I Am Mutant... Hear Me Roar!

Or rather, smell me coming.

What? Huh?

I am mutant. I believe this for many reasons, one of which I will share with you here.

I don't have extra toes, extra nipples, or extra Halloween candy stored above the stove which I dip into every morning before breakfast. (One of those may be a lie).

I don't turn green when I become enraged, although lately I have been very ragey/stabby, but I just mostly get sad. It's like the SADDEST Hulk-A-Stephanie you ever did see.

But I digress.

No, my mutant-status has been achieved through one thing: My Armpits. (Okay, fine, TWO THINGS, shaddap).

I have discovered that typically before I get to the end of my deodorant of choice, my armpits and sweat gland-y system have adapted and mutated to no longer respond to the anti-perspirant properties.

It's like how upper respiratory infections spread through animal shelters because the infection mutates faster than the antibiotics/antibodies. But with less cats and slightly less mucous.

If I am ever so lucky as to have SUCCESS WITH A DEODORANT! for a full container's worth, I swear-to-mother-effing-Jebus that it is, without a doubt, unquestionably and mysteriously a  flavour  smell  blend  perfume-y.thing  formulation that has been DISCONTINUED by the manufacturer.

With less enthusiasm & facial hair, but definitely more muffin top.  Via

It's like my pits and Secret are out to get me. Orange jasmine? Check. Baby powder coconut caffeine? Check. Ylang ylang lavender concrete rose blossom? Tea tree antibiotic lemon zest candy cane-infused menthol? Check. Every fucking time.

I go to Walmart, Shopper's Drug Mart, the grocery store. NOTHING. I ask the clerks who give me a side glance and tell me to keep moving, that they never carried the deodorant in the first place.

Swear.To.Gahd.

Anyway, I have officially run out of new brands to try, so if you know me offline, you've been given fair warning.

Married and smelly.

That is all...


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How To Turn Your Neighbours On While Raking Leaves

It's a sunny November morning.

You're feeling feisty, and looking for trouble.

What now?

Sexy leaf raking.

Directions:

STEP 1: Go braless. It's 1:00pm on a Saturday, so it's not like you would have a bra on anyway.

STEP 2: Always, ALWAYS be sure to be sporting black socks. As you put on your white dollar-store flip flops.

STEP 3: Pants! Don't forget pants. You don't want to get arrested or anything crazy. My recommendation? A nice, faded navy blue pair of men's Scooby-Doo branded pajama pants. Only you will know that a peep through the men's button crotch holds a Sultry leaf-raking Saturday surprise.

Scooby caught a glimpse. Didn't think he was the pervy type.

STEP 4: Cover yourself up with a dirty burgundy hoody. Great Dane drool on the sleeves is optional. (Depends if you can rock it or not, and only you, dear friend, can make that call).

STEP 5: Grunt. A lot. I really mean A LOT.

STEP 6: Wheeze a bit, and brace yourself on your Scooby-covered knees.

STEP 7: Play with your messy, bedraggled hair. Belch if you so desire.

                   Almost done.

STEP 8: Get out the rake and begin raking. Quit part way through to come inside and eat Halloween candy that you never handed out to the neighbourhood kids.

Grr, Baby. Grr.

DONE.

Also?

You're welcome. Just wait for the date requests and restraining orders to start rollin' on in.


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Throw Cushions... What The Hell?

If you have:

A) Kids
B) Pets
C) A Lazy Streak
D) Inability to redo the same futile thing over and over and over

Then please meet  my  your nemesis.

Throw cushions.

Dear readers, you know what I am talking about. Those decorative little square pillow things that only EVER get placed on your sometimes-made-bed when you think there is a chance your house will be toured, or some Nosy Nelly might open your bathroom en-suite door and get a full view of your bedroom.

You know, the sometimes bedazzled, sometimes fuzzy, sometimes glitter/sequin covered pillows that just SCREAM "chew the shit outta me!" to your dogs/cats/mousal uprising (for you, gotjack28!).

Because every home needs more shit like this.

I hate those things. They can't be washed. They get in the way when you want to snuggle with your significant other. (Unless your significant other happens to BE said pillow, in which case, that null and voids the last comment).

They are so... I don't know... grown up? And you have to have a certain level of sophistication to match them to your stuff.

My house is pretty much a mish mash of college-dorm-meets-furnish-the-house-quickly-and-nicely. The nicely part was contributed to by The New Husband. The rest of the shit is just mine.

But I have no time for cushions. I need to blog. And dilly dally.

Dilly dallying = no time for throw cushions.

Our new bed-in-a-bag set came with throw cushions. They've been placed on the bed twice, methinks.

It's true.

Throw cushions are for suckers!

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Christmas Now? No. Just... No.

