Me on a flying trapeze. No, seriously!

No word of a lie, Michael reminded me of a healthier time, back in early 2009, when I took a vacation to Jamaica.

A bunch of teenagers tried this and failed before me.

I got my black-sock-fitted ass up on that high trapeze post there, and did this on my first attempt. Well, I mean, the socks were on my feet, not my ass, and all I had was black csocks... Anyway, BEHOLD:



Admittedly, I was too sore to do it again afterwards (my next two attempts were failures), but by gawd, I did do it!!! 

______

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I Will Finish The SNAFU Honeymoon Story...

I think a part of me just doesn't want to concede that by telling the last of the story, the entire wedding/honeymoon process is officially over and I have to go back to real life.

For those not in the know or in the loop, please find the previous (horrific by my oh-so-pathetic,  middle-class standards) here:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

The final installment will be here shortly. I promise. I'll even provide real photos of the Maldives. You know, pre-uprising and presidential dethroning.

The New Husband, dining on a chocolate bar as we waited during the final hours at Heathrow Airport. ROMANTIC!

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DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT...

Drink half a 1.5 Litre bottle of Riesling wine all by yourself while your better half goes and plays Ultimate Frisbee. (Dad, I blame you for the leftover wine. Next time, it goes home with you!!)

Then challenge him to a trash-talking board game, upon his return.

Good things can never come of such events.

Consider yourself warned, and no, you get no photographic evidence.

Though, I may have pissed a few friends off on Facebook.

Sorry 'bout  that.
_____

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The Perfect Outfit

Ever wearing a perfectly comfortable sports bra and pair of  Great Dane drool-covered   knock off Lulu Lemon   likely should have been washed two days ago  yoga pants and think to yourself:

SELF: "You know what self? I feel too... I dunno... free in these pants. I feel as if something is missing."

You ponder this for a moment and then eventually come to the realization that what you are lacking is skin tight razor denim thrashing its own path through your ladybits.

How you missed it all along is beyond me, but facts are facts.

You need some seriously skin tight denim in order to feel complete.

SELF: "But, self, even with that, I feel almost claustraphobic. Like my torso just needs to shout to the world  'Look at me, bitches! Look at me in all my glory! Take me in! Desire me!' You understand, right self?"

So you come up with a solution there.

One that requires fishnet. And not JUST fishnet, but MORE fishnet. (imagine Christopher Walken saying it like "cow bell"...)

BUT,

In order to remain out of prison for indecent exposure, you realize you have to subject your torso to a little boob coverage. Just a little. I mean, those ARE AMPLE breasts you have there, Self.

SELF: "At least I can make that shit RAINBOW."

So you're almost there. Your yoga pants be damned. Your properly fitted sports bra? Well now, those are for  pussies   athletes  people with taste  pansies.

SELF: "I just... I just need something to really stand out. Like REALLY stand out. Some bling or some such flair! Ooooh... twinkle, twinkle, bitches."

And the shoes? Ah f_ck it, I'll just throw on my flip flops.

Do my toes look big in these sandals? (Image via "People of Walmart")

Thaaaaaaaaaaaat's the ticket.

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Oh Shit.

Do you ever do that thing?

You know, that thing where you're kind of unaware and then that thing starts happening?

For me it started innocently enough. I traded my old impala in for a nice, compact, fuel-efficient car. (points for better gas mileage and environmental consideration).

Fast forward about 3.5 years and I'm in the new (okay, 2006) compact car.
After running to various flower shops, quite inefficiently, all the while failing to find purple roses for my niece's birthday.
Rush, rush, rush.
After having poorly planned the day and getting on the treadmill late, and being chubby and stinky, and showering late and.... (less points for poor time management and stupidity).

You know, that thing where you remind your husband to check his windshield washer fluid as he's driving, because you're terrified you'll get stuck behind a transport on the highway in slushy weather with no wiper fluid to save your ass from filthy, sandy mush, flung high speed at your windshield. Like it did to you two years ago in your compact car and you nearly drove off the highway because you couldn't see. You know, right? (less points for being an annoyingly nagging wife).

