So my daughter’s friend told me yesterday I could play a witch in some production they were concocting.
“Is it because of my ginormous streaks of white hair?” I asked. She nodded.
Yes, indeed, I had a bit of the old Bride o’ Frankenstein action going on thanks to a number of factors: my advanced age, the lack of haircut since before Christmas, the lack of any sort of colour treatment since Jesus wore short pants,1 and my advanced age.
Since it’s tax season and I am therefore one bounced cheque away from debtors’ gaol, I decided to colour my hair myself. 2 My daughter and I had picked out a colour last week—it was sort of reddish brown on the model, but on top of mouse brown hair like mine, it should have turned to a rich brown with a tinge of auburn.
Operative words being “should have.”
You know when someone with dark hair robs a bank and goes on the lam and they dye their hair so NO ONE WILL EVER RECOGNIZE THEM? And they won’t stand out at all now that their hair is a colour that CANNOT BE FOUND IN NATURE? Or in mob movies, where there’s one guy3 who tries to go all Hollywood and he dyes his hair “blonde”? Or my grandmother, who is Lebanese and (presumably) has black hair and whose main desire in life is apparently to be a blonde so she keeps trying to dye her hair “blonde”?
Aside from if you pour a bottle of peroxide onto your hair à la Ponyboy Curtis, or if you know that Jose guy who does celebrity hair,4 chances are you’re not going to get blonde (or in my case, rich brown with coppery undertones) in any of those cases. No. You are going to get a surreal orangish colour that is just—weird.5
So that’s what colour my hair is right now. At least in the front. I have no idea what it looks like in the back—it could be stripy clown hair back there for all I know.6
Now, as I sit here trying my best to make comic blonde out of my Pesci-head situation, I think to myself, “It’s not as bad as I’m describing it.” So I go have another look.
It is. It is, in fact, THAT bad.
Frigg it. I’m robbing a bank.
********************************
1. I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds funny so I say it all the time.
2. Back in the days before self employment/destitution, I would go to a shop to get lovely multi-colour highlights that cost a bloody fortune and took two hours. Time and money. Or, two things I simply can no longer afford to squander.
3. Usually Joe Pesci or that Joey Pants guy.
4. But who apparently doesn’t have access to a mirror to see his own lid.
5. Sorry Grandma.
6. Don’t colour your hair alone. Case in point: “Rinse until the water runs clear.” Uh, you just told me 6 times that if I got this shit in my eyes I AND MY FUTURE OFFSPRING WOULD GO BLIND. How the hell am I supposed to keep my eyes covered/shut tight AND watch the water drain off? Phone a friend, people.7
7. Of course, not only did I NOT phone a friend, I didn’t do the 48-hour allergy test either. That’s the kind of crazy gansta-bitch I am. Word.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
My hair looked fabulous yesterday
...for about 15 minutes.
More blogging soon, I promise.
That is all.
More blogging soon, I promise.
That is all.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Charmin’ Carmen
And now for something completely different...
This morning my eight-year-old daughter came downstairs for breakfast wearing a “Carmen Young Annual Track Meet” t-shirt, one of the medals she won at that track meet a few years ago1 and her usual gorgeous, morning smile.
She stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t just the darling little jack-o-lantern grin that gave me pause. You see, Carmen Young is my sister and she died ten years before my daughter was born. And today would have been her 34th birthday.
The logical/scientific part of my brain really doesn’t want to believe in religion or an afterlife. But in my heart, I know that Carmen and my other loved ones are out there, in some form, somewhere.
For me, it boils down to this: when you lose someone you love, it’s a comfort to think they still exist beyond our mortal existence. But when you lose someone so very young (Carmen was 15), you have to believe they go on. It’s the only way I can go on.
And how beautiful is it that Carmen has some cosmic connection with my daughter?
I miss Carmen every day and will for the rest of my life. She was larger than life—vivacious and pretty and smart and passionate. She knew how to find your weaknesses and drive you crazy with them—a talent she possessed from a very early age. (Like, 2? No joke!) She was dramatic and hilarious and loved her family and friends with every molecule of her being. She wanted to be special and be a star, while being just a normal girl doing regular girl stuff. She would have been a professional actress had she grown up. She would have loved my daughter beyond all things.
She loves my daughter beyond all things.
Carmen was a fighter—sweet Jeebus, was she a fighter. She fought for her life and never gave up, and she fought for other people’s lives through her advocacy of organ donation.
So when my daughter comes down in full Carmen regalia, with no clue whatsoever that it’s her never-met aunt’s birth date, I have to cry a little and smile a lot. And I know: she’s still here.