So...

I was shopping for teddy bears as wedding gifts at the start of October, and damned if the next aisle over wasn't Christmas wrapping paper and decorations.

Just... no.

I'm pretty sure that Christmas is relegated to December. De-mother-effing-cember. That means the stores are allowing 20% of the year to be Christmas. Just... no.

There were Christmas commercials on at the local drug store today. And, in fact, I heard some in a department store on the weekend. It was October. Halloween hadn't even happened yet.

Another piss off - why are so many Halloween costumes just a pretense to dress provocatively? Seriously? There is so much T & A, it's hard to compete!

Admittedly, Christmas is not my favourite holiday, for a multitude of reasons. But I STILL think that shit is overkill (the music and decorations, not the costume).

Where's the specialness of Christmas carols when it's drilled into your head for TWO to THREE ENTIRE MONTHS before the actual day? For that reason alone, I don't think I could survive a career in retail, unless I was stocking shelves and allowed to wear an MP3 player.

Just... damn. No.

Let there be snow! Let it be closer to the holidays, when it will feel special! Don't buy into the commercialism bullshit. There is no perfect gift, the kids will always want more, and your Dad will NEVER give you gift ideas, but will instead buy car parts before Christmas, thereby allowing you to contribute to the car fund, less inundate him with even MORE Swiss Chalet restaurant gift cards.

But I digress.

via

Let Christmas start in December. Hell, December 10th. (The new Husband stated that date, and I like it.)

All this early holiday aural/visual assault just jades me more and turns my lip  farther  up in a sneer.

Bah Humbug.

I think I am in love with Mark Lawrence, of the UK. He's my hero. This is his brilliance.  Check out his website here.

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Another Sexy Picture Of Me

It's okay, you can thank me after you change your undershorts.


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Unfortunately, you can't see the googly eye action in this still, but you can see my mischevious smile. Sorta.

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HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

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The Sexiest Bride Ever (Dinosaurs Not Included)

Always known for hideous posture that I like to call "the Raptor/T-Rex pose"... I invite you to feast your eyes upon the sexiest bride you've ever met.



I mean one sexy bridal b*tch.




ME.





This one's for my sister and for Paula.





Can you say SEX-AY???

Hott stuff. Or is that Hot Pockets? Shit, I don't know.  (Photo credit: The awesomely talented and wonderful K. J. - email me for her contact info unless you are creepy... I have to protect my family's innocence, hence my vagueness)

I thought so.

See?

Uncanny, isn't it? In all fairness, Rex's teeth are whiter.

[EDIT] 

Rather:

There we go. Apples to apples.

[2nd EDIT]

Forgot the shoes & flowers!:

Perfection!

;)

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Another Gay Teen Suicide - RMR

Couldn't say it any better than Rick Mercer.




So sad.

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You Know Your Dogs Are On Edge When...

1. You fart and they fly to the front door, barking their heads off.

2. You fart once more and they resume their determined defense against the flatulence-producing-danger within their hearing range.

3. A lady yells at her 15-year-old daughter on Party Mamas for inviting too many people to her quinceanera, and the dogs unleash their (shared?) fury on the front door in my house.

I can only imagine what my not-yet-conceived children are going to be like.

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Well now it *MUST* be official...

Just changed my status from engaged to married on Facebook, so now it HAS to be legitimate.

Right?

Quite sure this is more legal than that napkin we both signed...

You know your honeymoon must have started out well when the top of your "to-do" list when you arrive home includes writing six detailed complaint letters to the various travel-related companies that effed up royally.

And you can be sure I will post their replies here, when and if I get replies.

Just for the record? Lufthansa airlines believes it is perfectly acceptable to spend 80+ hours (you know, a short 4 days) to get to a destination that should take 25 hours, tops. And not tell you that they've changed the schedule accordingly.

Seriously, it's hard to pronounce. Don't judge me.

***DO YOU GALS/GUYS WANT A RUN DOWN OF THE TRAVEL FUN, or is that shizz boring?*** (I might write about it anyway, to rant.)

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That Last Post Was About Travel...

Just to clarify; the wedding speeches were awesome. Every single thing that everyone said evoked a laugh or a tear.

My friend, M, started her speech with that "box of chocolates" line, and she did a super-duper-uber-awesome-fantastic job.


I literally posted that last blog entry around the 45-hour mark of our 57 hour journey to get to our honeymoon destination. All international flights were cancelled or changed without our knowing. The airlines screwed us. The travel agency screwed us. Hotels.ca and hotels.com screwed us. Sri Lankan airways totally screwed us, all with a smile on their faces. Luggage was ruined.

Deodorant was forgotten.

Thank goodness for the only 4 uncomfortable hours of sleep in the Yotel single bed pod in London Heathrow airport, or we might have torn each other's head's off.

