of an inebriated fight?
• A "love stamp" that comes along with being one of Charlie Sheen's goddesses?

Nope. They're bruises from the heavy bags I was using to carry all that booze (and food, but mostly booze) home.

Heaven forbid that I not buy out the store. Or only purchase what I could reasonably Sherpa and just make a second trip for the rest. But, no, I didn't do that because the first suggestion would involve mental clarity and the second would require my lifelong nemesis, effort.

Jen = Idiot.

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Diary of a Bad Wife: Mocking the Man Cold

Patrick is home, suffering from a classic Man Cold. Not familiar with that term? Hopefully this video enlightens you:



I just heard him in our bedroom whimpering, "Ughhh, Bunbun." 

(Bunbun is our nickname for each other. Humiliating Cute, right?)

So, I go in and ask him what he needs.

Patrick: "Ugh ... nothing ..."

Jen: "Well, why did you call me in?"

Patrick: "I didn't."

I now realize when he was moaning "Bunbun", it was a self-pitying reference to himself. Good grief.

Patrick: "But now that you're here ... I could use some gingerale ...."

Jen: "Gingerale is for upset stomachs. I thought you had a cold?"

Patrick: "Ugghhh ... Bunbun."

Sheesh. He's lucky he's cute.

EDITED TO ADD:

Patrick just came by and saw the blog post.

"Why did you put a picture of me on here?!"

"I didn't. That's Nick Frost."

"Oh, oh right. Ok, then.":

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New Year, New Humiliations

Hi everyone! How's 2011 treating you so far?

Our New Year's trip to Las Vegas was all kinds of giddy fun - but we predictably did not come home millionaires. I could pretend we did, but then this blog would look like the last season of Roseanne, and we all know how crappy that was.

Instead, I had a lineup of work waiting for me, including a meeting with a client on Bay Street (Canada's version of Wall Street). I bring this detail up, only because in the humiliation I'm about to relay, you'll gain a greater understanding for the environment I was in - one of suits and money and people who undoubtedly think they are better than me.

Upon returning from vacation, the laundry situation in our home was looking grim - which resulted in me opening up a new pack of pantyhose to wear for the meeting. This was a pair that I had received in a gift bag at some random event - so they weren't my usual, trusted brand of super control-top sausage casings. In fact, this style of pantyhose bragged about being totally opposite to my usuals - these were seamless. I put them on, they fit and off I went to walk to the meeting.

MISTAKE.

As I now realize, seamless means zero control. Seamless means no holdy-uppy elastic. Seamless means disaster. As I was heading toward the office, I could feel the sickening sensation of pantyhose shimmying down my body. I grabbed hold of the southbound waistband (through my dress) just before the hose could slide over the hump of my bum. I had to get myself to a washroom - stat. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic - taking tiny quick steps, keeping my body as stiff as possible, creepily smiling to fake to the world that everything was alright, while tightfistedly clutching my dress at the hip. I probably looked like Pee Wee Herman on the verge of drawing a gun.

Once in the restaurant bathroom, I yanked the hose up as high as they would go. I contemplated removing them all together but black hose with the dress sort of pulled the outfit together - plus my legs were in need of a trim shave and it was below zero, so walking around bare-legged would be completely bizarre and far too casual a look for this meeting.

The hose miraculously stayed up as I got to the client's office. He suggested we continue the meeting at a nearby coffee spot - so off we went again. Slight clutching was necessary, but I thankfully made it there intact.

