How Do You Know? Trust Me, I KNOW.

So, in what can only be described as a loss of 121 minutes of my life, Feyoncé and I watched the unusually-stabby-rage-y-feeling inducing crap film called "How Do You Know" last night.

It had all of the components a few of the components  a component  some of the components to make a decent film:

• Paul Rudd
• Reese Witherspoon
• Owen Wilson

I love Reese! I love Paul! I am happy that Owen is doing much better, after his suicide attempt a few years back.

I know that you will want those 121 minutes of your life back.

But it WAS.JUST.AWFUL.  For the first 40 minutes, I kept telling Feyoncé that the line/idea/segment/part of the movie was unnecessary, ridiculous, pointless, not-at-all believable, painful to watch, or out-of-line and/or slightly demeaning in some ways to the strong character Reese plays.

My personal opinion? About the first 100 minutes of the movie were what you normally see in the "deleted scenes" special edition section of a DVD, because it was irrelevant and boring.

The last 20 minutes were bearable. Owen had a few pretty funny one liners. That was it.

*sigh*

It brought out rage close to Michael Bublé levels.

And we all know THAT can't be good for me. Or Feyoncé. Or you, dear friends.

Quick summary of all that is StephanieC:

• I have been feeling very shitty emotionally and physically the past few days.  
• I have been searching for literally hours and hours and hours and hours trying to find a honeymoon that fits for us, that is unique, and it is driving me crazy(ier).
• I ordered my bridesmaids' dresses.
• Some door-to-door asshole rang the door THREE times on Good Friday morning, while Feyoncé was on a work call in the basement and I was trying to get my bearings while falling out of bed.                You would think a large, unruly Great Dane STANDING UP ON THE INTERIOR OF THE DOOR would deter someone from at least the SECOND doorbell ring, but, NO.  You have no idea how much effort it takes for me to try to get him wrangled and locked away, just to tell you that I am not interested in your cookbooks/religion/fundraising sausage/overpriced chocolate bars/notice that there is a potentially-fatal gas leak and we need to leave the premises immediately . It's not worth even answering the door.  Once Feyoncé got there (while I was restraining the great beast) she asked if he had been sleeping (well you didn't really give a shit one way or the other, didja now?? HMM?)!

Don't bother to ring a second or third time. Just run.

He's sweet inside, but even I would run from a face like that looking back at me AT EYE LEVEL, if I was schlepping door-to-door.

• Icing on the cake? Feyoncé hasn't been feeling well either, so he went to lay down for a bit. And someone else came by door-to-door.  A ringin' away.  *CUE DOGS BARKING THEIR HEADS OFF*.   I struggled beside Schultz to get door-front window real estate, so my face was visible in the doorway and I waved the guy off.   That's right.   Made a *shooing* motion.   At least it worked, and he didn't have to see my pajama pants. Or smell my breath.

I'm holding out on writing any more blog stuff until I get out of this mental pissy state.
Or until Cesar Milan can come here and teach me calm assertive leadership when it comes to strangers at the door.

That last picture of Schultz is sort of helping a bit...

____

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Someone Thinks I'm Versatile! (Everyone Else Just Thinks I'm Crazy)

So through random algorithms produced by the interwebs, Sam over at A Redhead Named Sam felt it fitting to bestow the Versatile Blogger award on little ole me.

I have most certainly been called worse...  ;-)

*blushing*

Sam has described me, and I quote:

"Random is right...there really isn't a cohesive theme to this blog unless you consider humor and randomness a theme. I guess, in that context, it is. Anyway...moving on. If you like The Bloggess, you'll probably enjoy this one too. *I* enjoy it - if that influences your decision at all. ;)"

Thanks for the award, Sam!

I am supposed to:
1.) Tell all of you 7 facts about myself.
2.) Tag 7 of fellow bloggers to do the same.

Facts Away!

1) I can always tell what kind of silverware I am pulling out of the clean dishwasher rack before seeing it, just based on the weight (e.g. knife, spoon, fork). I am eerily accurate. It is a totally and completely useless skill. And apparently my number one fact about myself

2) Lately I have not felt the slightest bit funny, had the slightest desire to blog, nor feel that I have had any quality content. I have also failed to deliver two guests posts.

3) I consistently scratch the crack of my butt with my engagement ring. It's big and sharp and continually reminds me that I should be using a washcloth. Also reminds me that I will likely blind small children and puppies with this bad boy. (Look out, Ella!)

4) I love love LOVE Stephen Colbert and think he is hilarious. Only in character. The only time I like him out of character is when he is still technically in character, but is cracking up laughing trying to stay IN character. He consistently makes me laugh and I love it. I've also seen Jon Stewart in stand up comedy twice, and the first time, I laughed so hard that my stomach was killing me and my cheeks hurt from smiling for so long.

Stevie boy is on the right. I LOVE him!

