Saturday, June 30, 2007


My sister, Kirsten is home for the Canada Day weekend. In true Canadian fashion, we typically stretch any holiday into an entire weekend. Which provides even more opportunity for merlot and merriment.

One Canada Day staple is the obligatory trip to the fair. You know, for the kids ;) Neither of us can handle much of the swirling and whirling of the carnival rides (we're saving our stomachs for tomorrow). While my son and nephew ran from ride to ride (intermmittently waiting for long periods in line ups), it gave Kiki and I time to laugh at people's choice of wardrobe (less is never more)
and other carni sites to be seen (tanned ride operators with more tattoos than teeth). My sister wondered if the carnis turn up the music and ride the rides after the fair patrons leave each night. My guess, no.

Because of the week-long rain and thunder/lightening fest, the fair grounds resembled a swamp. We were wearing flip flops of course. And with each step, the warmish, smellish swampiness sank further up to our ankles. It was like walking through a sewer. The fact that young teenage boys (presumably trying to impress the girls) were walking around spitting everywhere and people brought their dogs to the fair who no-doubtably pissed everywhere, so it was very much like an actual sewer.

After almost two hours in the mucky muck, our feet felt like fecal covered ice cubes.

Kiki: "Remember how we used to wear strappy sandals out to the bar, even when it was winter?"
Me: "Yeah. Remember that time my feet were so cold I took off my mittens and wore them on my feet over my strappy shoes for the walk home when we couldn't get a cab?"
Kiki: "Yeah."
Lots of laughter.

Kiki: "Remember that time we couldn't get a cab and Kate wanted to go home with that guy just so she could get a ride and avoid walking?"
Me: "Was that the night "name of guy" wanted to take her home and we tried to carry her to Subway?"
Kiki: "No, that was a different night. I'm talking about the night she tried to pee in the alley way between the two parked cars."
Me: "Oh, was that the night I took you both for a ride in the shopping cart and it tipped over on the sidewalk and you both fell out?"
Kiki: "No, that was a different night."
Me: "Oh."
Kiki: "Those were fun times."
I nod in agreement and lots of laughter.

I made her stop telling stories because I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to s*** myself (not very attractive and thanks in part to the spicey hamburger wraps we ate for supper). Fun times indeed.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Wack Job

My super sweet neighbour, I'll call him Danny* (*not his real name), has been helping me with my lawn maintenance. My other neighbour, I'll call him Chip* (again, not his real name), has also been giving me a hand (With his shirt on this time. And trust me, that's a good thing).

Between Chip using his ride-on mower and Danny using his weed wacker, I've barely had to lift a finger so far this summer. It probably helps that I always express how thankful I am for their assistance. Toss in a couple of eyelash flutters, and a short skirt with flip flops, and ta-da! I've got myself a couple of lawn boys. Kind of like pool boys, but without the water/ requests to have help with my sun tan oil.

Danny wanted to make sure my boyfriend wouldn't mind that he was helping me. Awww. Isn't that sweet? Ofcourse I quickly set the record straight. Lawn boys = 2, boyfriends = 0

Yesterday, Danny asked if I wanted to try out his weed wacker. Ofcourse, being the adventureous girl that I am, I said yes. Well, because Danny is: a) a guy and b) bigger than me, the weed wacker looked a lot smaller when he was wielding it like a knight's sword. But when he brought it out of the shed, it was almost as big as I was.

Danny got it started for me, and showed me what the buttons did. It was gas powered so the trigger gave it a "vroom vroom" sound like an engine reving, or a high powered chain saw. I could hardly contain my excitement...I am woman, hear me roar (over the loud roar of my high powered weed wacker).

And then...

I tried to use it.

It was like the machine had a mind of it's own. Plus is was heavier than a dead body (or something). So I could barely move it around. I was throwing my whole body into getting it to move - then it turned into this pendulum-esque swinging motion. Back and forth, back and forth.

Let's just say, it was a massacre. Grass was flying like muppet fur. I decapitated a cedar post holding up my front step. And those poor flowers, they never saw it coming.