Meeting complete, I walked with my client back toward his office as we chatted about a few last minute details of the project. And then it happened ... my pantyhose started sprinting down my body as if it was a fugitive and my ankles were the Mexican border. I tried to discreetly catch the waistband but missed and couldn't do anything but keep walking with my client and pray that the downward shuffling would stop. I could feel that the pantyhose had made its way past my butt and was now truckin' down my thighs. I started sweating and locked my knees together as we walked. I have absolutely no idea what my client said during those few steps because all that was going through my head was, "Please, please, please, please let this not be happening to me!!!" I pressed my arm against my body, hoping to clamp the tights while putting my purse in front of me, dangling it at the level of my dress's hemline to disguise the possible emergence of my hose. The wind blew a little and I could feel the cold flash of air on my previously hosed thighs. Nooooooo! I could feel the pantyhose starting to bunch just above my knees. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

This is Bay Street, the scene of the crime.
Image Source: ElliDavis.com

"Well, here's my stop, looking forward to working with you on this!" my client said. We shook hands and he walked into the building. It didn't seem like he had noticed my crazed, sweaty disposition or the pantyhose - although it's for certain that other people did. When my client was out of view, I moved my purse aside and looked down to survey the damage. My pantyhose has fallen to the bottom of my knees. My dress length? Just above the knee. There, on the busy sidewalk in the financial district among all the suits and money and decision makers, I was standing there with my hoses's gusset in plain view (that's a random pic from the net - it's not of me). If you had been walking or standing behind me where my purse could do no hiding, you surely saw all this and wondered if I was an idiot, really eager to use the washroom or a pervert.

Horrified and yet relieved to have not been literally caught with my pants down by the client, I dashed toward a nearby building column for a bit of shelter (although not much - I was still very much in plain sight of the world), tossed off my shoes, tore off my pantyhose and stuffed them into my purse. It's not everyday that a woman starts stripping on the sidewalk, so, yes, people were looking, no, I didn't give a damn, and no, I will never wear seamless panythose ever again. They are so effing dead to me.

"Uh, Jen?" a voice said.

I almost vomited from shock and embarrassment.

It wasn't the client whom I had just been with, but someone else I had met in a business setting the month before. As my luck would have it, as I turned to face him, I still hadn't yet put my shoes back on. Nothing says HIRE ME, I'M A PROFESSIONAL like taking off your undergarments and standing around barefoot, publicly, downtown, in the winter.

"Oh, hi!" I said, as if nothing completely insane was happening.

"Umm ...Do you need some help?" he asked, now obviously looking at my feet.

"Oh, I, uh, just had something in my shoe," I said, red-faced. He had clearly seen me rip my hose off - something that isn't exactly the standard thing to do when one claims to be getting a pebble out of her shoe. And even if he hadn't seen me tear off my tights - and he had - what's the explanation for having BOTH shoes off? I believe the answer is this: She's crazy.

"Oh ... ok, then. Uh, Happy New Year," he said and then went on his way.

"Sure thing, same to you!" I said as I put on my shoes and stuffed a dangling leg of the pantyhose deep into my purse.

Cringe x 10000000000. Just a wild guess, but I'm pretty sure that if that guy requires writing and marketing services, he won't be calling me up. In fact, he's probably warning people about me now. UUUUGGGGHHHHH.

Image Source: Digital Daily

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The Morning After Checklist

After having a few* drinks the night before, my morning involves:

1. Checking I didn't write anything vulgar in my Facebook status or on anyone's wall
   
2. Ensuring I didn't out-of-the-blue message anyone on Facebook
   
3. Confirming I didn't tweet anything particularly obnoxious on Twitter
4. Making sure I didn't share any "honest" opinions on my usual message boards
5. Checking to see that I didn't send off any e-mails to people I haven't talked to in a long while, or any people, for that matter
6. Confirming I didn't text confessional things to friends or clients
7. Scanning my phone record to see if I called anyone
   
8. Ensuring I didn't blog any "You Know What, World?" rants
9. Checking to see if I blipped any tragic or embarrassing songs across my network
   
10. Making sure I didn't buy anything on eBay

Remember when there was just "drink and dial"? Oh, the good old days.

* A few drinks last night consisted of five bottles of wine split between four people, one of whom only had a couple of glasses. That person was not me.

Image Source: Someecards

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