5) I watched 3 seasons of True Blood over the course of a long weekend, non-stop back to back. I ate, slept, dreamed everything Bill and Sookie. It's so bad it is good. I love True Blood. (Do the things I like count as things about me? No? Too bad).

6) =
=
[

(Ella, the puppy, typed that one for me).

real #6: I am dying to go to one of those gorgeous over-water bungalows in Bora Bora where you can walk right from your hut into the water. They are stunning and RIDICULOUSLY expensive. A girl can dream.

This goes into the mother-frikken OCEAN. It's pure paradise in Bora Bora! Me want!

7) I always ask Feyoncé to play online Scrabble, then bitch and moan the ENTIRE time because I have shitty letters/no idea what words to make/am losing/know I will lose/used to kick his butt, but never do any more.

The following are 7 neat blogs that you should check out if you haven't already:

1) D'Artagnan ("Dee") over at Support Your Own Agenda
2) Mrs. Hyde over at A Bitch Called Mom
3) Brucie over at JADIP
4) Kage over at Sex, Sequins + Sociopaths
5) Jewels over at Jewels Turning 30 (aka Turning 30: A Journey of Self Exploration)
6) Oilfield Trash over at his accurate 10% theory blog, Make Daddy A Sammich
7) Jeff over at Content Unrelated

Check 'em out.

Later gators.

____________

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Hoarders - The Beginning

First off - Hello to all the new followers and visitors to the blog! Let me wow you with some mundane shit  crazy-talk  ridiculousness  stuff.

So, Feyoncé wanted to do some purging and cleaning and sorting.

Apparently this is "all the rage" during "spring time". And yes, I have put spring in quotes, because this mother-effing snow won't piss off, so it's a pretty questionable spring time if you ask me.

Anyway, I immediately became defensive and wanted to save every extra toaster, bread bag plastic tie and odd-shaped glass container that I own... you know... just IN CASE.

In case of a large influx of 50 loaves of bread that show up without closure tags    in case of really impatient company and not enough bread slots, resulting in exceptional delays of toast delivery    because plastic is the devil and I am one crazy bitch.

You know, just in case we need it some time. It's so much easier if it is already around, as opposed to having to go out and buy new stuff.

So then I took a look around, and realized that some stuff was piling up ridiculously. The stuff you see all of the time, but your mind sort of cancels out the ugliness/ghetto-fabulousness/clutter/dirt/fur pile-up, just because it's always there. Like the great dane drool all across the walls.

I present to you Exhibit A of how I am becoming a Hoarder. The famed "junk drawer":

Prepared to tie bread, open wine, cut a bitch with a utility knife, and plug a sink with a warped drain stop.

I had every single bread bag tie that has ever entered this house since 2007. I shit.you.not. Why? I have no idea, because I also had every single elastic band that has ever made its way through the door. And twist ties, too, for good measure.

I tried to throw a bunch of shit out, and made some progress. I cleaned off some cupboards and re-organized (though, admittedly, didn't actually get RID of too much stuff).

Seriously, who gives a shit about my junk drawer? Really?

Oh well, at least ONE SINGLE FREAKIN' DRAWER has been cleaned. And Feyoncé did a drool wipe-down.

Does that count as spring cleaning? I say yes!

___

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Have I Mentioned I Hate Cleaning?

So, I rolled my lazy ass out of bed somewhere around the noon-mark yesterday (mothers everywhere, feel free to hate on me).

As soon as I was up, Feyoncé was already cleaning up papers, putting crap away, doing laundry, saving lives and giving money to the poor.

I felt like I had enough energy to eat. Maybe, MAYBE even go to the store to get fruit to have with my wheat and dairy-laden waffles and coconut yogurt.

After I bravely faced the hoardes of slow-moving elderly shoppers at the jam-packed grocery store, fought through same drivers in the parking lot, grabbed a coffee and made it home, I was ready for a nap again.

What did I end up doing, you ask?

Well, Feyoncé was talking about this "spring cleaning" phenomenon that I am vaguely aware of. He went to the store and ran some errands.

I ended up cleaning the front entrance way.

On my mother-effin' hands and knees.
Using a mother-effin' toothbrush to get all the dog drool and dirt and grossness that couldn't be reached with regular, upright cleaning methods.

People, a MOTHER-EFFIN' toothbrush.

I inhaled all kinds of "Fantastik" cleaner, I Swiffer wet-jetted that vinyl flooring like no other assault it has likely ever seen in its life. I think I vaccuumed before washing about 3 times, just to be sure. And I used that weird pointy, funnel-down-to-a-point edge attachment.

Yes, I used central vaccuuming ACCESSORIES, I was so hard core.

The soundtrack to this wondrous (if not atypical) cleaning event?

It's pure gold... bellbottoms.