The whole "rein of terror" probably only lasted 60 seconds. I shut off the machine. And half carried, half dragged it to Danny. Naturally, he was trying to maintain composure. Which wasn't helped by the fact I was laughing hysterically.

I felt like such a...girl and I needed to be rescued by the big strong man. Danny told me he doesn't mind taking care of it for me anyway. I wonder if his wife minds?

I guess good fences do make good neighbours. Although, I don't have a fence around my house. Maybe it's cute single girls make good neighbours.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

The Throbing

Take a belt, wrap it around you head and tighten it as much as you can. Oh come on, you can tighten it more than that!

Now, which hand do you write with? Ok, take you index finger on that hand and jab it into your right eye socket. Nice and deep. Maybe even give it a twist or two. That's good.

Next, lay down on the floor and have someone kick you in the back right hand side of your neck. Careful of the spine!

Ok, get back up again, and take a flashlight. Shine it right in your eye like you're at the police station and they're trying to get you to confess "OJ style".

Welcome to my world. The world in which I have a headache the size of ...something really really big [headaches affect my thought process, and speeling]. There is so much pressure in there right now, I feel like my head is going to spontaniously explode.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

What Not To Wear: The Bathing Suit Edition

Yesterday I went shopping [shock and horror]. I'm on a very strick budget so I shopping isn't something I do very often. (Can you call it a budget when it means you have no money after you pay your bills?)

My closet has become the final resting place for items with holes, rips, alterations-gone-wrongs, and doesn't-quite-fit-rights. Most of my clothes can be placed in one of three categories: will pass for work, will pass for workout and will pass only in the comfort of my own home on "fat days".

I'll be the first to admit, I hate shopping. Much like looking for a suitable man to date, I find there's not enough choice in the area I live, and I know what I want but none of the stores are selling it. Ironically, I have a picnic date on Tuesday evening and was looking for something that says "I'm the most delicious thing on this blanket".

I tore through three shops in under 30 minutes, trying on at least 30 items. The clothes were flying, the swear words were flying. It was not one of my finer moments. Some things fit, some things didn't. But mostly they didn't. A size "small" fit great around my waist but was snug on my biceps (thanks to my Billy band workouts) and smooshed my boobs for that "bodice on a bar wench" look. And don't even get me started on my ghetto booty a$$ that just won't quit.

So, I decided to switch gears and hunt down a bathing suit for next weekend's Canada Day bash (if there's ever a time to flaunt your jugs, it's in a swim suit). Mistake! I tried on 6 bikini's and a one-piece [shudder]. Let's just say, the only place a girl wants to see saddle bags, is on a horse.

I left the mall feeling like crap.

By the time I arrived at the hair salon, I was drained. I asked my hair dresser for something different, something "polished". And for the first time that day, I got exactly what I wanted.

If nothing else, I'll have amazing hair on my date. On second thought, bar wench boobs might not be so bad...

Thursday, June 21, 2007

This Is The Song That Never Ends...

Do you ever find yourself at work [wait...there's more].

And you're stuck in a mindless, endless, meeting that's heading into a third round of the "what if" game [wait...there's more].

You're beyond paying attention. So, to amuse yourself, you start to sing. To yourself. In your head.

You probably have a "go to" song for such an occasion. Me too! Mine's a little ditty called "Uncle Fucka"
made popular by my fellow Canadians and South Park stars, Terrance and Phillip.

The longer the meeting goes on, the louder I sing the song in my head. There's even a little jig I picture myself doing on top of the boardroom table
(which looks a lot like a Dick VanDyke routine from Mary Poppins) while I belt out the style!

Fun times my friend, fun times.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

An Open Letter to My Future Boyfriend

Dear [insert delicious sounding name that rolls off my tongue here],

See how patiently I'm waiting? And, looking somewhat mischievous I might add. Perched gracefully (which isn't easy in that outfit or those shoes) atop a mini-step ladder just waiting for you to come graze my thigh and put something special in my box.

And then...

But first. I need to make a confession (or 8).