The Former Feyoncé™ happened to notice something was amiss around 5pm (we were supposed to leave around 11pm). Turns out our flight was gone.

Long story short, we had 10 minutes to pack.
For our honeymoon.
That we didn't pre-pack for.

While freaking out with the phone on speaker-phone mode while the guy at Air Canada tried to confirm whether or not we could even fly out... with an impending flight attendant strike looming that could further screw us if we were to leave a day later.

And had to get our asses to the airport right.then.

Not that I stress out much or anything. (Please note extreme sarcasm font).

We made it.

57.mother-effing.hours.later.

And we are still married, so that says somethin'.


More to come....


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Life is like a box of chocolates...

You seriously, REALLY, and I mean SERIOUSLY never know what you're going to get.

A friend of mine began her speech at the wedding with this line (which was awesome), but I tell ya.

Plan in advance. Double check, triple check, and have someone else do the same, and ultimately you may still end up with a tie-dyed pair of jeans, a crown made of twine and rabbit poop, and potato chips flavoured like "prawn cocktail" (that last one is real).

Anywho, I promise to post more narcissistic wedding photos shortly. Because you all care. I am sure of it.

Anyway, you never know what you're gonna get....


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Best.Comforter.EVAAAAR.

At least they think so:

And we foolishly wasted money on a new dog bed for him....

Gotta love it.

I think organza and lace suits Schultz. Ella would look stunning in those pearls.


Happy Canadian Thanksgiving everyone!! I`ve got lots to be thankful for obviously!

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Poop.

That is all.


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My Dog Is An Alcoholic

So, our Dane has post traumatic stress disorder from his horrific treatment before he came to us (No! Wait! The post gets funny, don't click away, I swear this is great).

So after many failed training attempts because of his fear and triggers, the vet agreed that a temporary medication could be helpful in minimizing his fear, while letting him learn with our new C.E.T. dog trainer.

We did it. (Go ahead, I'll wait while you judge me. S'ok.)

Yes, my dog is being treated for anxiety. He has clearly spent too much time around me.

We are now discovering that this is seriously going to curb Schultz' (not Schiltz) hard partying ways, and his weekend social pub crawls. Take a closer look:

Good thing they warned us!!!

Sorry my little (huge) furry buddy, looks like mommy won't be making you any more martinis any time soon.

It's for the best.

Damn, this tough love is so hard.

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He's a Simple Dog...

I just don't have the heart to tell him that he's lying on the PUPPY'S bed, which is approximately half the width, length and thickness of his dog bed.

Um, Schultzy? You're lying on... oh... never mind...

Oh well, I guess he seems comfortable. And in all fairness, they LOOK the same, not that he can see the colour.


Oh... it appears that this isn't his first confused experience:

Your legs are kind of.... oh, forget it.

He seemed to prefer my parents' dog's bed when they were dogsitting before.
(Also note the creative use of headboards and wooden furniture, acting as barricades to prevent his Great Dane butt from overtaking their lovely sofas).

*SIGH*


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Heartburn or Esophageal-burny-cancer-destruction?

So, as my stress level elevates, so does my acid reflux.

I'd like to think this is just run of the mill heartburn.

Then I made the mistake of mentioning it and drinking coffee at the dentist's office the other day and DEAR-LORD-AND-MOTHER-OF-ALL-THINGS-CANCER-FREE, it sounds like my esophagus is slowly killing me in my sleep.

As a sleep-deprived, stressed girl in her last days of pre-wedding planning (read: AGONY), she ASSURED me that what I need is water. WATER. That'll keep me going on the tough days! Water is the cure all! Wateroiahngvia sdiuhauow gvoijhdowerijd bgvpa;ojd... oh, sorry, I fell asleep at the keyboard.

Yeah, sorry tootsie, but water just ain't gonna cut it right now. I even bought a huge Coke after that, and it didn't even help, as I sat listless on the couch doing the DJ play list with Feyoncé™.

So, back to my esophagus and it's stealthy plan to kill me. For the acid reflux I can feel, she said there's a ton more I DON'T feel that could be eating away my tissue at this very moment.

*cue horror music*

Suggested:
I am supposed to raise my pillows up.
Raise the head of my bed up.
Stop drinking anything but water.
Perhaps re-think the 80 Tums/antacids per day.

Actual:

Assume it will get better after the wedding.
Tell myself I'll drink less coffee later on.
Not do a damn thing and start popping Nexium.

Everyone's a critic.

*cue Tums commercial music*

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Tooth Whitening Gone Awry

So, here's the thing.