Oh yeah, Abba, on full blast, so as to hear it over the vaccuum, scrubbing, swearing, sweating, and brushing. (As in mother-effin' toothbrushing the wood floor trim).

Feyoncé came home. I could tell the music was jarring to him. So while I was on my hands and knees, Feyoncé literally said the music needed to be turned down.

WHAAAAAAAAAAT?!?

But... they're so HAPPY, honey... it's ABBA?!?

I'm on my mother-effin' knees cleaning the mother-effin' quarter-round wood trim, and he DARES to try to soften/quiet/stop the ABBA?

I was angry... I need the music to motivate.  (p.s. I would have been much happier playing with a kite instead.)

Anyway, the poor guy ALSO worked his butt off doing the mile-high stack of dishes, to the only slighty-quieter ABBA soundtrack.

I later found out that he truly, deeply hates ABBA, that it was an awful experience for him, and, when asked, he was hard pressed to tell me ANY OTHER POSSIBLE MUSIC I could have played that would have been worse for him. (My apologies on the abuse of the comma there).

Anyone else need loud music to clean?
Clean their floors/rim with a toothbrush?

Anyone else think Swiffer is total BULLSHIT, since it makes it LOOK clean, but makes it sticky, which will ultimately just attract more dirt, requiring you to Swiffer again, causing an endless vortex of swiffer-squirting-then-sticking-then-resquirting?

No? Just me? 

FINE.

__

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California Doomed: I'm On A Boat Y'all. For 8 Effing Hours...

[EDIT: To clairfy - we WERE on the water for 8 hours due to the weather conditions... I'm not just really bad at adding 3.5 + 3.5!]


So... for our trip we decided to do something romantical-ish and touristy, so Feyoncé suggested a trip to Catalina Island, in California. We'd take a ferry from the Balboa Island/Newport Landing area, and see Catalina Island for a few hours.

My understanding was that this was a LARGE FERRY.

Cue "I'm on a boat y'all":
(Be warned - heeee-larious, but explicit, NSFW lyrics)
(p.s. Are you living under a rock if you haven't seen this before?!? Andy Samberg cracks me up)



So, yeah. (I love this song for it's ridiculouness and the voice modifier thingie, just FYI).

There was definite risk involved, as you may know I experience debilitating nausea for at least some part of my day, typically every day.

I thought that with some extra nausea medicine, a large stable-ish boat, and the distraction of adorable water creatures (you know, dolphins, whales, T-Pain, the Little Mermaid, Sebastian, Flounder, etc.) that I might make it out okay, as I typically don't experience sea-sickness (ironic, in a way).

Ariel & crew. I assumed we would probably spot them while   whale watching   dolphin watching   looking at the water inevitably not see them because we are curled up in the fetal position on a metal bench trying to desperately retain body heat.

The description on the website is as follows:

3.5 hours on a boat y'all. One way. To Catalina Island. *crickets*.   Inside tourist tip: The sundeck is only sunny if the sun is out.

But I only briefly looked at it. I thought Feyoncé said 2 to 2.5 hours each way. I totally wasn't paying attention, because he did indeed tell me 3.5 hours. It's right there on the website. I think I got it mixed up in my head with a different speedboat option that was shorter. Who the fuck hell knows with me, anyhow.

Well, along with Oilfield Trash's 10% rule, anyone who knows me knows that randomly odd/weird/bad/awkward shit happens to me all the time.

This place keeps count of how many dolphins and whales are spotted on the tour. The board had big claims for the previous days:

Me and my motherffing shitty luck.... Hmm, no dolphin count for our Catalina Island  nightmare "journey".

Yay! I thought. The sun is out! I smiled. "It's turned out to be a gorgeous day!" I told Feyoncé.

This all held true. For approximately 20 minutes.

Oh HAI dock! Lovely day! Surely the clouds will burn off like they always do, says Feyoncé! Yay! Um... clouds? CLOUDS?

Then it turned cold. The sun disappeared. The 20° C weather dropped. The wind picked-up as the boat chugged along. At a snail's pace. To allow us to see the dolphins and whales.

I had bare feet and flats on. I lost feeling in my toes. I had on a t-shirt, a wool sweater, a wool cardigan, and a gore-tex windbreaker with a hood. I was still cold.

Oh wait! A dolphin! Yay! Look guys! Here is the best photo I got of ALL of the hundreds  thousands  dozens  tens   8 dolphins we spotted!



The best part?






I captured the whale we got to see in the same shot!






This was actually really awesome...





Please don't steal and re-use this photo, I know it is neat, but it is mine.





Okay.






Here goes.







Ready?

You may or may not notice that there are no dolphins on this Catalina Boat Tour photo. I have also included all of the zero whales we saw. Gorgeous, yes?

Yup.



But, I did get this:





And that summarizes what turned out to be 8 HOURS ON A MOTHER-EFFING BOAT Y'ALL.