So, in honour of Carmen’s birthday, please sit down with your family this week and discuss organ donation. As she used to say, I promise someone will take good care of your gift.
And you’ll make one tough little Cape Bretoner very proud, wherever she might be...
****************************
1. Some days she wears a purple rose or peacock feather in hair, some days she wears a medal around her neck. Yesterday she went on a field trip dressed as an Lebanese immigrant.2 She’s eight. I love it.
2. Which was a bit tough to pull of with the blond hair and blue eyes, but she performed admirably.
This morning my eight-year-old daughter came downstairs for breakfast wearing a “Carmen Young Annual Track Meet” t-shirt, one of the medals she won at that track meet a few years ago1 and her usual gorgeous, morning smile.
She stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t just the darling little jack-o-lantern grin that gave me pause. You see, Carmen Young is my sister and she died ten years before my daughter was born. And today would have been her 34th birthday.
The logical/scientific part of my brain really doesn’t want to believe in religion or an afterlife. But in my heart, I know that Carmen and my other loved ones are out there, in some form, somewhere.
For me, it boils down to this: when you lose someone you love, it’s a comfort to think they still exist beyond our mortal existence. But when you lose someone so very young (Carmen was 15), you have to believe they go on. It’s the only way I can go on.
And how beautiful is it that Carmen has some cosmic connection with my daughter?
I miss Carmen every day and will for the rest of my life. She was larger than life—vivacious and pretty and smart and passionate. She knew how to find your weaknesses and drive you crazy with them—a talent she possessed from a very early age. (Like, 2? No joke!) She was dramatic and hilarious and loved her family and friends with every molecule of her being. She wanted to be special and be a star, while being just a normal girl doing regular girl stuff. She would have been a professional actress had she grown up. She would have loved my daughter beyond all things.
She loves my daughter beyond all things.
Carmen was a fighter—sweet Jeebus, was she a fighter. She fought for her life and never gave up, and she fought for other people’s lives through her advocacy of organ donation.
So when my daughter comes down in full Carmen regalia, with no clue whatsoever that it’s her never-met aunt’s birth date, I have to cry a little and smile a lot. And I know: she’s still here.
So, in honour of Carmen’s birthday, please sit down with your family this week and discuss organ donation. As she used to say, I promise someone will take good care of your gift.
And you’ll make one tough little Cape Bretoner very proud, wherever she might be...
****************************
1. Some days she wears a purple rose or peacock feather in hair, some days she wears a medal around her neck. Yesterday she went on a field trip dressed as an Lebanese immigrant.2 She’s eight. I love it.
2. Which was a bit tough to pull of with the blond hair and blue eyes, but she performed admirably.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Don’t drink and clean
Ever see that historic moment vignette about women getting the vote?1 The bit I always remember about it is not the classic “Nice women don’t want the vote” line,2 but rather when the trusty narrator says, “It did not go well for Mrs. McClung.”4
So... I decided to have a glass of wine while cleaning the kitchen yesterday.
It did not go well for Mrs. Reid.
It started out innocently enough. I waded through the stacks of dirty dishes, got the first load in the dishwasher, hosed down one busy counter and started rearranging things in the fridge. I decided to organize and replenish the juice boxes, so I grabbed the cello-wrapped pack of Five Alive from that one clean counter, jabbed a hole in the packaging, then struggled mightily to get the stupid thing open. And, when it opened, oh boy, did it open—busting apart sending juice boxes flying in every possible direction. One ambitious5 box kamikazied for the aforementioned wine, sending the glass spinning and tumbling in spectacular lawn-sprinkler-like6 fashion.
To which I responded, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? THIS is EXACTLY why I don’t clean!”
The area where the wine—spilled just doesn’t do it justice, so let’s go with—EXPLODED is the stupidest corner in our very small house of unusual spaces. It’s a catchall counter that faces the side of the fridge, which is less than a foot away. The lower cupboard’s doors had to be jerry-rigged with hinges in the middle because the space is too small to open them straight out. It’s a perfect place to put the cat’s food and water.7 However, because I can only wedge myself in there sideways, it is an absolute horror to clean. I can’t tell you how much time I spent wiping up the GD mess, because I think the part of my brain in charge of telling time was the precise part I kept poking with the idiot fudgestick.8
At any rate, it took a very long time to clean.9 So long, in fact, that I decided that I had had quite enough for one day and I gave up. That’s fair, right?
