Sh*t My Husband Says

No word of a lie.

Today, I missed catching the garbage truck. My hubs always collects and puts out the garbage and recycling (sometimes I assist), but I got up later than planned and couldn't throw out my moldy, rotted flowers in with the trash.

So I improvised.

We have this high-falutin' food chewer-and-spitter-upper in the sink in our new place. It's called an InSinkErator, or garburator, and once I got over the insane guilt it caused me for not green-binning the organic waste, I started to kind of love it.

I'm evil, I know.

Stinky food peels? Garburatored.
Shit like cores and inedible vegetable parts getting in my way when I am (trying to) cook? Garburatored.

Mildewy flowers that have clouded their vase and are emanating a horrible rotten smell? Well, I would normally say garbage. But... I missed the truck and those babies smelled like rotten alien poo laced with a maggoty barn.

So... I figured... since I was sorting through what was still alive and salvageable right there at the sink... that... well, hey there, garburator! Flowers aren't so different from vegetables, right?

I'm sure you've handled worse, Garburator! In fact, the old owner of this house said there was nothing you couldn't chew up! So...

I started jamming rotten flowers down the sink. Despite my common sense telling me that it probably wasn't wise.

(Re-reading that caused me to break into laughter. Dear gawd this baby is going to be so screwed once it is born...)

Though, it was fun to watch the longer stems spinning around chaotically while the garburator did its thing... I kept squinting, half expecting daisy shrapnel to find its way back up and into my eyes.

So... the really hard stems still went in the garbage, which was okay because they weren't stinky. I threw a few more things in the sink as I sorted. Then I realized that some of them actually had a thin green wire threaded through them to keep them Viagra-proud and upright.

SHIT.

Pretty sure metal wire is NOT garburate-able.

Though I am 99% sure that I hadn't tossed any wired flowers down there, I was still convinced I had somehow busted our new-fangled fancy sink doodad. It seemed like stuff was still spinning, and water was spitting back at me when it shouldn't be. Dammit!

Fast forward to when the hubs is home.
I admit I shoved flowers down the sink. He looks at me in disbelief, probably remembering how impossible many of the stems were to trim, on the night he brought them home to me when I was quite sick.

I hadn't explained that I threw those super tough motherf*ckers straight into the garbage.

His next comment?

"Did you put your hand into the garburator to see if there was anything stuck?"

Seriously.

I mean, really, seriously.

Hahahah, yeah right, like I'd have a manicured nail like that. If I did, I'd be keeping it far away from the garburator.

Anyone who knows me knows EXACTLY how that scenario would have ended up. I would be raising this kid eventually with one hand and one prosthetic limb. All for the sake of a kitchen doodad.

No, sorry honey, I didn't put my hand into the terrifyingly whirring, spinning, bladed, sinkhole of destruction. For once, just ONCE, I realized that the potential gain did not outweigh the more-than-likely loss.

Ah, husband. I should have gotten rational points for that one. Really.
Seriously.

So he shoved his hand down there.

Into the garburator, I mean, you pervert.

And he declared that was what they did when stuff got stuck in their garburator growing up, but that it felt like it was all clear.

Hmph.

Last time I'm honest about jamming inappropriate things down the garbage disposal.


_________________

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Tinfoil Security AKA Batsh*t Crazy

I don't know if I have ever mentioned it, but I am educated in architecture. I took architectural history courses, but still couldn't tell you the difference between the Pantheon and the Parthenon. Shit like that comes in handy when playing trivia board games. Or, at least I assume it does, but I didn't retain the knowledge either way.

I always wanted to be in something construction related. My Dad always had an interest and a gift for building things, including designing and physically building his own house with the help of my naive and terrified mother.

So, after a stressful run at advertising in the big city of Toronto, I went back to school for Architectural Technology.

Pretty.Bad.Error.

Not my cup of tea. Not only do I NOT understand many of the concepts, I also happen to SUCK at retaining information and feeling comfortable alone with a dude or bunch of dudes on a job site.

However, in the years I did work in the field, I learned a few things. One of those things?

Architects can really be assholes.

Really.

Some have their big, grand ideas and not a lick of sense when it comes to practical layouts and functionality.

Now that you are all asleep at your computers, I will get to my next point:
Windows in bathrooms. More specifically, windows in motherf*cking showers.

Who thinks this is a good idea? I am not an exhibitionist (unless I have had a few too many vodka and cranberries, current belly situation excluded).

I am also not fond of mould, mildew, rust, and rotten wood frames.

Whoever believes a window in a shower is a good idea is, quite frankly, a dipshit. Unless the window is sealed properly, and the layout is designed with water infiltration in mind, it is going to fail.

In our rental house, I present exhibit A:

Shower to the left, and window to the right. Large window, at that.

But it gets better. First off, these aren't privacy mini-blinds - you know, the kind with the sealed holes where the string lines up. But even BETTER, I present exhibit B:

It could be said that with the blinds down someone PROBABLY couldn't see in, but I have way too many trust and body issues and far too much paranoia to just believe that.

That's right. Just outside that window is the top of the stairs where our front door sits. So if anyone is standing there, they could, realistically, look left and see you in the shower naked, even with the blinds drawn. The holes where the strings go could easily display some nipple. And the strings are all stretched out of shape and ready to fail, as they are not intended to be wet all the time.

Not only that, the metal blinds that are in there have rusted, and always stick together, making it impossible to raise the shade when you are looking for some grey BC daylight.

Not that you'd want someone to be able to watch you on the crapper, too, but I digress.

Seriously - an elderly lady lived in the house before us. Who redesigned her bathroom and felt this was a good solution?

So how did I handle it? Logically and maturely, of course. I brainstormed with my mom and decided plastering tinfoil would solve my problems. (Well, not ALL my problems... wouldn't that be nice? No, just my fear-of-displaying-nipple-at-the-front-door problems). So that is what I did. I used some packing tape and made it impossible for the UPS man to watch me suds up my pregnant belly. At least, you know, from my front door.

The webcam shows I do are TOTALLY different.
At least those are on my terms.
Heh.

So at least now I am quite certain that tinfoiling over a window puts me in the "undeniably f*cking batshit crazy" category, instead of your ho-hum "major depressive disorder" kind of instability.

But stop me if I start wearing it on my head.

_______

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I Moved, I Saw, I Have Not Yet Conquered...