That thing where you ensured he checked his, BUT DIDN'T CHECK YOUR OWN. Because you keep forgetting that it was the OLD IMPALA that had the courtesy to let you know that you were getting LOW on fluid, whereas the new compact car just says;

"Hey you stupid motherf_cker, looks like you're outta washer fluid!!"
"Have a nice    day   death!"

You know, that thing. Where you are on the highway, doing 125 km/hr, trying to arrive with non-purple roses in time in another city, in the fast lane, in rainy/slushy weather.

And that damn OH-SHIT light comes on.

Oh well, I lived to make it to the next town and thank goodness had the paranoia and foresight to pack extra washer fluid in the trunk (I ABHOR paying $6 at the gas station for it when you can get it for $2 at the grocery store).

Lived to tell the tale. (bonus points for surviving an untimely death).

Damn I hate this compact minimalist-bells-and-whistles business.

I need a Hummer. Or, rather, maybe my husband does (tee hee).

After all, his washer fluid WAS topped up and I ran out...
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Crying over?

Just to clarify - I can still cry if I spill soy milk, right?

I mean, it easily makes just as much a mess as dairy milk.

And I think it costs more.

And the soy milk totally got into someone else's smartphone wall charger cord.

*Proceeds to cry over spilled milk and lack of hand-eye coordination*

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I had Mike Weir for Valentine's Day

Yup, that's right.

I got to TASTE HIM. He was surprisingly dry. But I drank him all in.


Oh, you guys are disgusting. I meant his sparkling wine,  jizz  jeez.

He fizzed all in my mouth. Also? The dim lighting made me look better to the New Husband. Probably.

When we saw the sign for this Italian restaurant (highly recommended by a fellow in the Williams Sonoma store), we expected shag carpeting and beads onto the doors in the washroom.

Surprisingly swanky. You didn't make the table cut if you were forced to sit at the bar or pizza bar. Just FYI.

It was surprisingly elegant, and we managed to score a table at 6pm on a Friday night with no reservations.

We must have looked mistakenly classy.

Also, holyshitandallthingsnotaffordable, have you people ever been in Williams Sonoma? The New Husband spent $36 on a whisk. A WHISK!

We spent $20 on PEPPERCORNS, people.

PK, you have got some mighty classy taste. I felt so out of place in that store.

So here's to tasting Canadian golfers like Mike Weir, while your husband watches, on Valentine's Day!!

*clinks glass in right hand to glass in left hand*

_____________

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Things that piss me off

For no good reason, in no particular order, my list.

The antithesis of 1,000 awesome things (both shorter AND completely negative):

• My propensity for injury in ANY given situation
• Fashion magazines and/or Photoshopping women's bodies to completely unrealistic or unhealthy standards
• Wet, heavy snow that causes a full body sweat to shovel
• Constipation
• Diarrhea (you know - wet, heavy poo that causes a full body sweat)
• Your mother (just kidding, she's probably a very nice woman who bakes things)
• Your mother (because she causes a full body sweat, too)
• Gluten (that shit is in EVERYTHING)
• Cool air humidifiers (scented or unscented)
• Pretentious, obscenely expensive weddings
• Wearing sleeveless pajamas and waking up all night because my shoulders are cold
• Polyester pants (you know - the whole half body sweat thing)
• Half-visible, half frozen boogers that you have no idea are taking up real estate in your nose, while walking your dog outside

That's it for now.

How truly uninspiring.

You are welcome.

If you leave me a comment, tell me THREE RANDOM THINGS that piss you off.


______________________

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I Have Nothing To Say

Just so we're clear.

Nothing to say.

Nothing at all to say *shifts eyes left to right*.




So we're good then?

Okay.