So here’s an interesting side lesson: you know how some things turn green and mouldy when they go bad? Remember how I was organizing the fridge? Well, I had taken a huge bowl of leftover macaroni out and placed it on the counter (thankfully not the crime-scene counter) and, since I had given up, there it sat. Till the next day.10 Imagine my surprise when I discovered the macaroni had, in that short time, started to ferment!
Noodle wine anyone?11
*************************************
1. I'd provide a link to YouTube, but every few months our YouTube shuts down all the other open programs and freezes the computer. We forget it’s happening for about a week and have to keep rebooting, then we remember and complain bitterly for a week about it because—hey, who wants to live without YouTube, am I right? Then we accidentally fix it but can never remember how. Then a few months later, every time we click on YouTube we end up having to reboot, lather, scream, repeat...
2. Other classic lines that only fellow Canadians who watch waaaaay too much TV would appreciate:
“Patience, Jenny. Patience!” (Make sure you spit a little and rip off someone’s fig leaf.)
“Burnt...Toast... Dr. Penfield! I Smell...Burnt...Toast...!”
“The train!”
“Persons, under the law.”
“ka-NAAAAH-da,” point, point.
And, of course, “No one’s going to read a story about a man in tights, Joey! It'll never fly!” As we, once again, in typically Canadian fashion, grasp desperately to be linked with something that’s famous in America.3
3. Please note, this list was created without the assistance of YouTube OR Google. Permanently. Etched. I’m pretty sure if Dr. Penfield poked the brains of Canadians-of-a-certain-age, we wouldn’t be going on about pouring cold water on our hands but would instead start spouting these vignettes by heart.
4. Or Mrs. MacPhail. Or whichever important change-making Canadian woman was featured in this one.
5. Malicious?
6. You know—the three-pronged twirly one. Maximum lawn-soaking coverage. Perfect.
7. In a related story, Snowdrop has been a little stumbly-Jack lately. Hope she doesn’t get the DTs when she finishes this wine-soaked batch of kibble.
8. Anyone have Dr. Penfield’s number?
9. When hubby and daughter returned from their several-hour-sojourn-out-to-give-mommy-a-chance-to-clean adventure, they’re like, “WTF? Why is it still a mess here? What have you been doing?!?” Sniff, sniff. “Oh nevermind. Obviously you needed to get hammered instead. Lush.”
10. I know, you’re shocked.
11. Note to self—no cleaning!
So... I decided to have a glass of wine while cleaning the kitchen yesterday.
It did not go well for Mrs. Reid.
It started out innocently enough. I waded through the stacks of dirty dishes, got the first load in the dishwasher, hosed down one busy counter and started rearranging things in the fridge. I decided to organize and replenish the juice boxes, so I grabbed the cello-wrapped pack of Five Alive from that one clean counter, jabbed a hole in the packaging, then struggled mightily to get the stupid thing open. And, when it opened, oh boy, did it open—busting apart sending juice boxes flying in every possible direction. One ambitious5 box kamikazied for the aforementioned wine, sending the glass spinning and tumbling in spectacular lawn-sprinkler-like6 fashion.
To which I responded, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? THIS is EXACTLY why I don’t clean!”
The area where the wine—spilled just doesn’t do it justice, so let’s go with—EXPLODED is the stupidest corner in our very small house of unusual spaces. It’s a catchall counter that faces the side of the fridge, which is less than a foot away. The lower cupboard’s doors had to be jerry-rigged with hinges in the middle because the space is too small to open them straight out. It’s a perfect place to put the cat’s food and water.7 However, because I can only wedge myself in there sideways, it is an absolute horror to clean. I can’t tell you how much time I spent wiping up the GD mess, because I think the part of my brain in charge of telling time was the precise part I kept poking with the idiot fudgestick.8
At any rate, it took a very long time to clean.9 So long, in fact, that I decided that I had had quite enough for one day and I gave up. That’s fair, right?
So here’s an interesting side lesson: you know how some things turn green and mouldy when they go bad? Remember how I was organizing the fridge? Well, I had taken a huge bowl of leftover macaroni out and placed it on the counter (thankfully not the crime-scene counter) and, since I had given up, there it sat. Till the next day.10 Imagine my surprise when I discovered the macaroni had, in that short time, started to ferment!
Noodle wine anyone?11
*************************************
1. I'd provide a link to YouTube, but every few months our YouTube shuts down all the other open programs and freezes the computer. We forget it’s happening for about a week and have to keep rebooting, then we remember and complain bitterly for a week about it because—hey, who wants to live without YouTube, am I right? Then we accidentally fix it but can never remember how. Then a few months later, every time we click on YouTube we end up having to reboot, lather, scream, repeat...