I have been utterly absorbed in my move.

Life has revolved around packing tape, cardboard boxes, lost utility knives, and furniture assembly.

Throw in a little falling-down-the-stairs action and chasing-the-dog-up-slippery-rocks-while-too-pregnant action, and you've got yourself my existence since the start of February.

I had sort of felt invigorated and ready to write lots again after you and I had that chat about my not being sure of what to write about. Then the move came and bitch-slapped me onto my (growing) ass.

The new house has stairs. Lots of them. Some more slippery than others. But at least my glutes are finally getting some exercise (unless eating ice cream bars counts as ass exercises? No?)

I had taken lots of pictures of random things to share with you, but now all I can focus on is the 1,405 loads of laundry that need to be done to wash the musty smell of two houses ago out, along with the moldy death smell of the last house. I can set the load up with my eyes closed, source the Tide and the Borax, and haul shit up and down two full flights like a champ.

Unrelated - don't try to run down stairs with your eyes closed.

Oh, right, and I'm not supposed to be lifting anything at all.

Anyway, just felt the need to assure you all once again that I am still alive, just terribly distracted and terribly tired.

What's new with you?
Know of any ice-cream related ass exercises you'd care to share? You know, ones that involve eating the ice cream?

________

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Defcon Level Food Whore

I had been trying to deny it for some time.

I hadn't looked my situation on, straight in the face.

Unless said face had mashed potatoes dripping from its chin. Or maybe some milkshake. OR BOTH.

For years, as many of you already know, I've struggled with horrific nausea. I can't eat wheat without rotten consequences and Guinness-book world record level bloating. Dairy sometimes hits the "undo" button immediately after ingestion. Sometimes it sits okay, I just don't feel great. Food is a struggle. Sometimes I would eat far too much for too long, other times I was eating far too little for too long.

The first three months of pregnancy were horrific for me. Between the fatigue (couldn't do a half set of stairs without crying, usually) and the extreme nausea, I was a weak and thin shell. A weak shell with a mad carbohydrate craving. If I did eat, I had one insane, unavoidable craving and I had to give in to it or else I was the most miserable bitch ever. And I could only seem to eat after 7pm.

Then - the second trimester started. It was rough at first, and it still has many-a-challenge... but one MAJOR shift has taken place.

ALL I THINK ABOUT IS FOOD NOW. ALL.THE.TIME.

Classy shit like this should only comfort others and reinforce that Imma be a great mom! HA!

When I am out of the house, in the car, I am inventory-ing every single goddamn fast food place I pass, envisioning a food (or foods) that would really hit the spot. I will tune out conversation. I will not hear the dialogue on the radio. I will briefly consider the lack of nutritional value, then give myself a free pass because, you know, BABY.

I'm bringing the hubs down with me. He has no excuse for his newly-acquired horrific eating habits, except for the obvious Not-Wanting-To-Deal-With-A-Whiny-Hungry-Determined-Pregnant-Wife. He's a trooper.

But I am dragging him down this Skittles-streaked ditch with me. We're leaving trails of melted ice cream and Orange Julius fruit smoothies on our heels.

If I agree to go out somewhere, I am already mapping out what food places we pass, what I can get on the way home, and then I fixate on it like nobody's business. I recently went to Maui (more on that later) and the size of my carry-on shoulder bag was impressive. It was comprised of approximately 90% food products and 10% reading materials. I even planned for the return flight.

I am not myself. I am achy, tired, creeped out, sluggish, inactive and overwhelmed. But I won't be swayed, oh no.

Even the most severe constipation can't slow me down. Well, okay, yes it can. And actually literally DOES. But I will continue to stuff food into my stomach even when my brain is screaming "STOP, You CRAZY Bitch!"

I can now admit it: I am an utter food whore.

I'd type more, but this cherry applesauce is staring me down. Hey, at least it has carrot in it. 
I think.

I plan to inhale it after I finish my vanilla milkshake. Though, actually, I just realized that my sweet potato fries are getting cold... and where the hell did I put the ketchup??

____________

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Random Adorableness

I was reading Hollywood Gossip the other day, and I actually may have squealed.

Very loudly.

Very, very loudly.

"Oh. HAI."   (Image Via The Hollywood Gossip)

This thing is called a Quokka according to the article, and it looks totally Photoshopped.

It was just so damn cute, I had to share it. It actually looks like it is smiling.

The cute little buggers are considered "vulnerable" and are usually eaten by bigger predators.

:(



All together now:

One part eager friendliness, one part Jack Nicholson a la "The Shining".  (Image Via The Hollywood Gossip)

Aaaaaaaaaw.

____________

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Lost: My Touch

So I've been thinking about what the hell to write about on here for the past few weeks.


I remember back in the day, being selfishly disappointed when a favourite blogger announced they were knocked up and were either:
A) Starting a new, separate mommy blog;
B) Starting a new, separate mommy blog while poorly and sporadically updating their wonderful/funny/expletive-laden current blog;
C) Quitting blogging altogether to harness their energy into raising their soon-to-be snot-nosed little baby.

I initially vowed I would do none of those things.

But you know what? I can't think of a DAMN thing outside of my current pregnancy misery and joy. I didn't want to turn mommy blog. My perverse sense of humour, my horrific language, and my general disdain for most things on earth don't seem to mesh well with a blog about growing life inside of me.

The reality is that I will be the same person no matter what, but at the same time, I can't honestly think of other amusing things to write about.

I have lost most regular readers and commenters. Most of my blog traffic is misplaced searchers, leaving us both sorely disappointed when they search terms like "sexy socks".

I have, quite possibly, lost my touch.

When I leave the house, it's either for house move related things, or else baby things. Doctor's appointments. Prescription refills.


There is a fear that I shouldn't get too invested in relationships here because I will only become a housebound, hermit zombie after this babe is unearthed from my nether regions.

I haven't joined prenatal classes because I have a horrific hernia, I'm a wuss, I'm weak, and the amount of body pains I am experiencing because of the bloody "miracle of birth" is astounding. No one, and I mean NO ONE, even hinted that it could be this hard physically. And I'm only half way there.

So... yeah. A part of me wants to tell other stories. Tell more things about life outside of this. But it just feels like there isn't much to say.

I used to be funny. I think. At least a little. Then the husband stopped laughing when he read my posts. And many readers left. And life carried on.

So... I think I've lost my touch.