___________

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Rock Band Is My Bitch

Like any youthful, popular, savvy, connected young married woman in her 30s, I am:

• sitting home alone
• on a Saturday night
• in my pajamas
• playing Rock Band 3 in the freezing cold basement (while the puppy tries to sleep and block out my voice in her head)
• all by myself (besides the dogs)
• with a laundry room full of clean cloth items
• an upstairs hallway filled with piles of give away blankets and pillows to sort through
• a linen closet to re-organize and re-stock
• a major buzz from a bottle of Dr. Pepper

That's what all the cool kids are doing these days, right?


On a Saturday night?

RIGHT?  RIGHT???


In need of a decent shower, seriously. Like, seriously, really.

Whatever... behold the magic of boredom and loneliness!!!

Check this shit out:

Of ALLLLL the people that play Rock Band, (mind you, some songs I had to buy, but still), I've placed in the top 6, beyotches.

ON EXPERT VOCALS.

Suck my smelly pits, competitors!!



I submit the following into evidence (I am Stephaniescooby):

Booyah!

Aw yeeeeeeeeeah booooy.

Ditto

And you may have remembered long ago when I held the #1 spot for the Canadian Band, The Tragically Hip on Rock Band 3 in this post back here. But, since then, I had been knocked off my thrown down to second place.

Well not tonight folks. Tonight *I* was so hip it was tragic. (Wow. That was truly awful. Even for me.)

THE CROWN IS MINE ONCE AGAIN!!!

It feels so gooood to be Queen.

Shania Twain, Third Eye Blind, Alanis Morissette and The Tragically Hip are all own-able. For now. I wish I could remember the other ones I did well on, but my memory is shot.
Okay, that's all. I just had to share this with someone since the Hubs is out playing poker.

If anyone out there plays RockBand, you should add me as an online friend in your system, because clearly I need some friends, people!!

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Letter to my then-Feyoncé™, now The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™

As a start to our wedding ceremony, the wedding officiant asked me and The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ to secretly write letters to each other, and not share them, and she would read them aloud.

I want everyone to know how I feel about him, so dammit, I'm posting it on the blog.