We were so cold on the way back that I was literally curled into a human-turtle on the metal seat I had (backless, of course). My guy did his best to try to shield the wind and help me keep warm. He even gave me his socks on the way back, so my feet wouldn't be as icy.

The dock and Express boat at Catalina Island.

Interesting aside - I didn't feel great throughout (that's standard for me), but once I went into the enclosed bathroom area, it was like total vertigo. I was so violently nauseous and ill I had to keep staring at the skyline, and I couldn't let anything touch me or I knew I would start intensely heaving.

Pretty water... once feet were firmly planted on Catalina Island.

On the plus side:

• Got to spend time with my guy
• The water looked pretty, once we were firmly on land.
• The boat left late, leaving us with just over an hour to see Catalina Island. (p.s. There is nothing to see there, and the restaurant smells like a bouquet of mould).
• One spot on the hill did have a lovely view.
• It made for a... story, I suppose.
• The sun was mostly out for the time on the island, and part of the boat ride. (A small, cold part).
• Neither of us puked.
• Neither of us had to stand the entire time like some people did (there aren't enough seats on the boat).
• I had a Charleston Chew chocolate/candy bar and a banana for lunch so I wouldn't puke anything heavy. The cashier at the local store at the beach had no idea what I was asking her until I stopped saying "chocolate bar" and corrected myself to say "candy bar".

Catalina Island boat ride from hell?

So, don't go to Catalina Island, man.

They claim to have seen hundreds and thousands of dolphins and a few whales almost every other voyage.  They gave us a free 2.5 hour whale watching card once we docked. Safe to say I will not be redeeming that.

____

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California Doomed: Horrors Behind Closed Doors?

Continued below (warning: I change tenses a bit, deal with my inconsistency accordingly):

So, as in my last post, I had recently, sweatily (What, so what if it isn't a word, I just made it one!) got through airport security, U.S. Customs, and I am alone.

In some countries like Cuba, you get screamed/shouted at if you don't continue moving after you pass through their security or customs area. So I try to walk really slowly around the edge of security.

I don't know if I will be yelled at or forced to move on.

I see the sign for the fancy schmancy Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge to my right, but realize I have no access without Feyoncé.

It is also then that I realize that HOLY-SHIT-WHERE-THE-HELL-IS-HE, HE'S-BEEN-GONE-FOR-A-WHILE-AND-I-DON'T-KNOW-WHERE-HE-WILL-END-UP-WHEN-HE-IS-DONE.

I am standing alone, without a watch, without a clue as to where he is or how long he will be.

So I put on my big girl pants and wait. 5 minutes. It feels like a long time. Until I still see nothing for the next 3 minutes... 5 more..

5 more...

and 5 more.

I finally approach someone official-looking and ask if Feyoncé will end up in the same place as me once he is done his "random check". The gentlemen assures me that if my guy is travelling to the U.S. that he will, indeed, have to come through the same security area.

He offers that I go to the lounge to wait for him. Or try calling him.

(While it would have been a helpful addition to this post to add photographs of all of the NO CELL PHONE signs posted throughout the security area, I feel that whipping out my cell or camera to document said signs probably wouldn't have gone over very well).

SO THANKS, official-looking-guy. Pretty sure I can't call him, and sure as hell HE CAN'T answer his own phone if he is in interrogation/being searched rectally.

So after twenty minutes have passed, I can feel whatever semblance of big-girl-pant-ed-ness I had crumbling under the weight of the terror that I will never see Feyoncé again/I will miss the flight/ I will die just beyond the border of the security area.

I mean, totally rational, right? Probably the most likely area to die. Or not.

So I start CRYING people.

CRYING at the motherfucking airport, at 31 years of age.

Crying at the airport.... Who? ME?? Nooooo.

After 35 minutes of anxiety and confusion, I finally see him making his way through the hundreds of feet of security aisle.

I cannot express the relief I felt.

I can see, too, that he is at least happy to communicate to me that although he has been violated in ways no man should ever (nor will ever) discuss publicly, that he knows that I NOW KNOW that he is alive and will be coming with me.

We head to the lounge together, STAT, because I need a mother-effing drink more than you can say "overreact".

SO... turns out there was a long line-up in the random screening section. That was it.



Yup, just a line-up. And a friendly search person who apologized for the delay to him. And some questions about pocket contents.

Jaysus.

Also? I think that the Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge at Pearson Airport waters down their liquor because I downed two triple vodka and iced teas in about 15 minutes and didn't feel it.

So that was the start to my first (and only?) trip to California.

Calm, cool, and collected.

Good thing I brought my big girl pants, eh?

______

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California Doomed: Customs & Cavity Searches

So it was kind of novel, having my laptop present with me while on the plane.

I am capable of killing hours at a time with laptop in lap (along with Puppaaaay! who was renamed officially to Ella a few weeks ago), accomplishing nothing, sometimes spending money, sometimes not.