2. Other classic lines that only fellow Canadians who watch waaaaay too much TV would appreciate:
“Patience, Jenny. Patience!” (Make sure you spit a little and rip off someone’s fig leaf.)
“Burnt...Toast... Dr. Penfield! I Smell...Burnt...Toast...!”
“The train!”
“Persons, under the law.”
“ka-NAAAAH-da,” point, point.
And, of course, “No one’s going to read a story about a man in tights, Joey! It'll never fly!” As we, once again, in typically Canadian fashion, grasp desperately to be linked with something that’s famous in America.3
3. Please note, this list was created without the assistance of YouTube OR Google. Permanently. Etched. I’m pretty sure if Dr. Penfield poked the brains of Canadians-of-a-certain-age, we wouldn’t be going on about pouring cold water on our hands but would instead start spouting these vignettes by heart.
4. Or Mrs. MacPhail. Or whichever important change-making Canadian woman was featured in this one.
5. Malicious?
6. You know—the three-pronged twirly one. Maximum lawn-soaking coverage. Perfect.
7. In a related story, Snowdrop has been a little stumbly-Jack lately. Hope she doesn’t get the DTs when she finishes this wine-soaked batch of kibble.
8. Anyone have Dr. Penfield’s number?
9. When hubby and daughter returned from their several-hour-sojourn-out-to-give-mommy-a-chance-to-clean adventure, they’re like, “WTF? Why is it still a mess here? What have you been doing?!?” Sniff, sniff. “Oh nevermind. Obviously you needed to get hammered instead. Lush.”
10. I know, you’re shocked.
11. Note to self—no cleaning!
Monday, March 21, 2011
Enough already!
As I was fishing socks out of the kitty litter, it hit me: I really need to get my shit together.1
There’s a delicately teetering balance in my life. Most days it works out just fine. Slide out a jenga block or two and, sure, the structure looks precarious, but it’s still solid. Then someone comes along and removes that piece—you know, the bottom end piece—and I’m suddenly overtaken by a thousand blocks of wood.3 And because I’m so disorganized, I can’t find the plastic guide-y thing to help me rebuild my tower.
It might start when my friend calls to ask if her daughter can hang at our place before walking to school with us. I might say, “Sure—I’ll clear a path to the living room. She’s up to date on her tetanus shots, right?” I’m only partially joking.4 She might laugh.6
It might start when I realize I’m late to pick up my daughter after school and I must, therefore, change out of my pyjamas,7 so I might run upstairs and grab my jeans off the floor,8 run back downstairs and snatch my keys and coat, and then I might reach down for my scarf, which might have fallen to the floor,9 which might unleash a cloud of dust and cat hair, which might prompt a huge MF sneeze, which, if you’ve been following this blog at all, can only mean one thing: time to change my jeans.10 I might then rush downstairs and try to liberate the pair-two jeans from the piles atop the jerry-rigged laundry shelves, on the floor under which11 I, in all my infinite wisdom, might have placed my three kitty litter boxes.12
What the fuck did I think was going to happen?
I’m guessing we all have these days when everything seems so out of control that you end up spending 95% of your time whining about about what a mess everything is, or about not being able to get anything done, or about not being able to find anything amongst the detritus of your life, which has somehow exploded in such a spectacular fashion that it’s left socks and underwear in the cat pooper.
And that, my friends, is what spurs me into action: it’s not the cat poop, or sneeze pee, or the biohazard in the kitchen sink, or the need for a tetanus booster. No, it’s me whining incessantly about how out of control everything is. Eventually I will get sick of it and say ENOUGH ALREADY! Time to stop whining and get moving—unearth the child and pet, create a clean environment, put those clothes away, update that to do list14 and ACT.
I was tired of listening to my own pathetic excuses, so this was the day I vowed to GET THINGS DONE.
So that’s what I did.
Errr... well, actually, what I did was write this blog post.
Hmmm. Never mind.
OK. TODAY is the day I GET THINGS DONE!
Wish me luck!
****************************************
1. I mean that figuratively—yes, I had dropped laundry in the kitty litter, but, miracle of miracles, I had actually scooped the kitty poop just prior to the sock incident. Small victories.2
2. But still—ewww.
3. Lazy writing alert! I feel the need to point out again that this a metaphor—not because I doubt your intelligence, but because I doubt my ability to pull off said metaphors.