I need some love and positivity right now, so here it is:

~~~~~~~~

Dearest [Name Redacted to Protect The Innocent], aka “[Redacted Variation on Previously Redacted Name]”, aka “Babe”, aka “My husband-to-be”,

I don’t even know how to start this letter. How can I express the love and appreciation I have for you in words? I simply cannot do it justice with words. I can look into your eyes, and smile, and know that you will know how I am feeling or what I may be thinking by the tilt of my head or the look in my eyes.

I love that understanding, and the connection we have. I love our mutual sense of humour, and ability to laugh at things. I love our “fit”. I love YOU, and I love us.

But how do I tell you how important you are in my life? How very fortunate I feel to have met you, and to have the honour of being the woman you are choosing to spend the rest of your life with?

From the very moment we met, I felt you exuded honesty and sincerity. I was charmed by your laugh and your sense of humour. And you were handsome (YOWSA! AND STILL ARE! Look at you!). And the more I got to know you, the more incredible you became to me. You amaze me every day with your intelligence, kindness, patience, understanding, and determination. Our bond has grown, deepened and strengthened as time has moved on. Each day I love you more.

You have let me see that what I thought, or can think, is a broken, flawed, embarrassment, is actually the woman you love with all your heart, and believe in more often than I believe in myself.

You’ve shown me that I am a lovable partner (unless it’s time to do the dishes or walk the dogs). You give me purpose (in explaining song lyrics), keep me on my toes (always seeking out the cutlery that doesn’t hurt your hands), and we work together with our strange quirks (like needing the car window cleaned, or never turning left into a gas station).

We have traveled together, and I have had opportunities to see things I never would have had the courage to try without you in my life. Like seeing the gorillas in Rwanda. And seeing the huge rhinoceros in front of our vehicle… in that crazy trek we took to the far-reaching African Lion Safari!

[Redacted], you ARE my life. You have given me courage, strength and comfort when I thought there was no strength left. You have cheered me on, and encouraged me to fight for the things that are worth fighting for. We have stood together through the rough waters and the playful waves and the calm stillness. And your support means more than any vows, or words, could say.

You mean everything to me. I can’t truly articulate how much love my heart holds for you. You are brightness, sunshine, warmth, and safety. You are wonderful.

I promise to do my best to be a good wife, and eventually a good mother to our not-yet-conceived children.

I am the luckiest girl in the world to be standing here, with you, the man who holds my heart, who makes me whole, who loves me unconditionally, who works alongside me, who challenges me, who makes me smile, whose hugs can make the world seem kinder, who can turn my mood and my day around. I love you so much, Babe, and I am so happy we are standing here today. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I love you more than any words could ever say.

I hope I keep making you as happy as you make me.

Stephanie

Oh, YES I DID!!!

p.s. To the people who didn't like the centrepieces: Really? Seriously?  I liked 'em, and we made a decent donation to an organization in my home town with the money we saved.

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He's Home!!!

After 36 hours of doggy hospitalization, our baby is home!

Our wallets are much lighter, but then again, so are our hearts.

"I iz so teyered and sad. Mum n Dad left me at the noizy, smelly playce for 36 ourz. I iz gonna nap nao."

So happy to see him joyfully eating snow off the side patio table, without a care in the world.

Now I just have to medicate and monitor him for the next 6 days, transition him back to his normal food, and hope that he doesn't barf or poo himself into dehydration again.

Although, in all honesty, as he is napping I can hear his stomach gurgling. Probably not a good sign. He feels really warm, too.

And, a side effect of one of the medications is vomiting and nausea. Eeeeek.

I hope this continues to get better and not the other way...

_____________________

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Canadian? Wanna play a game?

In light of some bad news at home here, I am distracting myself by playing an online spin to win game.

Surprisingly, it has nothing to do with my last post, but will appear to be shilling out Shopper's Drug Mart when, in fact, they've done nothing but take my money hand over fist for the last 30 years.

Anyway, here's the link:

PLAY THE GAME HERE, YO!

Contest closes tomorrow. You basically spin to win entries to win things.

Okay, now I have to do responsible things and stop numbing myself with the internet.

Think good thoughts for my doggy.


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Hair Washing 101

I just read an article in "Glow" Magazine (the magazine that Shoppers Drug Mart puts out with the odd article, essentially just showcasing all the shit they want you to buy at Shoppers Drug Mart) saying in winter it is best to wash your hair twice a week.