_________

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Walnut Pelvis

Is it just me, or do cracked walnuts look eerily like the human pelvis/pelvic bone?

Seriously.

Apparently a sideways pelvis at that.

Once the connection was made in my mind, it somehow felt wrong crunching and chewing it up.

What's that? It IS just me? Okay, fine then.


_______

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First Trimester Survival Guide & Tips: Crazy Style

A few tips on your first pregnancy  semester  trimester, from a  terrified, uncertain, sickly  seasoned  pregnant  crazy  lady:

[NOTE: First photo is slightly NSFW]

• Get used to resting. That full flight of stairs? HAHAHAHA. That apple you were going to slice? Think again. All your human power will be sent to fuel your fetus.
• Brace yourself for insomnia. Especially if you go through withdrawal from your medications. You will enjoy tons of extra quiet, thinking   lonely, terrifying, endless   "me" time as you lie awake and consequently shop for boots online at 4am for weeks. 
• Hunker down for the strangest breast changes humanly possible. Those cute things that sometimes worked in a v-neck shirt? Yeah, they will now look and feel like superhumanly sensitive sideways footballs with pancakes for nipples. That hurt. BADLY. And your partner may want to play with them, so be prepared to bitch slap at a moment's notice, too.

Touchdown? What? Touch mah boobies and I'll kill you. Sponsored by the NFL and Aunt Jemima's pancake syrup.

• Prepare yourself for fetus-indicated prohibition. Do not drink alcohol, at least in your first trimester. This one is nearly killing me. Don't smoke either, that shit is awful for a growing kid. Also a good idea to check immediately if any medications you are on are unsafe in pregnancy. You may need to stop them ASAP.
• Expect to do a shitload of laundry. Your hair will be greasy as hell, your pajamas will be saturated in sweat in the night and need changing, and your body will be producing the most acrid sweat you've ever leaked. Punch anyone in the face who jokes "you are getting trained for when the baby comes, haha".
• Cry. At Anything. And Everything. You will recognize this hormonal surge for what it is, approximately 15 minutes after you have cried/made an ass of yourself over something silly. I may have cried more than once because of the damn apple in the first bullet point, among other ridiculous things. More ridiculous than even MY ridiculous. 

I cried when my watch slipped onto the ceramic tile and broke. My husband thought I was injured getting out of the shower. Nothing like SOBBING HYSTERICALLY crying wolf over something stupid.

• Do NOT read tips on the web, or you will be afraid for anything and everything. Pushing, pulling, moving, sporting, sleeping, waking, bathing, cleaning, breathing. And that is NOT an exaggeration (though   most of the rest of    all of   some of this is). No website or advice column will commit to anything, likely due to liability, so you'd best get comfortable with the phrase "but check with your doctor to be sure!"
• Have a liner-free, easily rinseable can/container specifically for puking. You will thank me for this one. You can wash it down your utility sink without having to fish out tissues and clothing tags. Also, if you take a morning vitamin, try to take it early and sleep through when it starts to digest in your stomach. Again, trust me on this.
• Accept that food cravings will be insane, intense, and un-ignorable. Also realize that most food will be utterly revolting, and the same food you craved yesterday can induce horrific queasiness and send you puking today. There's a ton of food, drink and herbal stuff you're supposed to avoid, too.

Ugh. Blech. Utterly revolting in the first trimester, until you crave it*. Then it's deliiiicious!   *Excluding eggs, those f_ckers are still revolting.

• Be prepared for hot flashes. Overwhelming, sickening, pants-wetting hotness and sweating that will force you to remove clothing in restaurant bathrooms to save yourself. Always wear a tank top, just in case.
• Your pee will be cloudy, your body will feel like a foreign entity, and the concept of sexy time may, in fact, cause you to cut a bitch.
• Prepare for the baby by acting like a whiny one yourself. Okay, not really. But I hope you have a good/decent partner who will help you function for the first few months when you are too sick to drive, too nauseated to shop, and too tired to clean. And too sexy for your shirt.
• Don't get dehydrated. I did many times. Water was revolting, as was ginger ale, juice, milk, and all things liquid. My saving grace was fruit juice cut with soda water, rocket popsicles, and chocolate soy milk (which makes me just queasy now, thinking about it). Nausea gets worse and worse the more dehydrated you get. TRUST ME. Though I *DO* look sexy hooked up to IV with vomit dribbling down my chin. Right honey? HONEY?

May the force be with you.

________________

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LCBO and BC Liquor Facing Bankruptcy

Sales have deteriorated at an alarming pace, most notably the first week of October 2012, onward.

Analysts have surmised that the healthy lifestyle of BC may be to blame, whereas others pontificate that bootleg liquor and moonshine may be affecting legal sales.

The reality?

I stopped drinking in October because I'm knocked up.

Phew!

Feels good to get that out there.

At least now I know that I HAVE made a difference in this world. You know, for liquor sales, anyway.

Sadly no wine, but currently an abundance of whine. BC Liquor and the LCBO are both doomed.

I promise that the BC Liquor landscape will flourish once again in about another 6 months. In fact, there may be record-breaking sales.

Happy 2013 everyone. Don't worry - this won't be turning into a mommy blog, but you can bet your ass I am going to tell you just how... er... fun* the first trimester has been. Seriously.



* = in the ironic sense, including the misnomer "morning sickness" and the little-shared fact that that shit lasts ALL day. 24 hours, yo. Really. Seriously.

Also, LCBO = Liquor Control Board of Ontario, I think.

_________

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Delicious Drool

This happened about 10 minutes ago.

Pretty gross, and I haven't even been able to eat yet today. Thanks, dogs.


Gross: My great dane, Schultz, just shook his head heartily from across the room. A big, long goobery drool flew off and landed on my hubs' laptop lid.

Grosser: I realized all the dog spit cloths are in the dryer, so I looked at it for a second, but didn't wipe it up. The kleenex box is way over there, and the laptop lid looks pretty gross already. Right? Riiight?


Grossest: Ella, the lab, came along, sniffed the laptop case, and licked up the dane's drool. She ate it completely. Blaaaaaaaargh.

The moral of the story: This is why dogs shouldn't have chocolate**. The deliciousness would be wasted on them, since they are content with cat turds, poop and each other's saliva.


** And the fact that chocolate is toxic and can kill them if they have too much or too pure. Like coke for people. Not the drink, the powder. Ahhh, nevermind.