The interwebs are a miraculous and terrifying black hole where time and space (and money) can disappear in (what seems like) an instant.

Anyway, so me and Feyoncé were scheduled for this trip to L.A..... (do you punctuate after a short form period? Jeez, I don't know these things, stop staring at me!).

I wasn't planning on doing much, since I still don't feel well (mind you, I had no idea a hospital stay was in my future).

We have this nifty little thing called a Nexus pass that allows you (slightly) easier (sort of) access into the U.S., if you aren't an asshole and you don't have a criminal record or anything.

Nexus: "Don't faahck mess with us"

You have to pass an interview and have your fingerprints taken (Feyoncé noted that we would be totally screwed CSI-style if we ever decided to rob a bank in the future, since we are "on file" now... not that we ever WOULD, but you know, if we ever WANTED to in the future).

They scan your eyeballs, too. The machine scans your mother-effing RETINAS, people.

It's kind of cool.

Unless they still decide that your travelling partner should be subjected to a full scan/further random investigation.

Okay. No problem. I'm cool. My form says something different. I'll just CALMLY proceed ahead to the baggage drop and security. NO problem. Cool. No problem.

I see Feyoncé meander away to the room that you cannot see for his (full-body cavity search and interrogation with two cruel government agents under a solitary swinging lightbulb) random check.

Full body scan - always better than a full cavity search. Imagine this is me, but with less boob. Oh, and less gun in the arse, too.

I start to weave through the thousand-foot long security aisle and get shouted at for going the wrong way. I wince and panic. (Keep in mind I am travelling with about the mental capacity of a 5-year old. An immature 5 year old).

I can feel the panic-rash starting and feel like all the security is looking at me like I am a freakish security threat with my borrowed backpack and stylin' boots over jeans look.

I am then told I am being randomly selected for trace substances on my hands. Some guy with (terrifying) blue rubber gloves wands over my hands to see if I am a criminal of sorts.

I also wonder, for a moment, if I have washed my hands recently and panic about that, too.

What's that Mr. Security Man? No, nope, been up to nothing. Sparkling clean hands. See for yourself. I loathe dirt. Didn't you see the liquid hand sanitizer in my bag?

I then REMEMBER, FOR ONCE, to take my damn belt off BEFORE setting off alarms and whatnot. I also remember to take out my laptop first, so as not to seriously PISS-THE-EFF-OFF the security folk like I did the last time I travelled with my computer.

I make it through, looking and feeling guilty as hell (of nothing at all) and make it to the other side of the joys known as U.S. Customs and security.

I even remembered to put all my "liquids" into a small zipper bag. (You know, the dangers of stay-on lipstick, lip gloss, chap stick, and a tiny pen-dispenser of hand sanitizer. World be damned, I am a dangerous bitch on a plane).

I pass through... but there is no Feyoncé. Anywhere.
ANYWHERE.

I am on my fucking own, watchless, vaguely aware of my surroundings, all disheveled from my check in experience...


Where will he come out? What if he went to the fancy pants Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge without me somehow? What if he enters into a completely different security area? What is taking so long? Why did they scan my hands and yell at me? Where IS HE?

And then FULL ON panic sets in.


To be continued...

____________

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California Doomed: Airport Stylin'

So what can only be the wisest decision for my digestive system included not only the primary and secondary gluten assaults as provided by Pizza Hut pizza (mmmmm... blech), then a wonderful dinner at Kit Kat restaurant in Toronto...

I also figured it would only be in my most sincere and heartfelt best interests to go gung ho in the Air Canada fancy schmancy pants lounge prior to our flight to LAX (Los Angeles, California, for all you non-travellers or knowers of airport coding).

I can't help it. They have ever-flowing, always re-stocked tiers of cookie plates for any and all to devour.

Oatmeal raisin anyone? What's that? Oh, there's chocolate chip as well? Well fuck me and call me Uncle Charlie Sheen, full of winning tiger blood.

Well, not really. Don't do that. Feyoncé probably wouldn't appreciate it (and hell, I have no idea where you have been, what if you are a carrier of some horrendous STD or something?)

I digress.

So yeah. I was all excited for the gluten-free chick pea/cherry tomato/spices/olive oil salad. Had two bowlfuls. One of the employees looked at me bug-eyed, in awe of my (bravery? stupidity?) for consuming such a large amount of fibrous beans in a single ten-minute sitting.

What can I say, I aim to impress.

Speaking of which, WTF. I usually travel with comfort, and ONLY COMFORT, in mind.  
Feyoncé even commented with those EXACT WORDS.

As I have mentioned previously, I particularly despise the once-over twice-over I typically get from the Air Canada Lounge staff when I accompany my guy into their superior and fantastical territory (in my pajama pants).