4. True: I need to literally clear a path from the back door to the living room. Oddly, kids seem to take this in stride. Joke: Tetanus query. Most kids get tetanus shots at some point that are good for about 10 years, so we’re safe till they’re, like, 15. It still elicits a laugh though, so I keep it in my repertoire. However, I stopped making jokes about allergies to dust and cat hair/dander because, well, it’s not a joke here. As you will soon see.5
5. Foreshadowing. Just sayin'.
6. Homer knows.
7. Frigg off—I work at home. What would you wear?
8. I shift between two pairs of jeans, wearing one pair till they get to the point where they walk themselves to the laundry room. This pair, while on the floor, had still not made the laundry dash and could thus be considered the “clean” pair. Everything being relative and all.
9. I know, you’re shocked.
10. ‘Cause we’re not talking a few drops of pee here. It was like one of those fem hy commercials, without the blue dye. Or the fem hy. Which, really, could have made this whole post irrelevant.
11. With apologies to Winston Churchill.
12. I only have one cat, but whenever we go away and have friends looking after her, I put out three litterboxes so my kitty-sitters don’t have to change the litter while we’re gone and Snowdrop doesn’t have to claw her way into the crawl space to find a fresh place to take a poo. Hey—I may be a slob, but I’m a considerate slob. I just haven’t gotten around to consolidating the boxes since our recent trip,13 so my laundry-dropping target range is still vast.
13. I know, you’re shocked.
14. My to do list requires it’s own dedicated blog.15
15. Hell, my to do list requires its own bloody postal code.
There’s a delicately teetering balance in my life. Most days it works out just fine. Slide out a jenga block or two and, sure, the structure looks precarious, but it’s still solid. Then someone comes along and removes that piece—you know, the bottom end piece—and I’m suddenly overtaken by a thousand blocks of wood.3 And because I’m so disorganized, I can’t find the plastic guide-y thing to help me rebuild my tower.
It might start when my friend calls to ask if her daughter can hang at our place before walking to school with us. I might say, “Sure—I’ll clear a path to the living room. She’s up to date on her tetanus shots, right?” I’m only partially joking.4 She might laugh.6
It might start when I realize I’m late to pick up my daughter after school and I must, therefore, change out of my pyjamas,7 so I might run upstairs and grab my jeans off the floor,8 run back downstairs and snatch my keys and coat, and then I might reach down for my scarf, which might have fallen to the floor,9 which might unleash a cloud of dust and cat hair, which might prompt a huge MF sneeze, which, if you’ve been following this blog at all, can only mean one thing: time to change my jeans.10 I might then rush downstairs and try to liberate the pair-two jeans from the piles atop the jerry-rigged laundry shelves, on the floor under which11 I, in all my infinite wisdom, might have placed my three kitty litter boxes.12
What the fuck did I think was going to happen?
I’m guessing we all have these days when everything seems so out of control that you end up spending 95% of your time whining about about what a mess everything is, or about not being able to get anything done, or about not being able to find anything amongst the detritus of your life, which has somehow exploded in such a spectacular fashion that it’s left socks and underwear in the cat pooper.
And that, my friends, is what spurs me into action: it’s not the cat poop, or sneeze pee, or the biohazard in the kitchen sink, or the need for a tetanus booster. No, it’s me whining incessantly about how out of control everything is. Eventually I will get sick of it and say ENOUGH ALREADY! Time to stop whining and get moving—unearth the child and pet, create a clean environment, put those clothes away, update that to do list14 and ACT.
I was tired of listening to my own pathetic excuses, so this was the day I vowed to GET THINGS DONE.
So that’s what I did.
Errr... well, actually, what I did was write this blog post.
Hmmm. Never mind.
OK. TODAY is the day I GET THINGS DONE!
Wish me luck!
****************************************
1. I mean that figuratively—yes, I had dropped laundry in the kitty litter, but, miracle of miracles, I had actually scooped the kitty poop just prior to the sock incident. Small victories.2
2. But still—ewww.
3. Lazy writing alert! I feel the need to point out again that this a metaphor—not because I doubt your intelligence, but because I doubt my ability to pull off said metaphors.
4. True: I need to literally clear a path from the back door to the living room. Oddly, kids seem to take this in stride. Joke: Tetanus query. Most kids get tetanus shots at some point that are good for about 10 years, so we’re safe till they’re, like, 15. It still elicits a laugh though, so I keep it in my repertoire. However, I stopped making jokes about allergies to dust and cat hair/dander because, well, it’s not a joke here. As you will soon see.5
5. Foreshadowing. Just sayin'.
6. Homer knows.
7. Frigg off—I work at home. What would you wear?
8. I shift between two pairs of jeans, wearing one pair till they get to the point where they walk themselves to the laundry room. This pair, while on the floor, had still not made the laundry dash and could thus be considered the “clean” pair. Everything being relative and all.