________

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Air Canada and Passenger Fu

Recently heard on the loudspeaker, while waiting to board Air Canada Flight 033 departing Toronto, Ontario, bound for Vancouver, BC:

"Paging passenger Fu."

*silence*

"Air Canada paging passenger Fu... passenger Fu..."

*pause*

"EFF YOU"

*I laugh heartily out loud, and the speaker system flicks off*

'Tis the season and all.

_______________

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Elvis & The Vancouver Christmas Market 2012

Go ahead.

I can feel you judging me from there already.

I can practically hear you snickering at the assertion I'm making in the title of this post.

But it's true.

I really did leave the house and go to the 2012 Vancouver Christmas Market. I know, I realize it's shocking.

It required me to both change out of my pajamas AND brush my teeth in the same hour. It was utterly exhausting.

But after we paid $10 to enter, sacrificed an arm and a leg to get some mulled wine and apple cider, the unthinkable happened.

Elvis showed up.


I am not talking some two-bit weekend actor playing the part. I'm not referencing the on-site entertainment consisting of the woman playing various-sized cowbells alongside the gentleman equipped with the accordion. No. I mean motherf_cking Elvis.

A bit of history:

When I was a wee lass, my mother had an extensive Christmas album collection on vinyl. It consisted of THIS GUY singing all your favourite holiday hits:

The bouffant. The realistic back drop. The uber-relaxed posture. The epitome of Christmas, that Elvis.

What else was in the collection? Well... that was it, actually. But the record had TWO sides, so it was double your Elvis pleasure.

I recently found BOTH sides of this nostalgic album on YouTube to enjoy over and over again, like the days of my youth. I quite like it. My mom LOVES it. Interestingly enough, it would seem that the Hubs HATES it.

So he's been forced to listen to it maybe six or more times already in the past few days.




Fast forward to the Vancouver Christmas Market, 2012...

I saw an alpaca teddy bear I wanted. It was $55. I did not get it.
I saw a pretty Christmas ornament, that I assume must be handmade or else equipped with a high gold content, for $27.
I saw a stick with fruit on it that cost about $6.50, but hey, they'd dip it in chocolate for you!
I saw lots of good looking carbs, all fairly expensive in my eyes.

I saw a candle for $17. A single small candle. For $17.

You know what? There was no fudge. None.

I saw a massive lineup for french-fried potatoes on a stick. Call it a tornado and they will come.
My friend got a small hot chocolate. I believe it cost her $5 or $6. Not artisan chocolate, or specialty hot chocolate, or German chocolate. Just "Christmas Market" hot chocolate, at low, low Christmas Market prices.

But then my pessimism was halted. My focus? Redirected. My mind.... = blown.

On the loudspeaker, what rained down like an eargasm on a rare non-rainy day in the city?

You guessed it.  Spongebob Squarepants   Mariah Carey's horrible song on loop   Metallica  Elvis mother-effin' Presley and his Christmas album. In stereo. In loud, beautiful stereo. The Hubs stood slack-faced with his ridiculously overpriced pretzel in hand, as I danced about with jazzy hands singing along at top volume.

Our new friends (who invited us) may have even been embarassed.

But at least we got legit Elvis at the market. My mom is going to be sooo jealous.

________

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$400 off a kitchen appliance? Me, break nice things?

Yeah.

Skimming through the Black Friday and Cyber Monday sales was relatively disappointing. But I can tell you, with certainty, the one phrase that will make me click away faster than a dog caught looking at cat porn on its owner's laptop.

The phrase:

"Save $400 on the _______________ for your kitchen! Today only!"

Da Fahq?

Rule #1: If you are SAVING $400, you are going to have to bleed to pay for it in the first place. Hell, even at 50% off, that's terrifying.

I would most certainly sever an artery with those pricey knives, and what the hell is with the overpriced, wonky silverware? If I'm going to pay that much for spoons, don't make using a knife even harder for me, the Bay.

Rule #2: If it is a kitchen appliance/accessory, I am not interested. If it is an expensive kitchen appliance/accessory, I will (and do) run, screaming, as fast as my feeble legs will carry me in the opposite direction.

Rule #3: The more expensive something is, the faster I accidentally break it/destroy it in the laundry/accidentally spill bleach on it/lose it.


Don't even get me started on a VitaMix.


There is a method to my madness. My $15 Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen watch? That baby lasted me over 12 years, until I dropped it rushing through my anxiety-laden trip at the Vancouver airport in July. The second hand busted off inside the watch, and it was cost prohibitive to fix.

:...(  *tear* My old tried and true, that fit on my wonky, scrawny wrist. That had more spent on batteries over the years than on the watch itself...

I hummed and hawed and debated getting an actual "grown up" watch, but I was super hesitant because I know how I operate. I knew the life of said "adult" watch would be limited. 

I finally bought myself a spiffy new Skagen watch - worth over 7 times as much as my original, beloved watch from the Twins from Full House - and I accidentally placed it too close to the edge of the bathroom counter.

It slips to the floor, passionately kisses the ceramic tile, and ends up with a crack the glass face from the tryst. This happened after already denting and damaging the steel band from being so swift as to wear it while we moved furniture in and out of the house for our move.

I leave it for a few days and attempt to wear it anyway, only to discover it is now fully cracked, and fully f_cked.

I actually cut my finger inspecting it. I clearly need Playskool branded wares.

And, to quote my very own mother, this is why I can't have nice things.

So, I tend to stick with what's safe. Corelle dishes from Canadian Tire. Cheap watches from Wal-Mart. Kitchen Aid blenders on clearance from nearly-defunct Zellers. Shit that you EXPECT to break, that often far outlasts when you think it will.

In my case, quality doesn't necessarily trump quantity. When you are this accident-prone, you need to take proactive measures. If you come over for dinner and I offer you a paper plate, now you'll know why.


__________________

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Dear Insomnia:

Dear Insomnia:

Piss off.

Love,
Me


___________

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Wedding Wire is full of shyte.

So, when I was a stressed out bride, I was searching all over the place trying to find reputable, real-person reviews of hair and make-up places, DJs, etc., so I could get the real scoop on services out there.

The best review is an honest one, so that is what I sought out.

There are a few websites that claim to offer real reviews on vendors, DJs, caterers, hair stylists and make-up artists, and pretty much ANYTHING you could possibly think of that you might want at your wedding.