Twice a week?

First of all, not gonna sell a lot of shampoo that way, Shoppers!

Then I got thinking.... I just had to blow a good chunk of change to fix my horrible hair.

It was a deal for    leopard spotting bleach 2" from my roots   highlights and a  butchering  cut from one of those "deal sites" where they oversold themselves and in turn hired some random people who "may" or "may not" be ACTUAL hairdressers.

I have no doubt in my mind that Polished & Pampered Wellness hired  Coulda just been random people armed with damaging bleach and determination. One never really knows these things.

I can't be certain, but it's possible that the girl that did my hair was related to the Travelocity Travelling gnome, was sprinting through Hamilton, and was given a job opportunity she SHOULD have refused.

I digress.

The orange/spotted/leopard/hack job that resulted was pretty awesome.

Just...  tear-inducingly horrific   awesome.

I'd post a picture, but I was too vain to have that shit documented.

The hair I wanted. (Via)

Essentially, what I got. (Various Sources).

So, after getting my money back (because the "salon" was a joke and ended up COSTING me 6 times the cost of the voucher to get my "hair did" properly), my hair is now totally fried.


Back to the hairwashing... maybe if I wear enough perfume AND hats, I can salvage the white-blonde-straw that I am currently fashioning as hair, via less damage by jumping on this minimalist hair washing bandwagon.

I almost feel deceived. Even at the NEW, qualified salon, the stylist cut SO MUCH HAIR OFF, then thinned it for good measure. You know, ensuring a mullet-like-style with regrowth.... trying to fix it.

But she flat ironed it all purrrdy, and it looked reasonable.
Then I went to a wedding.
And drank far too much.
And acted like a drunkard.
And broke my toe.
And came home.
And cleaned up puppy shit for 3 hours (another day, another blog post).
And then showered and washed my hair.

Dear god, it's like a dehydrated lion. A dehydrated lion with zebra stripes.


No V-O-5 hot oil can even begin to smooth this hot, or rather, dry, mess. (You know what else is a hot mess? My comma use. Another day, another blog post).

So... perhaps in an effort to keep the over-dyed, unhealthy, over-bleached, under appreciated hair that is left on my head, I may reduce hair washing.

Lord have mercy on my pillow.
And the complexion at my hairline.


_____________________

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My feet are menstruating. More details to follow...

Trust me, there is a story here.

Just can't tell it now... tune in tomorrow!!

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The Smartest F_cking Squirrel - EVER.

On many an evening walk, I noticed this small skunk that hangs around a nearby school.

He always lurks in the darkness, and me and the dog always beeline it to the other side of the boulevard/street/parking lot/postal code to avoid the stinkrafuge that his angry butt could potentially unleash upon my dog's face.

Then, one miraculous day, I walked the dog in the daylight.

And damned if I didn't come face to face with the smartest f_cking squirrel EVER. The little dark brown/black bugger has... wait for it... (are you waiting?




I hope so...




I like to build suspense...




While forcing you further down the page and closer to my advertisements...







I digress).




He's got a white tipped tail.

My eyesight + usual darkness = SKUNK.

I've never seen anything like it, and today I finally caught that shit on digital imagery! I was so happy! Then I was all worried someone would come raging and screaming out of the school to tell me to delete my harmless photos, lest a child's face be caught in the image. (I made that mistake one day at work when I was at a daycare site. Holy shit. Privacy laws are intense, yo).


Again, I digress.


So I got thinking... he's got to be the world's smartest squirrel for deceiving all who approach him into thinking he's a skunk.

Then I remembered that most dogs are pretty dumb when it comes to caution and skunks, and most dogs I know pummel themselves face-first directly into skunk ass. They wouldn't really avoid something that appeared to be a skunk, anyway.

So that left me feeling more like it wasn't the smartest squirrel ever, but that, perhaps, I was just a relatively dumb dog-walker/blogger.

Either way, that shit is epic.

It's almost like a Sasquatch sighting, but fuzzier and slightly less reliable.

I can feel your judge-y eyes. But I tell you, smartest.squirrel.EVER.


________________________

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Luggage Carousel Gold Mine

I was so desperately wishing that:

• This would have been tagged with a fluorescent orange Air Canada "priority baggage" tag, stuck somewhere. Anywhere.
• Someone came running back to the luggage carousel, out of breath, exclaiming "THERE they are!!"
• That I could have temporarily ignored my disdain for germs and run to the carousel, shouting back at The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™, "Honey, honey! I got them! Don't worry, the carousel didn't put a hole in 'em!"