I wanted to whiten my teeth. YES, I know it won't change the colour of my fillings. YES, I know I am a huge p*ssy and can't stand the sensitivity it causes and I bitch and moan mercilessly until I can no longer stand it and I give up on the whitening treatment at hand.

But then... a year passes, and I resume hyper-criticism of myself in pictures and decide that whitening is in order.

It also helped that a company that tried to rip me off accidentally sent me TWO whitening kits in error and so they were just lying around, begging to be loosely and painfully applied to my gums and chompers.

TEST RUN #1:

- Fill flimsy, ill-fitting mouth trays with clear, goopy, mint-like gel.
- Actually place trays inside of my big mouth and wait for glistening magic to happen.
- Begin foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog on steroids baring its fangs and spewing Alka Seltzer at all passers-by.

Like this, but with a little less moustache. (source)

- Curse newfangled whitening method and try to wipe off 6% hydrogen solution of currently sizzling tongue.
- Continue to drool.
- Check watch to see only 3 minutes have passed (of the 30-60 minutes).
- Re-read package instructions to confirm that yes, indeed, swallowing the solution is NOT recommended or safe.
- Realize that there is NO way would Feyoncé™ agree to do this for the wedding, no matter what I promised in return.
- Check watch to see only 2 more minutes have passed, as I try to distract myself from the sexy foaming, drooling and general spit-pooling in my mouth.

Awesome.

TEST RUN #2
- Same as above, however flimsy bottom tray replaced with my fitted (sexy... RAWR!) mouth guard.
- Intense burning has commenced, and part of my lower teeth are not covered in the goopy gel; fear uneven (if any) results.
- Start blog post to bitch about ineffectiveness of Denta Bright.
- Check watch to see only 11 minutes have passed.


Can only assume that this will be my last run. GAH.

TEST RUN #3
- Discover puppy has chewed the ill-fitting mouth trays to shreds on the floor.
- Stand in shock, having not realized puppy can reach the back of the bathroom counter top.
- Realize that teeth are SO.UNBELIEVABLY.SENSITIVE.AND.PAINFUL, that this is so not worth it.
- Stash trays under bathroom sink for next year when cycle will repeat itself (if I can find new trays).

Like this, but with slightly MORE moustache. (source: drchetan.com)

*Another big, long, dramatic sigh*

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Domestic Supply Stores = Depression

So, not sure if I mentioned this to anyone, but I am getting married in less than 3 weeks.

Ya know, no biggie. It's not like I am the stressing-type.   /sarcasm font

So I moseyed ("mosey-ed"?) on down to the local Home Outfitters to add some stuff to the registry. You know, some reasonable kitchen crap instead of the overpriced pots and pans.

Holy shit.

Want to feel inadequate in the kitchen? Roam the stemware aisle (that's, like, fancy glasses and wine goblets and the like. You know, gold chalices. What every household needs. Like cowbell. MORE MORE MORE).

Want to feel inept in food preparation? Glance at the food combustion/chopping/processing/flame-throwing Cuisinarts. Read their boxes and STILL walk away perplexed at their actual purpose.

Want to feel overwhelmed? Try selecting JUUUUST THE RIGHT garlic peeler and press. Out of 20. All overpriced and looking similar to what I assume torture devices look like.

Then I come across the devices designed for the ridiculously lazy. Or those phallic plastic banana cases. $7... really? I think I will just take the extreme risk of a bruised banana. I'm crazy like that.

Strap sheets to "ensure your bedsheets stay attractively flat". Yeah, um, there may or may not be dog pee currently on my bedsheets right now. That are half off the bed. I think I'm fine without the straps.

And don't even get me STARTED on the Martha Stewart shit out there. Soon enough she'll have suppositories and lubricant. (What?!? She WAS in prison, folks, regardless of her ridiculously fake I-have-a-team-but-I'll-make-you-feel-less-than-inferior domestic skills.)

I came home and made soup from a can. I stirred it with a metal spoon, in my metal pot from Walmart, and didn't have a fancy spoon rest. *gasp*

I may or may not have eaten it straight from the pot. I'm not telling.

Domestic mastering is just not my thing. What a depressing "shopping" outing.

*sigh*


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Embarrassing Realizations (Part 3 of ∞ )

All in the same day....

Realizing, as you arrive late to hot yoga, that you have no towel to sop your sweat/keep your clammy, slimy hands from slipping and letting you face-plant/wipe off your appendages so you can actually hold on to them.

Oh, LOLcats, is there anything you CAN'T do?

Further realizing the closest thing that will have to make due, out of the trunk of your car, is a sweater of grandmotherly proportions and quality that you purchased at a thrift shop in 1996 and have left in your trunk "just in case".

I think the layering was cool, a-la-Nirvana, circa 1996. I could be very, very wrong, though.