We didn't go over the top. We tried to keep costs reasonable. I read quite a few sites, but found a lot of Ontario vendors on WeddingWire.com. You would have thought this was a good thing. I thought so, too. I learned fairly quickly that this wasn't the case.

I stressed about my hair and make-up, like any vain bride is wont to do. I didn't want to look like I was covered in spackle, but at the same time, I kind of wanted to be covered in spackle so as to hide the innumerable flaws on this mug-o'-mine.

I looked around. I debated. I contacted, and found that the top two I liked the most were already booked for the Thanksgiving long weekend.

Then I came across Mobile Makeovers. It looked pretty snazzy, with the "before" and "after" pictures where ordinary normal women appeared glamorized and beautified with magic.

It never occurred to me until later that there ARE things like Photoshop and sneaky marketing. DUH.

I went with my mom. I paid a deposit on May 3, 2011 for me and my ladies via Paypal to Mobile Makeover's owner, Alexandra. A while later, in September, I went for a trial run.

DEAR GOD WOMEN, ALWAYS TRY THE TRIAL RUN.

This is my face without make-up on a given day:

Dorky sexpot? No... not really. Moving on...

I have to say that Alexandra was nice enough and polite during the trial. But when I asked for a pale green eyeshadow, she didn't have it. She said she would use something close. Apparently that means PURPLE eyeshadow. I wanted a light blush. Didn't have that either.

Also? I sat in a room without the lights on or the blinds fully open, while she painted on the foundation. I cannot EMPHASIZE ENOUGH that light is required in order to see what the hell you are doing! In any situation! Unless you're working a dark room!

And after Mobile Makeovers finished my make-up in an unlit room, this is what I looked like:

WTF? Shiny. Waxy. Purple-y.

I was smiling because I hadn't seen myself yet.

Now, I know some folks prefer a more dramatic look. I, however, was not SEEKING the whore/streetwalker look for my wedding. It took all I had not to cry when I looked in the mirror. At this point, time was running out, and there was no freakin' way that I was letting Mobile Makeovers do my face.

My face after I got out to the car:

BOO, motherf_cker. Pretty natural, as requested, right? I really like how it looks like there is a dark circle of makeup around both eyes, top and bottom.

My husband thinks I look good without make-up. I didn't think he'd be pleased that I looked like a $5 whore. I figured I was worth AT LEAST a solid $250.

I hadn't wanted him to see what style my hair would be, but me and mom decided we had to stop at his work to show him just how... er... um... PRETTY? I looked.

He actually laughed. And he's a very polite fellow. I think I warranted about a two dollar coin at this point.

I ended up panicked the same day at the Keora Aveda salon in Burlington, Ontario begging the make-up artist Ashley F. to help me, and asking her if all wedding make-up had to be that thick and that poor.

Thank goodness she was awesome. She gave me stuff to wash my face and redid everything. On the day of the wedding, she went above and beyond and I was thrilled with how patient, kind and GOOD at her job she was.

Ashley F. was fantastic. The lipstick choice was my own (I bought it at Sephora two days before) and regrettably more peach than I wanted, but that was alllll me. Ashley was such a pro.

Here's the great part. I paid Mobile Makeovers a deposit, as well as for the trial run. I felt that I had a moral obligation to share my experience with other brides because.. well, holy shit, those photos speak for themselves.

I posted my review to WeddingWire.com ... remember them?

Turns out that the owner of Mobile Makeovers disputed my review and said that I had never done business with her and that I was not telling the truth.

'SCUZE ME?
The F_CK??

So I sent WeddingWire.com my screen shots of my PayPal transfer, the photos of the make-up, and forwarded the email threads from Mobile Makeovers.

They said the merchant still disputed it.

THEN, Mobile Makeovers sent me an email begging me to take down my review. She said that she would refund my money if I would take it down. I felt that was wrong, because a customer should be able to hear ALL experiences, not just the good ones.

I may have added my own tag line up there in blue.

Turns out WeddingWire.com didn't want to upset her, so they pulled my review, even though I have all of the proof to back it up. So while Mobile Makeovers tried to bribe me, turns out WeddingWire.com just needed to call me a liar and the review was gone.

So, world, consider this my review of WeddingWire.com and Mobile Makeovers in the Toronto area of Ontario.

EDIT: Just found this on WeddingBee where other brides have had the same experience. Weddingwire.com is full of shit. Look elsewhere!

I also had something not complimentary with my experience with Rockin' Robin DJ service out of Hamilton, Ontario, and a similar thing happened. Except I just got the notice a few weeks ago that I was "lying" once again, since apparently the vendor hadn't logged into his WeddingWire.com account for some time.

So, if you are looking for legitimate poor experiences to base your wedding vendor choices on, I highly recommend that you look somewhere else. You are not being given the entire picture, as long as the business/vendor challenges anything they don't like.

Happy weddings.

_____________________

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The Semi-Annual Clean: Doggy Detection

So... I hate our rental house.

I know we are lucky to have it, the yard is huge, and we had no other options for a place to live.

I get that. I should be thanking my lucky stars. Though I don't know if I actually own lucky stars, and if I do, which box they were packed in from Ontario, but I digress.

The house smells. And it's grungy. And it's got some serious structural problems and is cracking everywhere. It's the smell, combined with the aroma of two dogs' farts, that really sends me into stomach convulsions most days.

So, here my enthusiasm is nil. I withdraw into myself and don't have much get-up-and-go. Needless to say, between the hubby's work and play schedule and my general malaise and  laziness   shameful housewifery  couch-potato-ness   fatigue, the house has been, shall we say, neglected?

It's hard to be  even willing  enthusiastic to clean a place that CAN'T BE SCRUBBED. Shit is so dirty and had previously been SO NEGLECTED that it simply cannot be scrubbed clean or made devoid of the stains and spots that seem to be everywhere.

So as the MLS real estate papers pile up, the "need to file" paper list expanded, and the tables seemed to become covered with crap, I felt no pressing need to rectify anything. It was like "who'll notice?" and even "it looks better covered up", etc.

Well kids, that all changed when the Hubs let me in on a little secret. A good friend would be staying with us for a couple of nights.

HOLY HELL.

A minor sampling of what I let it get to. And the Dane. I'll let you imagine the fart/house odour.