• People wouldn't hear my non-smart-phone's EXTRA LOUD shutter sound whenever I take a photo, thereby completely revealing that I took a shot of this rarely-seen luggage carousel gold mine:

There, in the centre, lies a balled-up pair of men's underwear. So lovely.

Everyone had several snickers at the undies, as they toured around the carousel about 20 times before Air Canada finally started spitting out baggage. I pity the fool whose luggage landed on those underwear, and can only hope they were a CLEAN balled up pair of orphaned underwear.

Once the couple beside me realized I had taken a photo, (you know, and after they accepted the fact that I was very odd), we all made cracked some solid one-liners to each other. I think it is the first and only time another traveller has ever spoken to me at the baggage carousel.

The moral of the story?

ORPHANED UNDERPANTS UNITE.

Also?

The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ is the zipper king.

Bow down before him. Or whatever.

Also?

I was still totally buzzed upon arrival after those 3 triples in the departure lounge. But at least this wasn't an I-remember-seeing-random-underwear-in-the-airport-while-drunk stories with no photographic evidence. I took those photos to share with YOU, dear reader.

Once again, you're welcome.

Or whatever.
________

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Goddammit, orange juice, people!

Just for the record, orange juice should be sipped and savoured.

Not gulped. Not chugged.

If it has pulp (which it should), you should be chewing that shit, making the beverage last even longer.

Don't even try to deny it.

If you buy pulp-free, I don't think we can be internet friends any more (subject to review).

I almost broke up with the then-BF when he happily returned from the store with PULP FREE OJ.

Oh, the horror!

When a beverage has that many calories and tastes that good, anything other than slow enjoyment is not an option.


What's that you say?

Why yes, yes I do enjoy blogging about orange juice on a Friday night.
And yes, I do find myself very social, normal and hip.

BWHAHAHAH.

Whatever, I'll blame it on the horrendous sinus infection/sneezing/head cold/cough.


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Honeymoon Travel From Hell - Part 3

So... if you are new to the blog, or need a refresher, you can find Post #1 here, and then Post #2 here.

The way it was supposed to be:
- Plane #1 Toronto - Heathrow, London, England (Day 1)
- Plane #2 Heathrow - Columbo, Sri Lanka (Day 1-2)
- Plane #3 Columbo, Sri Lanka - Male, Maldives (Day 2)
- Plane #4 Male, Maldives - Maldivian Resort (sea plane ride) (Day 2)

We arrived at Heathrow in London on AC848 (Plane #1, but not actually the plane we were supposed to be on), hungry and having slept a few hours of that light-annoying-I-can-still-hear-the-people-around-me kind of way. I think it was 8:25am in London, but who are we kidding? My body knew it was really 3:25am REALITY (Ontario) TIME.

I was exhausted, and we had yet to figure out what, if any connections we had ahead of us, and which flights we had to try to book then and there in Heathrow.

We took the very, very long walk to the train to get from Terminal 3 to Terminal 4 (where the Sri Lankan air desk was located). After a 13 minute wait for the train to arrive, we trained it for 11 minutes to Terminal 3, where, at the Sri Lankan desk, there was not a soul to be found.

We had never considered that flights with a hub in Columbo, Sri Lanka, might not typically depart around 8am. F_ck. So, no help there.

We tried calling Canadian 800 numbers for assistance. Those bitches were sleeping at 3am, yo.
We tried calling some effed up numbers in Sri Lanka, and we couldn't get any of the calls to work, no matter the country code options.

When we got one to work, the person couldn't understand a goddamn word we said.

We tried the useless as f_ck airport information desk, who also tried dialling the same calls, with the same results. She then advised us to come back about an hour before the next Sri Lankan Air flight was set to depart.

"When would that be?" we asked, trying to be polite, feeling cranky as hell, and hoping the response would be in the range of "now" to "soon".

"Well, I don't know, check the boards" she grunted.

If any of you have ever been in an airport, you might notice they have a shit-ton of flights coming and going. And due to that fact, they only show outbound flights over the course of the next few hours on the monitors.

There was not a single Sri Lankan flight.

We took the long, long trek back down to the train, and returned (via an 11 minute train ride, while hauling our luggage) to Terminal 3. Why? Because there was a Star Alliance "arrivals" lounge, thank the gods, so we could access the bloody internet and attempt to figure out what was going on.

In the Star Alliance Arrivals Lounge:

In all fairness, the British women at the Air Canada Arrivals Lounge were absolutely kind and helpful. They helped us find alternate contact numbers for Sri Lankan Air, and were patient with us when The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ had to use their phone for TWO HOURS to try to get us on Sri Lankan air flights that would get us into Male, Maldives, you know, IDEALLY BEFORE THE END of our honeymoon.