9. I know, you’re shocked.
10. ‘Cause we’re not talking a few drops of pee here. It was like one of those fem hy commercials, without the blue dye. Or the fem hy. Which, really, could have made this whole post irrelevant.
11. With apologies to Winston Churchill.
12. I only have one cat, but whenever we go away and have friends looking after her, I put out three litterboxes so my kitty-sitters don’t have to change the litter while we’re gone and Snowdrop doesn’t have to claw her way into the crawl space to find a fresh place to take a poo. Hey—I may be a slob, but I’m a considerate slob. I just haven’t gotten around to consolidating the boxes since our recent trip,13 so my laundry-dropping target range is still vast.
13. I know, you’re shocked.
14. My to do list requires it’s own dedicated blog.15
15. Hell, my to do list requires its own bloody postal code.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Fly, snowbird, fly!
Sure, I’d love to fly south, but unfortunately I can’t because I’ve adhered to my chair thanks to an errant glob of wax soldered to the back of my thigh. That’ll be pretty later.
Yes, it’s that time of year again, when seasonably hypothermic Canucks (including me) make a break for the border and the warmer climes to our south. Which can only mean one thing:
Pedi-waxi time! Yay!1
Normally, I love a good pedicure2, but winter presents a whole pile of problems I hadn’t considered before.4 The main concern was that in the summer you wear flip flops so as not to squish the polish, which can take up to a day to really set. I did come up with a solution though that did not involve me suicidally wearing flip flops into the slush and ice: I wore my big-ass rubber boots instead. Worked like a charm, so long as I remembered to keep pressing my toes down. Awesome!
But, sadly, my glee at finding a solution to one of the more pressing issues of our time was vastly overshadowed by the pain and discomfort of part deux of the snowbird combo.
Remember the 40-year-old virgin? Steve Carell getting his chest waxed? Remember squirming in discomfort at his anguish?
Well direct that anguish at your crotch, and the tender, bendy bits where your thigh ends and your body begins. I know many of you are familiar with this particular form of torture and I think we can agree it’s a necessary evil for most to avoid disgusting-smelling hair-removal creams or—horror of horrors—shaving.5
It’s not a surprise that it hurts like hell—I mean, a stranger spreads hot wax on your skin, then presses a cloth on it and RIPS hair and wax away. How can that possibly be good? But at least you know it’s relatively quick, and the results are generally worth it. And I’m not talking anything fancy here—just a little tidying up along the edges so the kids at the pool don’t think the Yeti’s escaped from the Everest ride or something. A little off the sides. You know?
Apparently my aesthetician didn’t know. Even though I clearly stated that I wasn’t going to be doing any bikini modelling or porn starring any time soon, she attacked her task with a passionate gusto that I might admire in an Olympic athlete. Or a car mechanic. Or a civil servant.
Yes, I realized just a little too late that this lovely lady was the type who inevitably ended up with bald Barbies because she just had to keep cutting to “even things up.”
It’s like going in and asking for a sideburn trim and walking out with no sideburns, no beard and just an Addams Family mustachio left behind.6
I dunno, maybe I looked like the string bikini type to her.7 Whatever her deal, I’ll tell you this—she’s cured me of waxing ever again. Yep, no more candle’s are getting sacrificed for my beautification, folks.
Whatever your spa status, do enjoy your winter break if you get one. I’ll be sure to say hi to Mickey for you.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a call—some Ron Jeremy fellow wanting to make me a star or something?
Seeya in the movies!
****************************************************
1. NOT.
2. At least while I’m having the pedicure. Afterwards it’s bloody awful when you’re trying to walk but you’re all full of lovely cream so you’re sliding around in your flip flops and every speck of dirt between you and your car finds the aroma of said cream to be absolutely irresistible and so they thrust themselves at your flip-floppity feet and, thus, by the time you get home your feet are filthy and sore from sliding awkwardly around your greazy3, silty shoes.
3. Props to Patrick Swayze and John Cougar. Mellencamp.
4. A major problem today being what to do with my child who was home IN THE BLISTERING SUN due to another SNOW DAY. Yah, I popped a vein or two over that this morning. At least I found out about the closure before I walked daughter to school—but not before we were all dressed and ready to go. I mean, seriously, the thought of checking for school closures never entered my mind at all this morning. Due mainly to the, you know, BLISTERING SUN.
5. Ugh—I’m scratching just at the thought.
6. I mentioned Sports Illustrated hasn’t been calling for several years now, right?
7. Which leads me to conclude that she needs some serious cataract surgery. Or a cochlear transplant so she can HEAR me saying NOT TOO MUCH.