 It's amazing what shame and embarrassment can do for a girl. I highly recommend it. Not only does it make you feel gross and inadequate, but it could make my queasy, apathetic ass turn it into high gear in the matter of a day.

The Hubs turned  me  it on. He let me go to bed early last night while he did all the large-awkward-not-immediately-needed dishes that were in the queue. He vacuumed the stairs and all the upper floor carpeting (well, you know, AROUND the stacked up piles of my shit everywhere). He gathered up all the crap that he could. He cleaned both bathrooms and scrubbed the tub. He's a good man. A lifesaver, even.

So today was my job to "tidy" up, which doesn't sound nearly as terrifying and all-consuming as it turned out to be. (Flair for the dramatic much? No, not meee.)

I did at least 9 loads of laundry. I found a pile of delicates I left because the rain started and I couldn't dry my stuff outside, so I figured I would wait for a nice day before washing it. I remembered one dress I wore to Jericho Beach and that was back in mid-September. LAUNDRY HAD BEEN SITTING THERE FOR TWO MONTHS... dear Jebus.

I washed the guest bedding, the towels, my clothes, blah blah blah.

Didn't even have a fraction of the time required to actually SORT through all the papers everywhere, so took hours just GATHERING. I wish I was joking here, but I am not.

I would have posted pictures, but the Hubs probably would have divorced me.

The best part? The dogs damn well know that we are having company today. Schultz, the Dane, has been on the lookout with hyper-sensitive-hearing all damn day.

How could the dogs know, you ask? Considering we've had two guests in the house so far?

BECAUSE SCHULTZ KNOWS I ONLY CLEAN WHEN STRANGERS ARE COMING INTO THE HOUSE.

Not only is that fascinating, it's also terribly sad.

Those two guests I mentioned? Our moms. At different times.

So not only am I a horrible house wife, I have no friends I can invite over. lol. Truth be told, I don't WANT people to see this house and its grossness. I want to get into our new house, but that's not happening until mid-February.

So, I still need to put away my semi-wet delicates. I have to hide that stack of piled papers in my bedroom closet. And I have to pretend that the dogs aren't strung out on stranger crack and hope that the Dane isn't a jackass when our friend arrives.

Wish me luck.


___________________

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Record Breaking

Now that I have your attention...

I feel like I should be posting more often, but my heart is just not in it.

Surprisingly, I shattered my page view statistics in the month of October even though I've been a slacker. I wondered why the display had changed when I viewed my stats, and I realized it was because I had surpassed 10,000 views last month. One month.

10,000.

Those stats are almost as big as this rhino. At least, in my mind anyway. FYI: In Kenya they don't seem too concerned about that thing called "liability" or "litigation" and "deadly injuries".

First of all, that 10,000 should maybe be spelled out in words, and probably shouldn't have a period at the end of it. You know, not actually being a sentence and all.

Also? That number is probably squat to most people, but I am pretty damn impressed.

I know there are lots of lurkers that read the blog (why? I have no clue, but I'll take it), and lots of misguided souls who come here via some disgusting search terms that make me shudder/lose sleep. And then there's the bajillion or so who come because they are searching for SkinnyGirl Sangria reviews. They really seem to plump up the numbers.

But it sort of blows me away that stupid images I can post on my blog, from my computer, can somehow show up in the top images in Google Image search. Of all the blogs, in all the cities, and Google walks into mine.

Or something.

I don't know. It's just pretty cool.

I started this ranting space because I found Ally Brosh so damn funny. I was bored, alone, and decided I would bitch and publish it. That was just over 2 years ago.

I haven't done anything meaningful with it. I am not terribly intelligent. Obviously. I can usually get my point across (with the unnecessary use of profanity in most cases, though I try to underscore f_ck as much as possible these days), but there is nothing special here.

So thanks to all of you who take the time to read. To skim. To care enough to peel the skin back from my face and peek into my twisted and tormented brain. Ew.

Like this, but with less skull in the way.

To those of you who stop and take the time to comment and let me know that the page is actually being viewed.

Thanks to you who know me in real life and lurk along, knowing how crazy I am, and hearing my voice tell the story. And thanks for not judging me (at least to my face) for the crazy in my mind.

I hope my mood picks up. I hope my apathy goes away. I hope some of the homesickness goes away. I hope people start responding to emails and texts from me in their real lives. I moved away, but I am lonely as hell and not dead.

I hope to be funny again, and to write more, and to keep people interested in whatever this is I am living. There are more stories to tell, more crazy things happening.

And I STILL haven't finished the honeymoon story OR the cross country story.
Perhaps I'll work on those next.

Thanks everyone.

________

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OMG, That Was Unexpected, "Anon"

So, as a blogger, I suppose it's expected that we should anticipate hateful comments and personal slags online.

I was actually surprised that the first two comments, left by the same "Anonymous" commenter (all in caps, of course, because I suppose they were yelling at me), threatened me and implied I should die and that I am a piece of shit.

Okay, sure.

Though I don't think I leave brown smears on the furniture or anything. Do I???

Which post pissed someone off so badly they had to tell me to die?

Was it the emotionally charged post about Amanda Todd and the widespread, out of control bullying going on in the world? Nope.

Was it my video log about my personal experience with bullying and rape, that I posted as my small contribution to the "It Gets Better" campaign? Nope.

Was it me sharing Rick Mercer's rant on the tragic and unnecessary death of yet another young gay teen? No, it wasn't.

Was it about my heartbreak over the abuse our Great Dane suffered before he was rescued by Loyal Rescue? No.

I must be heading in the wrong direction here.

Someone upset over my personal health-related posts? Nope.

Could it have been the douche from the tux rental store that I railed on over a year ago? Hmmm... nopers.

When I posted the graphic and risque post on cocks and gay marriage?

Was it someone appalled that I would post Cee-Lo Green's message on my website, with such profane language? Um, no, try again.

Perhaps it was an angry interior designer, certain I had ruined their livelihood, furious that I was attempting to educate the world on throw cushions? Close.

Schultz prefers to eat throw cushions, actually.

Nope.

IT WAS THIS POST.

The fourth post I ever published, from August of 2010. 

As such, I am a "fruit", "fag", "make less money than him" who "has no life but to publish an entire site of hate about an amazing artist" and, apparently, this is "why people hate Americans".