The Top 8 Things I Need To Confess to My Future Boyfriend:
- I have a blog: The Redhead-Next-Door. Ever hear of it? Oh :( Well, anyway. I wish you could read it and then tell me you want to be with me anyway. You know, after the initial shock wears off and you regain consciousness.
- I need to be lead by a strong man. Not in a passive 1950's house-wife kind of way. But in a knows how to plan a date, fix things when they break, protector, makes me feel cared for kind of way. [Please, no angry letters from feminists! I know what you are thinking, you crazy feminists, and you're wrong].
- I'm not perfect. Or a virgin. (So don't expect me to be either).
- Sometimes I like to cook. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I try really hard but it still boils over/ burns/ turns to mush/ tastes like cardboard. But I always look cute in an apron.
- I wear men's dress socks.
- I use humor as a defense mechanism.
- What "they" say about redheads - our stubborness, our passion, etc etc - all true
- When all else fails, just hold me.

I'm looking forward to meeting you (hopefully before my ovaries completely rot away).



Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Profile of the Damned

For those of you who've ever tried online dating (I'm forming a support group btw) you know it's all fun and games until it's time to write your profile. The dreaded 100 words or less junket of prose that's going to attract your future potential something or other.

Ok, it's probably not a shock to learn I have no trouble writing the profile. A chance to talk about moi? Using my favorite aphrodisiac - words? Easy. But I have little (possibly no) conscious thought as to how I'm actually coming across to the opposite sex. Too strong? Too ballsy?

[Here's where you come in]

So, I've decided to put my draft profile here for your viewing pleasure/horror and accept feedback/opinions/suggestions. Just keep in mind, I'm delicate :) Oops...that should read "devilish".

Opening line: Writers make novel lovers.

Fun, flirty redhead. Smart and witty to boot. Also likes boots. Constantly looking for writing material. Should mention, am part-time writer, full-time [insert non-glam but completely rewarding day job here]. Can cook more often than not. Major "sure thing" is stuffed mushroom making capabilities, best served with white wine. Thinks cheesecake is...Mmmmmm. Flies by the seat of pants. Has never actually flown in plane. Prefers skirts to pants. Fit and curvy.

Seeking guy with "wow" written all over him. Will accept home-made t-shirt with "wow" written on it. Knows what gentleman means, and can spell it. Has sense of humor. Employed in [insert non-glam but completely rewarding job here]. Considers himself more of a "dog person" than a "cat person". Active. Sweet. Sweaty occasionally. Makes the first move. Has grab-worthy butt.

So whatcha think? Too much? Not enough? Yes, yes, after you've stopped laughing and can formulate sentences.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Busy Beaver

Today's post is going to be short and sweet (like me). Well, except I'm not short. Then again, I'm not what you would call tall either. But I am unquestionably sweet.

Top 10...8 Things To Do This Weekend:

- visit "the" city for some shopping (window), gambling at the casino ($1.00 Cdn), fine dinning (carbo loading for Sunday's race) and a play at the theatre (pick up acting tips, or maybe an actor).
- do laundry because I officially have no clean [insert name of clothing item here]
- clean house so it no longer resembles home of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan
- [finally] get a good night sleep
- run 5km race with Suzie on Sunday without "hospital incident"
- try to concentrate on running race and not staring at muscular touchable butts of male runners in front of me
- bake chocolate chip cookies
- spend time with Dad

I have a feeling there'll be a few post ideas being "developed" this weekend.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

A Day In The Life Of the Redhead-Next-Door (aka cute n' klutzy)

Yay - my first ever Podcast!

For those of you like me (i.e. no sound on their PC at home) I've also provided a transcription. Sure, you don't get my neat-o sound effects like the fake cat meow, but still....

I haven't actually heard the recording (again, no sound) but ran it by a focus group first (can one person be considered a focus group?) and was assured my first podcast was postable. Or was that compostable?

Hi. I'm Erika. You probably remember me from such blogs as "The Redhead-Next-Door" which you're currently, listening to and the short lived "Will Write For Booze."

And yes, this is my actual voice. Isn't that right Mrs. Bigglesworth? "Meow."

You picked a ****ing fantastic day to check out my blog because...[whispers] I have a secret to tell you.

[Whispers] Come closer. [Whispers] Even closer. What, do I have something contagious? I'm going to tell you a secret, not blow in your eye. Get in here!