Upon implementation of said granny sweater, realizing that NEITHER your rubber yoga mat nor your acrylic/polyester/synthetic knit sweater stops hands and feet from slipping.

Then realizing that your I-only-wear-these-capris-when-I-haven't-washed-my-workout-clothes-and-they-are-all-that's-left purple capri pants display, quite clearly and nicely for all to see, that you sweat excessively in your groin.

You know, like this, except not nearly as nice, probably from circa 1987 or else free from the Goodlife Gym. What?!? It was free.

Fast forward to the end of a painful hot yoga class. Throw on a pair of jeans that happen to be in your dufflebag (does anyone under the age of 50 refer to these things as dufflebags, or is it just me? Just me. Okay.).

Go to the pet store, and shop at the grocery store for over an hour before realizing that your zipper is down.

Totally down. Completely open.

And, well, you just came from being drenched in hot yoga and therefore removed your sw-assy underclothes and put the jeans on as a temporary sweat cover until you were able to go home and shower.

Also noting that you are allowing a certain amount of... erm.... growth, in order to facilitate honeymoon sugaring (much like waxing).

Finally get into your car, giving yourself multiple, much-needed facepalms.

Awesome day and it's only 12:20pm.

Grin and bear it, folks. You've got another 12 hours of awake time to suffer through. Well, if you're me, that is.

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Carry-on Luggage BLOWS MY MIND.

I was a cheap bastard one time when I was flying with Delta. Okay, the only time I ever flew with Delta.

Why? Because those buggers charge $25 USD for every checked bag.

And a worrier like me ALWAYS overpacks, thereby immediately costing herself $50 USD for a round trip.

And also ALWAYS visits a Marshalls or T.J. Maxx, thereby requiring even MORE luggage space that doesn't exist.

Well, with some finagling I was able to switch my luggage with Feyoncé™'s. No, I didn't pack his bag without knowing, (I hear those terrifying airport security warnings, c'mon people, some credit here!) we just switched, and he had to carry back a bunch of my crap with his. (Okay, so maybe that meant I did pack part of his bag. Shhhhh). In my BIG suitcase. On Air Canada, before those buggers started charging for checked bags. *cough* Bastards! *cough*.

I would just like to say that standard-size carry-on luggage with that little expandable zipper BLEW MY MIND.

This is all the shizz I fit into it. Into the CARRY-ON only:

That's right - 5 pairs of pants, 2 pairs of workout bottoms, 6 bras, 2 workout bras, 8 shirts, 3 dresses, 3 sweaters, 2 pairs of heels, 1 pair of casual shoes and a bunch of toiletry-crap.

I still can't believe it.

That shit is MAGICAL.



Yeah, shitty blog post, but so what?? I'm putting off doing important things.


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Cocks. And Gay Marriage.

Now that I have your attention, a photo of cocks:

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What?

Let me tell you, I would advise against doing that Google search unless you want to see a lot of skin and veins.

Anyway, in my quest for an image that would be appropriate for this blog (you know, because I am NOTHING, if not always appropriate *stifles laughter*), I came across an amazing Canadian blog, whose author's tagline is:

"Combatting bigotry the gayest way I know how".

I thought it was quite awesome. I hope you will pop over and check it out.

Here I am: whining about trying to sort my shit out regarding all our wedding details. Simple things, but necessary things like seating charts and guest counts. Trying to get in touch with the caterer and signing really large cheques for really silly things. You know, meaningful stuff like that.

He has given me an entirely new perspective. For an interesting, yet hilarious, read, check out The Author's article on his own quest for marriage.

Awesome.

Also? A fantastic link to a cock picture..

Go ahead, I'll wait.


See? Get your mind out of the gutter!


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Dear Person... & Cyclists Terrify Me

Dear Person who walked their dog to the top of my driveway, allowing said dog to poop in between my car and the garage door,

Congratulations on an incredible level of passive-aggressiveness.

Very bold, and very baffling. My front door is literally steps away.

You are a fucktard. We clean up our dogs' crap without fail, and the one time Feyoncé™ ran out of bags (after 3 consecutive dog poops), he walked the dogs home quickly, grabbed a bag, and LITERALLY SPRINTED BACK to scoop the mess.

So go fuck yourself.

I clean up enough dog poop on my own.


Piss-off-ed-ly,
Me

~

Dear Hypothetical Old Man on a bicycle who I possibly didn't see this morning as I backed out of my driveway going 4 km/hr,

I swear to mother-effing-Jebus I checked both sides of the road, my mirrors, my rear view. I constantly remind myself that although the street I live on is not busy, there are always people/kids/cyclists/dogs out and about, so to be very aware.