Let's check the facts:

Just to be clear, it was one post. In which I admit my dislike is unwarranted, but real nonetheless. Also? I am a Canadian female who figures you must be a dickhead if your zinger "insults" are to imply someone is gay. Really?

No - seriously? Really?

I... I feel a little sorry for anonymous. Homophobic much?

Also? I guess it's not okay to post my own opinion about a celebrity, but it is okay for a commenter to threaten my life and insult me.

Sound argument. (This is another reason why comment moderation is on now).

If only anonymous had shown me the way sooner!! (At least they gave me blog fodder for today).

What kind of vitriol are you other bloggers subjected to?

____________

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Amanda Todd, Bullying, and Bullshit Committees

I usually try to keep this blog light. And by light, I mean frivolous, pointless, full of profanity, and lots of ridiculous photos modified in MS Paint. (Don't mock, I'm using a PC and have no apps. Also? I suck at art).

But this post is extremely serious.

An issue far too close to home, literally and figuratively, has shocked and saddened me, along with most of the world aware of it. I have been losing sleep over it. So I figured I would take to the blog to vent and decompress a little.

For those of you who aren't aware of the suicide of a 15 year old girl named Amanda Todd, you can read about her heartbreaking experience and tragic early death here. You can also view the video cry for help that she posted on YouTube here, one month before she took her own life.

This post is for 15 year old Amanda Todd, who took her own life in Port Coquitlam, BC. (Image credit: Facebook)

I am furious. Furious that no one could help her. Furious that kids are that cruel. Furious that some sick bastard lured her into trusting him and then would not cease humiliating her. And furious that all kinds of school board members and politicians are making heartfelt statements about bullying being a community issue that should be stopped... without any real plan, course of action, or tangible solution for kids experiencing this.

Solutions suggested thus far? Talk to your parents. Talk to a counsellor. Seek help.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Because that will stop the asshole kids who taunt, name call, harass, humiliate, follow, shout out, circle, threaten, assault, and terrorize victims.

Think I sound harsh? Think I am only referring to extreme cases? I am not. If you were lucky enough to escape bullying in your youth, you are one exception to this.

Why am I so very extremely furious? Because I was in her shoes 22 years ago, and I continued to wear them until after my sister was married. Yet without the proliferation and immediate humiliation of social media, which only makes things exponentially worse.

My personal hell started in grade 5 or so. I held hands with a boy two years older than me. That is when I recall the worst of the torment starting. I was called a slut, a whore, a hooker. I had groups of girls who would walk around me in a circle, yell obscene things at me, and tell me I was a worthless piece of shit.

I WAS TEN YEARS OLD.

TEN GODDAMNED YEARS OLD.

Wash, rinse, repeat. It didn't matter if I was kind, or quiet, or crying. It didn't matter if I ignored them, pretended I couldn't hear them. It didn't matter if I ignored the boys who liked me, or if I played terribly in gym class. Didn't matter if I made the volleyball team, found excuses to not go outside at lunch or if I didn't go out socially.

Back then the biggest technological advance was three-way calling, in which you could be convinced to share something personal only to find out that your crush, or your enemy, was listening on the line the entire time. But then, the worst was through word-of-mouth, and I dreaded getting on the country school bus the next day. It wasn't broadcast instantly to hundreds of others via Facebook. The thought makes me shudder.

I know, and I think that you will agree, that most kids just have a deep, deep desire to be accepted. To be "one of the group", and to feel like they have a place to belong. If kids reject you, you try to make friends with other people. You try to find your place. The place where you can be yourself without being torn to shreds and left in tears. You try to find even one friend who will let you feel like you are not alone in this world.

Amanda Todd did just that. She was trying to meet people. She chatted online with others. And being young, unaware and impressionable, when someone showed her that friendliness and acceptance, I imagine that Amanda felt a huge weight lifted off - a huge relief to finally connect with another person. She found solidarity and someone who was kind and complimentary to her.

Amanda M. Todd died October 10, 2012. (Image Credit: Facebook)

How could she have known, at 12 years old, that the sick f*ck on the other end of the chat was a man looking to destroy her sense of self worth?

Amanda Todd trusted her new friend, and in a moment of youthful indiscretion - a moment that she could not have begun to comprehend what possible consequences would be involved - she did something risky and "big girl" and she flashed her webcam as asked.

Before you say "Amanda should have known better, she should never have done that, she didn't know who it was, or what they could do with the image", I'd like you to ask yourself the differences between your jaded, aware adult brain (aware of the evil that some people are capable of in this world) and what your mind was thinking of at the age of 12. My guess is that the two are very different, and that the 12 year old you was simply seeking the connection, acceptance and compliments of that seemingly kind person on the other end of the chat.

People keep talking about how she "made mistakes" but shouldn't have to pay for them for the rest of her life. But I take that even a step further. She was twelve years old. She likely had no idea that those few seconds in time could last the last three years of her life. Her tormented, lonely life.

Amanda Todd was having an online chat. She wasn't drinking and driving. She wasn't shoplifting. Amanda had fleeting seconds that changed things forever. If it was a normal person on the opposite end of her chat, it would have been a non-issue. It wouldn't be considered a mistake. The moment would have passed and she may have realized she didn't want to do something like that again. In the moment she was being a kid - having fun, trying to be accepted, trying to please. It is only because the twisted idiot that she was chatting with turned it into a disgusting, life changing moment for her. So was it really her mistake? She had no control over what the bastard did with her image after the fact. The blame lies with the harasser, people.

When Amanda didn't provide more graphic content to the harasser, he threatened to share the image with the world. And he did. And the police were called once her exposure was shared with her teachers and friends. And her life would never, ever be the same again.

I remember watching a movie recently where the starlet was accused of sleeping around the school. It was entirely false, but the entire school was made aware within a short period of time. I commented to my husband how horrible bullying and harassment must be today in school, with people being able to simultaneously take your photo or video, upload it online, and share it via Facebook, Twitter and email.

Remember when you tripped in the cafeteria and landed face down in your chocolate milk in grade nine? People laughed, kids pointed, you were called a dumb klutz, someone might have even kicked you when you were down. You may have endured teasing for the week, or a few weeks. But you were never immortalized at once on social media sites for the entire world to see.

And we aren't talking chocolate milk here. We are essentially talking what comes down to some sick pervert posting and circulating a version of child pornography with the world. With malicious and cruel intent.