SO this time... THIS TIME, I actually wore somewhat fitted jeans with BOOTS over my jeans. I know, fucking crazy. Feyoncé thinks the look is ridiculous, but I did it anyway to be STYLISH.

FUCKING STYLISH, bitches.

I was totally hot like this, all shadowy and mysterious. Sort of. Jeans over boots Babies, jeans over boots.

I say that now, with swollen calves, blisters, and sweaty feet. No one gives a solitary shit about what I look like at the airport, or anywhere else, for that matter. 

But I decided, "Hey! I am going to mother-effing California, y'all! They are all wealthy and fashion-savvy, and every single woman has breast implants and no grey hair! I better step up my freakin' game!"

So yeah. Um, I don't do stylish well. Nevermind stylish + travelling + cranky + gluten-filled-bloaty.

Also? The entire time I am typing this, I am fighting the fucking moron in front of me who is attempting to push their seat back with their entire strength. It's amazing what an upright laptop, strong wrists, and perseverance can do.

Fucker.


I'm pretty sure the small Asian lady in front of me will only be comfortable if her seat is pushed back into our departure port of Toronto.

Okay, that's not fair. I have no idea if she is Asian.

But I do know she is one of those assholes with no concern for others' personal space.

If I ever become the I-fully-recline-my-seat-and-don't-give-a-flying-fuck types promise me that you will shoot me or send a computer virus to me stat to smack some sense into me.

Anyway, have I mentioned how much I fucking HATE flying?

My wrists are sore from sitting in crouching-passenger-hidden-carpal-tunnel form, to keep her from crushing my laptop. It's the only force from stopping me from full on claustrophobia.

The next post will let you know how much fun the transition was from friendly (not really) Pearson Airport into that shifty, terrifying area known as U.S. Customs.

*I should preface the next post with a disclaimer that I am the hugest wuss ever, especially when travelling. Like, 5 year old mentality and calm, cool, collected-ness. (Read: none).

Yes, in the end I checked, she was a 4'-0" tall Asian lady. Who apparently feels like that little car that FEELS really big inside.



______

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Checking In: Death Addition

Hey Y'all.

I am writing to you in the most upright position I have been in, in 13 hours. I have severe stomach pain and all kinds of other GI and feverish symptoms... not sure if it is a flu bug, or if death is upon me.

(It could really go either way at this point).



Here's a post for y'all:

Things that I suck at:

- Not obsessing over things
- Travelling
- Going through airport security. No, really.
- Sports in general
- Cleaning the house
- Boggle, as of late

Things that I kick ass at:

- Finding a good deal, even if I drive myself crazy doing so
- Finding a wedding dress for a good price (which is really just repetition of point #1)

Okay..

Um.

Things that I suck at:

- Compiling lists of things that I kick ass at, that do not involve finding good deals
- Assessing my true self worth
- Finding non-food-poisoning-inducing restaurants to eat at
- Avoiding wheat and the subsequent discomfort/nausea/bloating/pain
- Avoiding sugar


Ooooh, so actually...


Things that I kick ass at:

- Eating forbidden and detrimental foods such as wheat
- Eating sugar (in any, and all, available forms)
- Eating
- Stress eating
- Drinking
- Drinking alcohol


Which reminds me....

Things that I suck at:

- Recovering from drinking in general
- Recovering from a hangover
- Recovering from an injury
- Recovery
- Keeping track of my boarding pass and passport at any given time while inside an airport
- Being patient with assholes who recline their seats fully while on an airplane. (p.s., if you do it, you are an asshole too. Sorry, I love you. But really. Really??)


Things that I kick ass at:

- Using the elipsis
- Over-using commas everywhere, all the time, inappropriately and incorrectly (and loving every minute of it)
- Critiquing Feyoncé's haircuts
- Occupying myself while on an airplane (fucking terrible... thank goodness for my laptop. I thought we were almost there and realized there was still 2.5 hours to go. Who does that? Really? Seriously? Way to go, Me.)

Things that I suck at:

- Sticking to exercising regiments
- Timing eating so I don't throw up/feel like I am going to throw up and/or pass out while exercising
- Going to bed early
- Getting up early
- Picking a great/good/mediocre/watch-able movie, with any company, at any point in time.


Okay, that's enough for now.

Hope I don't die on ya.

___

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My Take On Weddings

Being husband and wife should be good.

I will admit I am terrified of divorce rates, and how many friends of ours have already split/divorced, but I know I want to spend my life with Feyoncé.

Now, my take on the wedding machine in general is this:

The general price tag? Exorbitant.
The typical lead time you need to book the venue and reception hall you need? Ridonkulous.
The overwhelming and ridiculous precedent that websites like TheKnot.com and OurWeddingDay.com set? Enough to make me curl into the fetal position, weeping, after learning I have to:

A) Tip everyone, their brother, their third cousin, and the janitor 22% (on top of the whack-job prices that are out there).