There, that's better.

Are you ready?

Ok [deep breath]. Here goes. I. Am. A. Klutz. There, I said it. Klutz, with a capital K.

If there was an Elaine Benes physical comedy fanclub, I would in fact be President.

You don't believe me do you?

May I present: Exhibit A!

Today I was soooo hungry. I was tempted to eat my lunch at break time. But then I thought, what would I eat at lunch time? There was some unappealing almost-out-of-date oatmeal in my cubicle. Yuck.

I could have wandered around the cubicle farm doing my cutest "feed me" face like puppies, kittens and Nicole Richie do until somebody caves and feeds them. It was what they call "in the biz" quite the quandry. Well, maybe we don't call it that. Quandry. But I'm sure in some businesses, somewhere, they do. Quandry. That's fun to say isn't it?


Instead, I scraped together the $1.89 to go to the local "shall remain nameless" coffee shop for a double double and a ham and cheese biscuit. Mmmmmmmm...

While scarfing down my biscuit and coffee I was watching a controversial op ed piece on gay marriage and a bit of the biscuit got caught on my brace elastic which acted like a sling shot firing the piece of ham and cheesy goodness down my throat. Luckily, I don't have much of a gag reflex.


On to Exhibit B!

Fast forward to lunch. While scrafing down my tuna and jalapeno cheese sandwich on white bread I went to take a drink of Pepsi through a straw and tipped the can of Pepsi like I was drinking it from my lips. It was both refreshing and sticky when half of the can emptied into my lap. Unfortunately I was wearing my favorite cotton-blend
50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy . My favorite skirt that now looked like somebody had really runny diarrhia on it.

I ran to the office kitchen holding the front of my skirt like some sort of diarrhia filled bag and promptly applied paper towel. And more paper towel. And then, finally, yup, more paper towel. Can somebody order some ****ing absorbant paper towel for in here!!!

Because of the amount of water it took to remove the big brown Pepsi stain, my cotton-blend
50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy was now see-through. Ok perhaps, if you work at a brothel, not ok if you work in an office where you regularily meet with clients.

But wait, there's more.

Finally, I present Exhibit C.

After shivering under the air conditioning in my soaking wet see-through skirt all afternoon I decided to make myself a cup of hot chocolate to warm up. Because let's face it, the blanket I had wrapped around me "tog-a party style" was doing nothing for my image. I boiled the kettle. I carefully spooned four teaspoons of yummy powdery coco-y goodness into my lime green cup. I tenderly handled the kettle, cautiously pouring the hot water where it mingled with the hot chocolate, enveloping it. Mmmmmm...

I lifted the succulant cup to my moistened lips. Not too quickly, it's best not to rush these sort of things. Ooooo and then...

I looked down at my skirt. And right below my perky **** was a big blob of hot chocolate.

Maybe I need to invest in one of those big lobster bibs.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Love and Furniture

I am currently working on a dating theory entitled, "Curse of the furniture." Ok, so it doesn't sound very catchy just yet. But I'm in the initial stages of development. And catchy titles don't happen until much much after experimental tests on lab subjects and after many [many] bottles of wine.

My "research" is based on two experiences, with two relationships that went to s***. But I'll let you be the judge.

The first was with Gordon* (
*His real name). Gordon was getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Gordon was fun. Gordon was smart. I really liked it when Gordon ******************* and **********. Anyhoo, Gordon's son was ready to move into a big boy bed. I still had my son's toddler bed, which wasn't being used, so I offered it to Gordon. In exchange, he offered an outdoor stove thingy to my parents which they were in the market for. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could of been because our timing was off. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was that our waists were the same measurement. Though, I doubted.

One word: furniture.

Then, most recently ofcourse, there is Liam** (**Not his real name). Liam is getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Liam paid attention. Liam could cook. He was the only guy I've ever been with who could ************************** and thought about ************** . Anyhoo, Liam was remodeling his daughter's bedroom and had been using a wooden baby change table to heap her clothes on. I had a sweet little antique dresser that wasn't being used, so I leant it to Liam. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could have been that he turned into a control freak. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was because he hated how his feet looked and wouldn't wear sandles even on a warm summer's day. [Ok, maybe it was the last one . Sandles on guys =!]
Though, I doubted.