My personal torment continued into high school. When I wouldn't sleep with my boyfriend at the time, Jay C., I was subjected to being called a "tight bitch", baby, suck, and was told I would die with a tight p**sy. His ex girlfriend Tina, her friend Tammy, his friend Curt, and himself, decided to shout this to me regularly around the door to the school cafeteria.

And this was after months of being followed by Tina and Tammy, with them waiting and staring at me outside my geography class door. I used to feel sick knowing I had no choice but to walk by them to get to my next class. They used to bark at me. Because I was a female dog, a bitch. I assume she was mad that I was dating her ex.

It became so severe and so consuming, I eventually had to drop out for a semester, even though I was on track to graduate a year early. I was being constantly followed in the halls, yelled at, threatened, being told in the same breath that I was a slut and that I was tight. That I was a bitch and that I was a goody two-shoes. It was relentless.

And this was before digital cameras, webcams, hell, even scanners. I have to thank goodness that it wasn't worse than it was, which is really saying something.

Amanda Todd STILL persevered throughout this. She changed schools, twice. It haunted her and followed her no matter where she went. It wasn't just the harasser from the webcam. It was her classmates, people who claimed to like her/be into her/be her friends. Her Mom tried to find help for her. She saw doctors. She was "referred to services".

You know what? IT DIDN'T HELP.
You know why? BECAUSE THE BULLYING DIDN'T STOP.

If you have had traumatic events in your life, you never forget them. Depending on the severity of the traumas, a person can be plagued with flashbacks, intrusive dreams or thoughts, general anxiety, fear, constant vigilance, depression and low-to-non-existent self esteem and feelings of no self worth.

But if they happen, and they stop, you can try to talk through the pain and the hurt and take medication and do your best to survive through it. I've been through some horrible, horrible things that I haven't shared on this blog, but may some day. I still cry about them to this day. And I stumble and struggle and muster through my life as an adult, still not sure how to cope with some of it.

Amanda Todd tried to cope with this from age 12 to 15.
You tell me how the hell A CHILD can make sense of something like this.

I had to stand and testify at 16 years of age. I had the support of my parents, my sister, and I sat there wanting to just die and never have to think again.

Somehow, we got through it. Somehow.

Amanda was dealing with such torment on such a massive scale, and she tried to get away from it. She moved schools, she moved out of her city, she could never get away.

Amanda Todd's suffering was inescapable, because no matter what medications, therapies, counselling or support that could have been offered to her - no matter the amount of love from her family, or those who were as close to friends as she had - the harassment never stopped.

If, for some reason, you are a teenager, or a young adult, or adult reading this who is experiencing such torment - please know that ONE DAY it will stop, even if it means changing your name completely and moving to another province, state or country. Even if it means adopting an entirely different email address, cutting off communication with people from your old life, and deleting any and all Facebook, YouTube or Twitter accounts. YOU CAN ESCAPE IT, even if it seems impossible.

But this is where I am also furious.

It's damn hard, and the effects run deep.

The elementary school where I was followed, circled, and threatened to be stabbed at the end of the school year? Yeah, they had a "zero tolerance" policy for bullying. The girl threatening to kill me, Tricia G*****s, was part of the "troubled child" part of our school. They got to play video games and go bowling because they "had issues". I got to cry myself to sleep at night and live in fear at school.
That's a really clutch policy there.

The high school where my friend was beaten and had her head slammed into ceramic tile? The one where I was shoved, barked at, humiliated and followed? Well, P.J. also had a zero tolerance policy. Even on the stand, when I testified at my friend's trial about the abuse she suffered, one of the school counsellors, Pam B., managed to quote the wrong date on the stand and essentially throw both her and our testimony into question. Nothing was ever done. The tormenting didn't stop, until those bullies left school, and then finally when I got the hell out and went to college in another city.

You can make all the committees you want, school board. You can have a compendium on bullying and vow that the community needs to step in. You can have think tanks about what services should be available to students.

IT'S ALL BULLSHIT.

Why?

Because the very thing that needs to be changed is ALLOWING THE BULLIES TO KEEP BULLYING.

I talked my face off through my experience. My mom listened to tears and worry and sadness for days on end. My dad tried to step in and tell a few to stop or else we would pursue things through police. I had counselling, I talked to doctors, I was medicated.

IT ONLY CHANGED ONCE THE BULLIES WERE REMOVED FROM MY LIFE.

So while I would be pissed off if the community didn't respond with some kind of strategy to improve things, it ultimately comes down to the fact that TALK IS CHEAP.

I wish they could start implementing mandatory reporting from classmates, surveillance on the school ground, strict expulsion for students who bully, kids who monitor for such activity in case the bullies corroborate each others' stories and claim innocence, and strict legal and criminal record penalties for verbal, emotional and physical abuse for anyone regardless if they are under 18.

But you know what? Then the bullies wait until kids like Amanda Todd are off school property and are walking home. Or until they are on the city bus, or at the mall. Or they take to the internet, where there appears to be no goddamn consequences or follow up to online harassment.

THERE NEEDS TO BE SERIOUS, LEGAL CONSEQUENCES FOR BULLIES. If this were adults tormenting each other with hurled insults, stalking and threatening emails, it would be taken slightly more seriously.

But yet the burden of proof still lies with the victim.
Our justice system is warped. Victims are being further victimized.

When I was 15 and trusted an older guy who seemed to like and accept me, I was victimized. I even went to trial. I sat on the stand and had to detail every last humiliating detail.

You know what happened?
He got 3 months of house arrest, and the local paper cut me to shreds.

It's bullshit.

Amanda, I'm so sorry that you endured this and that no one could stop the bullying. (Image Credit: YouTube)

I am so sorry you had to endure this hatred, this evil, Amanda Todd. I wish that you didn't take your own life, as do the GOOD people of Port Coquitlam, Coquitlam, Port Moody, Burnaby, Vancouver, and the rest of the people who have a heart and a soul in this world.

I hope that you may rest in peace finally, since there is no way for us to help you now. I wish we could get you back and help you escape it and make the bad guys pay for all they have done. I hope that something, anything, positive can come of this, since we can't get you back, but the world has noticed how insane things were allowed to get, with nothing being done.

I hope that your sad, early, unnecessary death will help others out there hang on a little longer, be able to find others experiencing the same, and be able to survive the torment.

Amanda Todd didn't deserve this.
Something big needs to change.

_______________

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