Your hypothetical white hair and blue shirt somehow manifested into the stealthiest camouflage I have ever seen. My windows were even open and I never saw or heard anything, except my own completely startled hypothetical voice, apologizing wholeheartedly and calling you sir.

I looked and I have no idea how I didn't hypothetically see you. I am very sorry. Very, very sorry. I still feel awful and probably more afraid than you were of my meep-meep sedan. The fear is increased by the fact I still understand how I hypothetically didn't see you. I vow to be EVEN MORE terrified of driving now than I was before.

I swear I looked everywhere I needed to, yet failed.

Apologetically (hypothetically),


Me


p.s. Did you come back with a small dog and poop in my driveway? You or the dog? Just curious...


~



Dear Cyclists,


I was going to write you a letter a few days ago and didn't. This morning's hypothetical cyclist incident got me thinking.


YOU TERRIFY ME when you are on the road. I know you are supposed to be, you are allowed to be, I know you have every right to be, and I honestly try my best to watch out for you, give wide leeway around you, and basically stay the fuck away from you as much as I can, because... well,

YOU TERRIFY ME.

I DO NOT WISH TO HURT YOU.

Also? If you are going to ride on the road, then you should be ADHERING TO TRAFFIC RULES, and be wearing a MOTHERLOVING HELMET for Chrissakes. (I saw a man with his skull cracked open, who surely died, from a bicycle accident. I don't blame the man and didn't see the actual accident, but I would like to think that his chances would have improved with a helmet). That being said, drivers can't be DERP DERP and not be aware.

Don't run stop signs or stop lights. It's MOTHERLOVING dangerous. And it makes you less predictable, increasing the danger factor.

Ride on, cyclists! Hey... where's your... helmet? (Image Source)

I am also afraid when I am walking and see a cyclist with headphones in. I understand the desire for and enjoyment of music, but if you are riding in traffic and are not following traffic rules, then at least leave one motherloving earhole free to hear the sounds around you! Please!!!

Mutual respect folks. Even though you TERRIFY me.

Curled up in the fetal position,


Me

~

Dear Google.ca Image Search,

Thank you for showing me that the number one search following the word "RIDICULOUS" is....

"pictures of Céline Dion".

My very own Canadian. How I beam with pride.

And on that note, a ridiculous photo of Céline Dion:

In all fairness, there are A LOT of ridiculous photos of Céline Dion on the interwebz. (Image Source)

Ridiculously,


Me


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Dear Puppy: Goddammit!!

Dear Puppy*,

While your eyes are adorable, and your looks are stunningly beautiful, you are PISSING ME OFF!

That plastic I found in the hallway yesterday that you had chewed, and I couldn't figure out what it was? The only trays I own to my tooth whitening kit.

Thanks for that, goddammit.

Her stunning good looks distract me from the next damaged item...

Puppy, you know our little ghetto garden with the few sparse strawberries? Yeah, you are NOT supposed to raid it for new fruit at all times, even if the plastic chicken wire is no longer standing. That strawberry I took from you, rinsed, and figured it was still safe to eat? Well, that was just bad judgement on my part, goddammit.

While I appreciate you keeping  me company as I FINALLY begin to sort through my mounds of hoarder like papers/receipts/tax documents/insurance documents/gluten-free recipes, your compulsion to chew your bone on the assorted file folders on the floor (what?!? I am still in the organizational stage... or something...) has created wet, destroyed file folders and papers, which... um, kind of negate the whole saving and filing bizznazz, goddammit.

The fact that no matter the temperature you must, MUST, lay your head on my leg so I sweat even more is adorable, but really hot, and apparently not good for my whole alpha-dog-smoke-and-mirror facade the trainer has me attempting, goddammit.

That white-painted wooden baseboard along the carpet... you know that stuff? Where you exercise your extreme aversion to 90-degree corners, obliterating them in a near-silent chew-fest as I sit here and blog and not notice you are ingesting paint chips and lumber? It's supposed to remain in tact, goddammit! And stop licking that bitter apple spray!! You are supposed to despise it, goddammit!

"I iz carefree dawggie. Your paperz are not mah concern." *runs away into long grass*

Finally... you have allowed me to see why Feyoncé™ and I have lasted as long as we have.

I can be super problematic, much like yourself, but I must be as cute to him as you are to me, which makes it all okay. Goddammit.

Now come over here and lay on mommy's leg while you try to shower me with grass and paint-infused kisses.

Good girl.



*Disclaimer: Note, this post was written in "sarcasm" font. I am very clearly aware that all of this is within my power to change, animal rights peeps. 
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Ridiculous Wedding Wish List

I have decided that the following must occur in order to have a fun wedding.