One word: furniture.

On a more positive note...I'm back to online dating. I think "sucker for punishment" are the words you're looking for.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Undiscovered Dating Techniques #5: Wrestlemania

This technique was a tip from Undercover Mother.

What you are about to read is the most up-to-date dating [etc] techniques unknown to womankind. If you are a guy and reading this...STOP. It makes it harder for us girls to work our "ways" on you when you know what said "ways" are. Besides, you'll thank me for it when you're on the receiving end of this kind of action. Yes, ACTION. Now go spend some quality time in the bathroom with the new towels (the extra soft ones).

Ok, now that the guys are gone I can tell you that my good friend Hulk Hogan is going to be helping me demonstrate these dating techniques. It's a shame the guys aren't reading this post. I bet they'd really like Hulk Hogan. Or at least all this talk about spandex.

Hulk Hogan: "Thanks for having me here Big Red. Ooooooo yeah!"

RND: "Uh...Hulky, isn't that the catch phrase of your former arch enemy Macho Man Randy Savage? And remember, I told you never to call me Big Red again."

So ladies, you're out at da club and you spot a hunk. Naturally, you want to get his attention away from the local skanks. Take a page from the Hulkster and ... [see below]

Use this face too.

I call it the "Grin and Bare It" technique.

Now that will REALLY get his attention.

HH: "I pity the fool!"

RND: "Um, doesn't Mr. T say that?"

HH: "I pity the drunk fool."

RND: "Better."

However, if your boy-toy's eyes are skank-afied like Captain Kirk on an alien planet looking to boldly go where no man's gone before, then it's time for Plan B...aptly named, the "Breast Press".

Warning: This particular technique should only be used if you have a good sized set of knockers, ie. at least a C cup. Or a B cup (but only if he's really short).

HH: "Who-ya Master Chief!"

RND: [unimpressed] "GI Jane"

So he's still not getting it huh? Are you sure you're trying!

Ok, this is a fail safe. It's called the "Flying ****" [see below]. Honey, if he doesn't get it...he's either dead, or dumb. And you don't want either (but especially the latter).

HH: "If you believe in yourself..."

RND: [interrupts] "Come on! Billy Blanks?"

So there you have it. A few new "moves" to add to your repertoire. Please consult with your physician before attempting any of the moves depicted above which were developed by trained professionals and then taught to wrestlers.

Or, as one guy suggests, you could just walk up to the guy and say "Hi, I like you. You must like me 'cause I'm adorable. So, let's skip the horseshit and jump to getting to know each other better."

Hmmm...simple and direct with the promise of physical action. It's so crazy, it just might work.

Sunday, June 10, 2007


Yesterday I went for a run to get my timing/distance/total body conditioning/chance of cardiac arrest up to par for my upcoming marathon next Sunday. I was joined by my 10-year-old son (via his bike).

It was hot by Canadian standards (30 C), so I found myself taking more-frequent-than-usual water breaks.

On one such break, I replaced my mini-water bottle back on my fuel belt. Then decided to make an adjustment to my panties. Normally I do a quick peripheral scan to make sure I don't have an audience and then "adjust". But for whatever reason yesterday, I did not. After taking care of my wedgie, I was passed by a fellow jogger (details: guy, tanned, hot, sweaty, no shirt,, stride). Despite being hot from running, I could still feel my cheeks burn just a little more from slight embarassment. I mean, it's not like I was digging for gold or anything. It was, in my opinion, a lady-like wedgie removal (if there ever is such a thing). Besides, once you give birth via hospital delivery room with about 10 strangers viewing you in all your stirrup glory, only slight embarrassment can exist after that.

Reality check: there is one less guy in the world that will be asking me out.

I ran to catch up with my son, who continued to ride his bike and was about 8 meters ahead of me. As I came up along side of him, he turned to me and said, "Mum, you're beautiful."

My timing may be way off, but my son's is spot on.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Knocked Up

Oy, my tummy. It hurts right now. Come to think of it, I'm feeling slightly nauseous too. And that heartburn...where did THAT come from?