B) Import flowers from Fiji, Timbuktu and Alaska for my bouquet, in order to feel pretty and not have a laughable pack of stems (that will die in a few hours).

C) Ask 14 women to buy overpriced, hideous dresses to have a typical "bridal party" (I have seen many photographers' websites, and the average seems to be 7-8. For reals).

D) Pay $70 for a child's meal. (I kind of hope for underage drinking at that rate).

E) Realize I will ONLY be a beautiful bride with a designer dream dress worth $2,000+ (or be left treated like garbage at most bridal stores for looking for off-the-rack dresses that don't require ordering and are usually cheaper).

F) Be pressured to spend almost $200 on a piece of "bridal illusion tulle" (basically white or ivory screen door material with some beads) for a bloody veil! And what's that you say? Tiara? Oh, that small one there is $175. (*choke, gag*)

G) Spend hundreds of dollars on custom invitations and ornate centrepieces (who bases their enjoyment of a wedding based on the price tag of an invitation or centrepiece? Really?)

Okay, I could go on forever, but I'll cut to the chase.

We want a day to celebrate our love. We want a reasonable wedding. We want our family and friends to be a part of our union, have a great meal, drink their faces off, dance, and experience a great party.

I don't want all the frivolous extras. Neither does Feyoncé. They add up so FAST, but they are also more details to worry about.

I worry enough.
I obsess enough.

I just want nice.

Nice and simple, and a loving environment with our friends and family.

Not feeling forced into assimilating and following traditions. We aren't traditional. Shouldn't it be about love and fun and great memories? Not a second mortgage?

Societal pressure can be so bloody intense. And, by the way, A through G will NOT be happening.


p.s. To those of you out there that have, or will, or plan to have ginormous huge $$$ blingy weddings, and WANT them, all the power to you. I am sure you will blow everyone away.

middle child - I will not be spending even a fraction of that on a flower girl basket, you can be damn sure, as I’ve mentioned before.

Tom G. - I damn well better only get married once. I couldn't handle the planning of a SECOND wedding! ;-)


You're Lucky I Don't Have a Gun... - I REFUSE to be jaded. I refuse to spend like crazy. I have to have a lame vegetarian gluten-free meal, lest I be a farty bride, but I get your point.

Yandie, Goddess of Pickles. - As I said, I did get one, at "Impression Bridal" in Mississauga, thanks to advice from a friend (thanks A!)

Storm. Kat Storm.- Don't be fooled, I come with a toolbox of fear as well. Also? I don't compute "upscale". lol.


V-Tom - Good luck getting married inexpensively ANYWHERE, even if it is simple. I understand your sentiment, but wedding costs for ANYTHING are insane. INSANE, I SAY!

becca, myjoyproject, Angie and Jumble Mash - Thanks for your congratulations, I appreciate the support.

The Empress - That is SO the mentality. Just make it bigger! Better! Grandiose! Charlie Sheen-esque (with less crazy). It's friggin' nuts.

steph c - Are you budget-less? Unlimited? We don't have a set budget, but we don't want to be suckers, or overpay where we don't have to.

Oilfield Trash  - We're trying to keep it small. We are.

steph gas - Thanks steph. We know it's our day. Just gotta stay focused on the end goal! And you should totally look into wedding planning as a career again if you love it!

 

 jess - That would be the most awesome bachelorette party ever, but I don't think I would have any takers.

 Chris - Meh... I hate saying Feyoncé. I just want to enjoy things, but feel like I need to plan it all NOW, FIRST so I can then relax (ha ha).


On My Soapbox - It's true, even hairstyle "Updos" are $15+ more to start simply because it is for a bride and they know you will pay!

bruce  - I'm with ya man. It's a rip off!

hed - These are the main details. Otherwise my friends who lurk and read this will see things before the wedding, and I don't want that! lol.


_______

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Am I Engaging? I'd Like To Think So...

So if you missed the second to last post, I'm engaged y'all.

And not in that Britney-Spears-55-hour-long-marriage kind of engaged. It's taken us 6 and 1/2 years to get here.

This is what I actually did, right after Feyoncé proposed:



Fucking Awesome, right?

Okay, not really... but that IS me and I actually did that in Jamaica a few years ago, and it was the most fun I had had (had had?) in years.

Also? I look terribly sexy in shorts and black sport socks.

It's okay to feel a little jealous inside. (Go ahead, watch it again, you know you want to)

Now... I am not, by any means, planning to turn this into a wedding blog, but let me tell you there is some seriously effed up shizz in the wedding world. I will be touching on some of what I have already experienced in my quest to find an affordable dress, and all that jazz.

When searching for a veil online, I came across this photo of "flower girls"

The left flower "girl" looks like she could be a dude... and the one on the right, well... I just don't know.