Anything less will result in severe disappointment:

• A flash mob must break out in the surrounding park, or at the reception.
• I must be able to drink as much as I want, but still only remain 'buzzed' and coherent, so as to remember the night.
• There should, nay, MUST, be people on flying trapeze. I don't care where, just within eyesight.
• I expect Michael Jackson to be there. Motherf*cking moon walking. I don't care how it happens, it just needs to happen.

Like this, with more Michael Jackson, less headband, and more safety for the surrounding children.

• Elvis should arrive in time to sing my parents' song.
• I really hope the speeches are good/heartwarming/loving/filled with minimal content that is extremely embarrassing.
• My friend must break out an x-rated rendition of "I Like Big Butts", complete with dance moves.
• My dress should have a built in hoist in order to facilitate toilet usage.

Add some ribbon and lace and that should do the trick...

• All of my body hair must miraculously fall off the day before the wedding, except for my eyebrows and the hair on my head.
• And, finally, I hope to find the right balance between a romantic updo hairstyle and that of the Bride of Frankenstein... as well as subtle-but-flattering make-up vs. waxen whore vs. Jim Carrey's "The Mask".

Why So Serious, Eva Longoria?

Or:

You know, a nice, soft, natural look...

 See? I'm easy to please. No weding diva here. Nope. Not at all.


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Creepiest Job Title Ever...

I kid you not, at a hospital in Mississauga, Ontario:

Creepiest Job Title EVAR.

Could.not.pay.me.enough.

Are people actually running around wasting the stuff? Really? Seriously?

GAH.


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Pole Dancing - Sexpot Extraordinaire....

Well, surely I have your attention right now.


I decided, after a two (or so) year hiatus from trying a pole-fit class, which really isn't pole-dancing, that I would.. uh... get back in the saddle and try again.


My last lessons were taught partially by an extremely flexible lady and a very vivacious man who owned a studio in my hometown. This time, I paid the big bucks and went to a place locally...

I imagined myself looking like this (with a slightly rounder silhouette and less boobs):

IF ONLY my ass looked that small... I wouldn't NEED pole-fit class.

And after the first 4 minutes, realized that I wasn't even close to looking THIS cute, even:

This pole dancer even has better hair than I do.... *sigh*

I felt rusty, creaky and clunky as the instructor moved and swayed her hips, seemingly effortlessly, smooth, sleek and in-the-know.

I felt like the biggest fake EVAR. She did a quick run down of level 1 (see, I had done this before, you know, so I figured I could TOTALLY head straight into level 2, maybe even 3)... and I stared, slack-jawed at my inability to figure out a f*cking thing she was doing.

There is such an art to looking graceful while trying to spin and pull yourself up on the pole. There truly is.

My last class involved more running leaps to try to spin around the pole. This new class is more about sensual movement, empowerment, and transitioning effortlessly from falling off the pole, onto your ass, and back up again without looking like you are even trying.


Beginner Pole Fit Fun from Stephanie Cee on Vimeo.


I clearly lack grace, but man, it WAS FUN!!


I have the utmost respect (you know, fitness wise) for girls who pole-dance as professionals. They ARE STRONG, FIT women.

I saw this video on youtube and had to share it.

Check out the crazy move at around 1:31... I can't embed the video... the girl is clothed and should be safe for work, unless someone is looking over your shoulder and wondering why the hell you are looking up pole-fitness tips online at work. lol.

Hopefully I will start to suck less as time goes on.

I attended a chair-fit class on the weekend which included a strenuous, painful series of leg, butt, thigh and arm strengthening moves with a TEENY bit of chair dance at the end.

I woke up ALL night because I was in so much pain.


Good lord, I have a long way to go before I even hit puppy pole-dance cuteness...



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Happy Birthday, Blog O' Mine!

Well, holy shyte.

Yup...

Nothing butt

the finest, most upstanding writing on this blog...

not that I want to beat a dead horse... or club a baby seal.

I'm just cool like that, yo.

Who would have believed I could keep my attention span fixated long enough to maintain a blog for an entire year.

It was a year ago, today, when Feyoncé™ (then "BF" or "Boyfriend") was away on work, I was bored and had been watching way too many episodes of True Blood, and I had been exposed to the fabulosity and hilarity provided by Allie Brosh's blog "Hyperbole And A Half".

I figured I would try my hand at it, because weird shit or annoying stuff always seems to happen to me. My first month I had 82 whopping page views, most likely because of my emails to family and friends to check it out. So thanks to you guys who took the time to read, some even "followed", and others commented!

:)

Made it feel good to know I was sharing something with other people (what?? I'm generally not good at sharing).

Over 33,000 page views and a year later, here I sit. That may not seem to significant, but I think it's pretty neat. Sure, a lot of people stumble across the blog only through searching Google images for mainly hairy noses, sexy socks, "clubbing" and spandex ass (all from my stats, I cannot tell a lie), but there are still lots of people who take the time to read stuff and I LOVE YA!