Yes, it’s that time of year again, when seasonably hypothermic Canucks (including me) make a break for the border and the warmer climes to our south. Which can only mean one thing:
Pedi-waxi time! Yay!1
Normally, I love a good pedicure2, but winter presents a whole pile of problems I hadn’t considered before.4 The main concern was that in the summer you wear flip flops so as not to squish the polish, which can take up to a day to really set. I did come up with a solution though that did not involve me suicidally wearing flip flops into the slush and ice: I wore my big-ass rubber boots instead. Worked like a charm, so long as I remembered to keep pressing my toes down. Awesome!
But, sadly, my glee at finding a solution to one of the more pressing issues of our time was vastly overshadowed by the pain and discomfort of part deux of the snowbird combo.
Remember the 40-year-old virgin? Steve Carell getting his chest waxed? Remember squirming in discomfort at his anguish?
Well direct that anguish at your crotch, and the tender, bendy bits where your thigh ends and your body begins. I know many of you are familiar with this particular form of torture and I think we can agree it’s a necessary evil for most to avoid disgusting-smelling hair-removal creams or—horror of horrors—shaving.5
It’s not a surprise that it hurts like hell—I mean, a stranger spreads hot wax on your skin, then presses a cloth on it and RIPS hair and wax away. How can that possibly be good? But at least you know it’s relatively quick, and the results are generally worth it. And I’m not talking anything fancy here—just a little tidying up along the edges so the kids at the pool don’t think the Yeti’s escaped from the Everest ride or something. A little off the sides. You know?
Apparently my aesthetician didn’t know. Even though I clearly stated that I wasn’t going to be doing any bikini modelling or porn starring any time soon, she attacked her task with a passionate gusto that I might admire in an Olympic athlete. Or a car mechanic. Or a civil servant.
Yes, I realized just a little too late that this lovely lady was the type who inevitably ended up with bald Barbies because she just had to keep cutting to “even things up.”
It’s like going in and asking for a sideburn trim and walking out with no sideburns, no beard and just an Addams Family mustachio left behind.6
I dunno, maybe I looked like the string bikini type to her.7 Whatever her deal, I’ll tell you this—she’s cured me of waxing ever again. Yep, no more candle’s are getting sacrificed for my beautification, folks.
Whatever your spa status, do enjoy your winter break if you get one. I’ll be sure to say hi to Mickey for you.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a call—some Ron Jeremy fellow wanting to make me a star or something?
Seeya in the movies!
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1. NOT.
2. At least while I’m having the pedicure. Afterwards it’s bloody awful when you’re trying to walk but you’re all full of lovely cream so you’re sliding around in your flip flops and every speck of dirt between you and your car finds the aroma of said cream to be absolutely irresistible and so they thrust themselves at your flip-floppity feet and, thus, by the time you get home your feet are filthy and sore from sliding awkwardly around your greazy3, silty shoes.
3. Props to Patrick Swayze and John Cougar. Mellencamp.
4. A major problem today being what to do with my child who was home IN THE BLISTERING SUN due to another SNOW DAY. Yah, I popped a vein or two over that this morning. At least I found out about the closure before I walked daughter to school—but not before we were all dressed and ready to go. I mean, seriously, the thought of checking for school closures never entered my mind at all this morning. Due mainly to the, you know, BLISTERING SUN.
5. Ugh—I’m scratching just at the thought.
6. I mentioned Sports Illustrated hasn’t been calling for several years now, right?
7. Which leads me to conclude that she needs some serious cataract surgery. Or a cochlear transplant so she can HEAR me saying NOT TOO MUCH.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Can someone PLEASE get this sticker off my ass?
Know what’s funnier than a dog chasing its tail?
A cat chasing its tail. Seriously. Cats are smart,1 so it doesn’t happen that often. But my cat got a sticker stuck on her tail recently and spent a full half hour in a white-and-gray blur of fluffy frustration, chasing and chasing a petite piece of post-it that was making her unclean, dammit!2
So, today, as I look around my hovel, I have to wonder,4 is there someone out in the cosmos6 ROTFLHAO7 as I run around and around and around getting, well, nowhere? I mean, I’m smarter than a cat, right? Or, at least, a dog?