They told us that our entire itinerary was visible on screen to Air Canada agents, including the flights that never connected. Turns out the assholes back in Toronto, Ontario, Canada at Pearson airport just didn't want to take the time to help us out, explain there was a problem, and prevent the mass confusion we endured over the next 20+ hours while trying to rebook.

I ate some wheat and some dairy out of desperation. I had a can of coke. It was about 6am Canada time.

We tried calling our insurance policy, purchased through Expedia.ca, to find out if they would reimburse costs to us for the rebookings. Their response?

"NONE OF IT IS COVERED."

What about the night we are missing at our non-refundable, pre-paid, expensive fancy-pants honeymoon resort in the Maldives?

"NOTHING PRE-PAID IS INCLUDED. See the limitations and exclusion clause at the end of your policy."

WHAT THE F_CK!?!??! We had both reviewed the travel insurance policy, purchased through Expedia.ca and provided by Mondial Assistance, but lo and behold we had missed this imperative clause below:

Um, kind of defeats the point, doesn't it?

So then The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ tried calling his out of country travel insurance through his work to ask for help.Guess what the person's response was on the phone?

"Didn't you just call me about this? I already told you it's not covered".

NO.WORD.OF.A.F_CKING.LIE.
SAME.FREAKIN'.GUY

Turns out his work coverage is completely identical to the shitty Expedia travel insurance plan, right down to the ONE GUY who answers the phone in the early morn, somewhere in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.

Unless your travelling companion dies, or some crazy-ass weird shit goes down, or one of you loses a limb under certain conditions only, expect nothing from MONDIAL ASSISTANCE.

It gets confusing here, and I have probably already lost most of you, but the bottom line is that after the The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™ spent hours on the phone in the lounge, and after Sri Lankan hung up on him twice, we were put on a flight departing Heathrow to go to Columbo (Sri Lanka) 3.5 hours later than planned.  This was NOT our final stop, remember, and we had two more connecting flights.

With this new set-up, we were set to take plane #2 and ARRIVE in Sri Lanka at 1:00pm the following day.

The problem?

Despite all our calls and efforts, the next leg of our journey, AKA plane #3, AKA our "connecting" flight, DEPARTED the following day at 11:20am for Male.

See the problem there?

Seems that Sri Lankan Air has not yet grasped the definition of "connecting flight".

We were booked on an impossible connection, unless of course someone had purchased us those time-travelling spacesuits from our wedding registry last minute.

Turns out no one did.

Sadly, the arrivals lounge had to close at 1:00pm, and kick our tired, sorry asses out.
Remember now, we've been awake for about 24 hours at this point. We couldn't check our luggage because there was no one at the counter of our next, uncertain flight.

So we began the 4 hour wait before the Sri Lankan air counter opened up, to find out if the idiots on the phone had actually at least booked us some way to get to destination #2 out of 4.

And there's more....

_____________

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I'M STILL ALIVE

I'm just really non creative and have tried to be productive offline.

(Productivity includes eating. Lots. Just FYI).

In light of my last post, we are considering buying a treadmill, spinning bike, and cancelling my gym membership...

It's funny how sometimes I have a ton of post ideas, then a complete and utter dry spell.

Plus, I have no working camera, which slows me down. And I am too lazy to find the adapter piece to transfer pictures from my crappy dumb-phone.

Whatever.

Just letting you know I'll be back to regularly scheduled programming soon...


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New Year Bullshit Begins

Listen.

Closely.

Can you hear it?

Everywhere, in bathrooms all over the globe, people are studiously picking up and plucking dental floss from it's dust-covered station in the bathroom, last touched when it was handed free to you at your dentist's office.

Resolve to floss!

Can you smell it?

Just flare your nostrils ever so slightly.

Yoga classes from here to every uptight yoga studio, from cheap to pricey, as the masses align their newly received yoga mats side by side. Placed so tightly together in the room, the body odour is enough to resolve to never return again.

Resolve to be zen! Be fit! Be healthy!

Because THIS YEAR is different. In that it ends in a 2. Or some stupid reason. Therefore your lame ass resolutions will stick this year.

Right?

Yeah, me neither.

I give it two weeks. Or whatever. It's hard for me to type this as I shovel my face full of chocolates, gluten-free brownies, Turtles, salted cashews, Lindors, and   self-respect   this healthy apple  the reality check that my clothes don't fit me anymore  straight spoonfuls of granulated sugar.

Happy 2012, Y'all.

I'm off to go let out a few seams on my jeans. (Yeah right, we all know I can't sew. You got me).


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