Heartburn or Esophageal-burny-cancer-destruction?

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

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

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

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

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

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

*cue horror music*

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

Actual:

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

Everyone's a critic.

*cue Tums commercial music*

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Tooth Whitening Gone Awry

So, here's the thing.

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

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

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

TEST RUN #1:

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

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

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

Awesome.

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


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

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

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

*Another big, long, dramatic sigh*

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Domestic Supply Stores = Depression

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

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

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

Holy shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*sigh*


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Embarrassing Realizations (Part 3 of ∞ )

All in the same day....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Totally down. Completely open.

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

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

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

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

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

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Carry-on Luggage BLOWS MY MIND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I still can't believe it.

That shit is MAGICAL.



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


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Cocks. And Gay Marriage.

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

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What?

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

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

"Combatting bigotry the gayest way I know how".

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

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

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

Awesome.

Also? A fantastic link to a cock picture..

Go ahead, I'll wait.


See? Get your mind out of the gutter!


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Dear Person... & Cyclists Terrify Me

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

Congratulations on an incredible level of passive-aggressiveness.

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

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

So go fuck yourself.

I clean up enough dog poop on my own.


Piss-off-ed-ly,
Me

~

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

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

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

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

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

Apologetically (hypothetically),


Me


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


~



Dear Cyclists,


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


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

YOU TERRIFY ME.

I DO NOT WISH TO HURT YOU.

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

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

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

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

Mutual respect folks. Even though you TERRIFY me.

Curled up in the fetal position,


Me

~

Dear Google.ca Image Search,

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

"pictures of Céline Dion".

My very own Canadian. How I beam with pride.

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

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

Ridiculously,


Me


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