Maybe it was the frustration of two snow days in a row.8 There’s certainly a missing housework chromosome or six. But I swear I spent so much time taking a step and saying “I should do this now,” then turning around and saying “No, I should do that now,” then turning towards something else and saying, “No that is definitely the priority,” that I got precious few of the one million9 things that needed to get done this week, done. I literally10 found myself running around in circles. Chasing the post-it notes from my massive colour-coded to-do-list board that had somehow gotten stuck to my ass.11 Ugh.12
So, do me a favour. Help me climb up the evolutionary scale a wee bit and, if you see a post-it note on my ass, just take it off, OK? Or clean my house. Or make my kid’s lunch. Or write my article. Or pay my bills. Or get my kid’s skates sharpened. Or pitch my story. Or shovel my driveway. Or finish my novel. Or attend my seminar. Or...
I think I’m gonna lose my kibble...
********************************************
1. My loyalty in the cat/dog dichotomy of life becomes blaringly obvious right—here.
2. I eventually stopped laughing long enough to take it off for her—I was worried her head would explode or she’d chuck her kibble.3
3. And, lest you think I am the kind sort, I later I tried to duplicate the scenario for others by sticking something on kitty’s tail. Didn’t work—I couldn’t find that one little inaccessible sweetspot of hilarity, and, as mentioned, cats are smart.
4. With apologies—I’m certainly not cool enough to channel Carrie Bradshaw, but sometimes I have to pay homage.5
5. Go ahead—you know you want to say it out loud... “Homage.”
6. A totally accidental homage to SATC. Mmmm, cosmos. Ohhh-maggge. Hom-idge.
7. Rolling on the floor laughing her ass off. Pre-empting Muzzah's inevitable question.
8. The fact that I invited four little girls (in addition to my one) into my house on the first snow day makes me seriously question my place on the mammal smartness hierarchy. A cat would NEVER do that. A dog definitely would, though.
9. Figures rounded to the nearest ten.
10. I am using this term correctly, my friends.
11. That was figurative. Well, the board is real. But, they were figuratively stuck to my—oh, I don’t need to explain this, do I?
12. Is the ridiculous number of notes making you feel like you’re reading in circles? Sorry—I just didn’t want to feel alone here between the pets.
A cat chasing its tail. Seriously. Cats are smart,1 so it doesn’t happen that often. But my cat got a sticker stuck on her tail recently and spent a full half hour in a white-and-gray blur of fluffy frustration, chasing and chasing a petite piece of post-it that was making her unclean, dammit!2
So, today, as I look around my hovel, I have to wonder,4 is there someone out in the cosmos6 ROTFLHAO7 as I run around and around and around getting, well, nowhere? I mean, I’m smarter than a cat, right? Or, at least, a dog?
Maybe it was the frustration of two snow days in a row.8 There’s certainly a missing housework chromosome or six. But I swear I spent so much time taking a step and saying “I should do this now,” then turning around and saying “No, I should do that now,” then turning towards something else and saying, “No that is definitely the priority,” that I got precious few of the one million9 things that needed to get done this week, done. I literally10 found myself running around in circles. Chasing the post-it notes from my massive colour-coded to-do-list board that had somehow gotten stuck to my ass.11 Ugh.12
So, do me a favour. Help me climb up the evolutionary scale a wee bit and, if you see a post-it note on my ass, just take it off, OK? Or clean my house. Or make my kid’s lunch. Or write my article. Or pay my bills. Or get my kid’s skates sharpened. Or pitch my story. Or shovel my driveway. Or finish my novel. Or attend my seminar. Or...
I think I’m gonna lose my kibble...
********************************************
1. My loyalty in the cat/dog dichotomy of life becomes blaringly obvious right—here.
2. I eventually stopped laughing long enough to take it off for her—I was worried her head would explode or she’d chuck her kibble.3
3. And, lest you think I am the kind sort, I later I tried to duplicate the scenario for others by sticking something on kitty’s tail. Didn’t work—I couldn’t find that one little inaccessible sweetspot of hilarity, and, as mentioned, cats are smart.
4. With apologies—I’m certainly not cool enough to channel Carrie Bradshaw, but sometimes I have to pay homage.5
5. Go ahead—you know you want to say it out loud... “Homage.”
6. A totally accidental homage to SATC. Mmmm, cosmos. Ohhh-maggge. Hom-idge.
7. Rolling on the floor laughing her ass off. Pre-empting Muzzah's inevitable question.
8. The fact that I invited four little girls (in addition to my one) into my house on the first snow day makes me seriously question my place on the mammal smartness hierarchy. A cat would NEVER do that. A dog definitely would, though.
9. Figures rounded to the nearest ten.
10. I am using this term correctly, my friends.
11. That was figurative. Well, the board is real. But, they were figuratively stuck to my—oh, I don’t need to explain this, do I?
12. Is the ridiculous number of notes making you feel like you’re reading in circles? Sorry—I just didn’t want to feel alone here between the pets.
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