The "girl" on the right should maybe not be wearing the cleavage-displaying, pedophiliac delight as she appears to be. Tell me I am not the only person troubled by that photo? And lefty seriously looks like s/he could be a dude with waxed arms. Just sayin'.

I searched Kijiji for wedding dresses. (Kijiji is the cheap bastard's eBay - it's free to list and so people will list just about anything).

Found this gem, posted for you ladies out there in need of a throwback to 1982:

You might have had better luck selling this dress about 30 years ago (you know, despite it's seasonal versatility and pet-free home and everything).

I know, awesome right? You're welcome. All for the low price of $75. I think the sales pitch should have been "awesome costume for 80s-themed Halloween party!!".

One additional note. I went into Heirlooms Bridal Shoppe in Dundas, Ontario, just to see what they had in store. I asked the sales associate what, if anything, they had in my price range.

She literally looked at me like I had just shat in the front doorway. And she turned her nose up, as if it smelled like I had just shat in the doorway. She then had the nerve to SCOFF at me, and say:

"Well, we have some very PLAIN dresses here. They are about (twice your budget)" as she lazily sifted through a few "destination" dresses at the front of the store.

Wow.

Haughty, snotty bitch.

The wedding industry is like the rich girl/cool kid club, and I am SO NOT ONE OF THOSE.

I promptly told her I would look elsewhere. GAH.

p.s. I did find a dress somewhere else, within my budget.

p.p.s. Trying to find a wedding dress when suffering extreme fatigue is not fun, time consuming, and exhausting. Just letting you know.
___

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Embarrassing Realizations (Part 2 of ∞ )

No matter how hard you try, no matter how many washes, black track pants/sweat pants will inevitably leave black fuzzies in the crack of your arse. It's true.

Be aware of this now, and every time you wear them (for only the most discerning people [such as myself] wear pants with elastic waistbands that are comprised of a pilly fleecy interior). p.s. They call them sweat pants for a reason. SwAss people, swass.

Don't even TRY to deny that. You'll think you're pooping spiders for a second.

 
Second embarrassing revelation: Don't attend a "Toronto Dances With The Stars" workshop, with only a modicum of dance knowledge.

You will be surrounded by excellent dancers who already know the moves, more than a few bitchy/ignorant dance studio teachers/owners who will tell you to "get the hell out of the way", and a bunch of people who THINK they can dance, but cannot.

The latter group will treat your (my) apologetic, bumbling, self-conscious ass like a piece of whale poop, as you (I) muddle through the instruction without a partner.

Dmitry Chaplin shoots lasers out of his left eye. Totally worth the ticket cost.

I got a picture with Dmitry - he's cute and personable. He was nicer than most of the participants there!

Me & Dmitry, and my flashless, non-smart phone

While I am sure there were a few other semi-normal single folk out there attending this workshop, I was only exposed to a few crazies, and one complete and utter douchebag/slimeball who forcibly made me dance to the last song on my way out of the evening gala dinner (with my coat and gloves on).

MY INNER VOICE: "Guess what asshole, you're wrong. You can't dance." (Image source)

Third embarrassing revelation: If there is a somewhat friendly single male individual who offers to partner up with you for one dance practice session, and your gut is telling you "Get the fuck away from this guy, he oozes creep and causes you extreme discomfort!" ... then listen to your gut.

A little of this:

Irritating and salesman-like

Plus a little of this:

The finger-gun type. (No, this isn't him)

Inevitably, your phone calls to random people to avoid him and your declining of his insistent offer to leave the venue to go to lunch together will still not prevent him from proclaiming that you "are the one he wanted to spend the night with", then grabbing your ass at the end of the night. This will all happen before he asks how to stay in touch, you decline the offer, then he chastises you for having the audacity to show up to an event like that if you have a fiancee. (HELLO, dickwad, did you not see the ring on that finger?).

Seriously, he gave me his "card" with his title on it. Guess what his self-generated business card title was? 

"The Connector". (Arguably still better than "The Shocker", I suppose)

I saw him making his way around the room to all of the apparent single ladies, and I think he was gauging their playability based on their:

A) Outfit.
2) Lack of self-esteem (or unwarranted abundance of self esteem).
J) Level of isolation in the room (appearing to be there alone or not).
5) Their inability to tell him off when/if he gets all touchy/grabby/in their face/insistent.


Blah. I was just relieved to get the hell out of there and not have anyone trail me to my car. I will never go out on a limb an attend a social-dance thing like this again.

Final realization for this post: Tons of people call the person they are going to marry their fiancee. Or fiance. (Fee- awnce - say). I feel like an utter douche when I say those words (BF is FABULOUS, it's not him, it's the word). I realize now I can't call him BF any more in these posts, dammit. So in order to cushion the douchey-blow I feel I deliver with every "fiancee"-drop, BF will now be officially renamed to Feyoncé. HA! That's right. He's gonna hate it.

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