Also? I have made an astounding $63.99 in ad revenue, which practically makes me a zillionaire, allowing me to quit my day job and live with a butler and chauffeur. Don't hate.

So, boring post, but YAY ME!

That very first post is HERE if you want to read it.



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Confessions

Let's see...

• I mainly buy Asparagus for the free elastic bands. It's a great product-to-free-elastic-band ratio, because they generally put one at the tips and at the bottoms. Double win! Oh... yeah, and I get to eat the asparagus too.
• God-DAMN asparagus makes pee smelly. I hope someone found this post based solely on Googling that phrase.
• It is ALWAYS appropriate, anticipated, and welcomed to pinch other men's nipples after consuming large quantities of alcohol. Feyoncé™ is wrong on this one. It's... like... a MUST, really.
• When surprisingly faced with a skunk, in the dark, while walking your puppy, it is both eloquent and effective to yell "Shit! No! RUUUUN!" and run across the street in a blaze of chaotic skunk-odour-avoidance-measures.

Don't be fooled by those coy smiles; These buggers will force a dangerous, treacherous bathing process involving hydrogen peroxide, dawn, and baking soda. Usually around 1am. You've been warned.

• Avoidance (to people, not skunks) is even MORE obvious over text. I feel the need to state that a reply is unnecessary approximately 6+ hours after an original message is sent. Unless your phone was off because you never leave the house. (Not that I know what that is like, AT ALL, people...)
• My extended family contains at least one psychopath/sociopath.

C'est fini.


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Hypervigilance: What You Don't Want For You!

I am of a particular subset group of people who have a lovely little quirk known as hypervigilance.

"What is it?" you ask?
"It sounds fabulous!" you say?

Let me break it down for you.

Hypervigilance makes it very hard to focus on the immediate here and now, because your eyes, ears, and brain are simultaneously attempting to focus on the task at hand, while assessing ABSO-fuckin'-LUTELY everything else that is happening within earshot/eyeshot around you.

How does it work? I shall provide you with an example. Think of it like paranoia, with a little less 'crazy'.

The setting: A lovely, overpriced restaurant for breakfast somewhat in the middle of the room.

The company: An attentive and talkative Feyoncé™.

The low down: Hypervigilance allowed me to learn the following, even though I wasn't consciously, actively TRYING to hear what people were saying, or watch what they were doing. (My back was to the general mass of people in the room):

It's like having waaaaaay too many ears.

- The man beside me had accidentally flung his business cards out of his bag when I approached my own table. I picked them up for him and he thanked me. Then, through the course of our breakfast, I learned he was:
A) a lawyer looking to get the gentleman at the table with him out of insider trading charges
B) he found it humourous recalling stories of when his sister hit two separate men on two separate occasions in her car due to seizures, laughing as he said "I thought it was hilarious! I think the guy was a war vet and I've never seen a man cry like that!" accompanied by boisterous laughter.
C) I regretted picking up his cards and, instead, wish I had stomped on them.

- The server with the long ponytail does not like her job, as is evident with every forceful kick she throws into the swinging doors into the kitchen. This was sometimes punctuated with a long, loud, sigh.

- The daughter was clearly pissed at her mother, sitting about 3 tables away from us, as was indicated by the dour look on her face, her crossed arms, and her lack of ordering food or eating along with her mother. Teen daughter then proceeded to ignore her mother with her cell phone while mom fruitlessly tried to engage her in conversation.

"Uuuuuh, mo-om, I so hate you right now. Like. Whatever. Let me text in peace."

- The two ladies to my left, I'm quite certain, believe that there poo has no aroma, if you catch my drift. They were horribly rude with the waitstaff, and lady #2 went on to tell a tale about a woman she worked with (she described her solely using expletives) saying how this woman was clearly wrong because lady #2 has NEVER been wrong her entire life.

- The gentleman server listened patiently as the female server with short hair complained about the scheduling change and how she did not want to work the weekend again.

- Two younger guys at a table snapped their fingers to garner the attention of their server, more than once.

I forget the rest, but you get the idea. I figured this stuff out in about 10 minutes.

All the while, I was carrying on a conversation with Feyoncé™, thinking about a family health issue, making sure I was grabbing the soy milk and not the regular milk for my coffee, trying to remember to use my fork AND knife, because even though a fork can be a multi-use tool and can slice through eggs and hashbrowns, that's not how the 'fancy folk' do it...

It's like I am plagued by a persistent, ever-present Whisper2000. You remember that shit. Infomercial made of pure gold.

The Whisper 2000: Your greatest enemy or your best friend?

Anyway, that's your Freebie Friday: A lesson on hypervigilance.


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