Oh yeah! From all the side splitting laughter I had at the movies watching "Knocked Up", not to mention the bag o' screaming sour candy I downed. What did you think I meant? Sheesh.

If you haven't seen this movie, run for a [expletive] cinematic experience.
(Don't walk...unless ofcourse you are knocked up in which case you should tread carefully or maybe even skip the movie altogether unless you're asking for a quick slap of reality).

It's crude, it's rude, but best of all it's real.

What shocked me the most (more than the "crowning" shot or the sight of Seth Rogan's hairy ass) was how many old people were there in the theatre. This frail looking 78 year old was two feet away from me. I thought she would be offended. But she was fine (right after she took her medication anyway).

I can't say anymore - I don't want to give anything away. It restored something in me I had lost. A belief. That Paul Rudd can act. Sort of.

Note: Knocked Up (the movie) is not really appropriate for a first date (more like a second date...the movie...not actually getting knocked up).

Also Note: The Redhead-Next-Door does not advocate/promote/condone pre-marital/post-martial protected/unprotected sex especially when it results in the procreation and passing-on-of the "hairy ass" gene.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Answering Your Burning Questions, #3

Today's question comes from James.

He writes, "Where do I find a gorgeous, interesting, intelligent, active girl? (And preferrably one that fancies me).

My answer: At my house.

But seriously ;)

If you want food, you go to the grocery store. So, following that line of reasoning, if you want a gorgeous/interesting/intelligent/active girl, she can only be found in one your local library. Under "fiction."

But seriously ;)

Like attracts like. Unless ofcourse you're complete opposites, and then, well, the opposite is true.

Perhaps you're not sending the proper message out to the universe?

Ok, here's how it works. The universe is made up of a big ball of energy. When we send out thoughts, they too are energy and the universe responds to our energy guessed The universe wants to give us what we want. Like REALLY wants to.

But you need to be really specific about the kind of girl you're looking for. Like REALLY specific (for example: has cute little mole on left side of stomach. I completely just made that up out of the blue BTW) or else the universe may get confused and send you Rosie O'Donnell.

Pour yourself a drink. Put on some [insert mood music here] and try making a list of every quality that pops into your head. Quiet the inner critic (with a second drink). And check your list twice (hey, it works for Santa!). Put the list next to your bed. It should be the first thing you look at when you wake up and the last thing you look at when you go to bed at night (for now). Give it 30 days and if the universe doesn't send you the woman you seek...

Then I guess I was wrong. You probably thought I was going to tell you "just be yourself" and all that crap huh.

*hugs* Hope this helps!

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Answering Your Burning Questions, #2

Today's question comes from Tom.

He writes, "Dear R-N-D, should I ever confess to a girl I'm dating about how many women I've slept with?"

My answer: Not unless the answer is 1. Even if that IS your actual answer you risk sounding like a girly-man who just couldn't get his act together enough to fool some impresonable and/or drunk women into sleeping with him. (Or even worse, a man who has respect for women and chooses to worship them for the goodesses they are - blech). And any number higher than your age makes you sound like a man-whore.

FYI - girls can see through the old "you're the only one that matters to me" line from a mile away.

So what's a guy to do?

You could go for the fail safe "baker's dozen" which not everyone knows is 13 (ie. giving you that one "freebie"). Or you could use one of the following actual math formulas to come up with a plausable number:

And Tom, you're welcome.

[Got a burning question that doesn't require topical cream? Then email me at for advice you won't find anywhere else!]

Monday, June 04, 2007


I sometimes wonder how I come across to guys. My coworker Rowan has already informed me that men find me intimidating. I think he's just trying to make me paranoid [ok, it's only half working]. When I think I'm being all Wonder Women-esque, are men thinking I'm more Wonder Bread-esque?

Case in point...

[I find "case in point" a weird saying, probably because it reminds me of "case of beer" which is even funnier because I haven't been able to drink beer since I got horribly sick off a tall-boy can of Keith's when I was a mere 14. To add to the "color that is my life" I find a man drinking out of a beer bottle amazingly sexy and impossible to resist].

To my mum who is probably reading...the whole beer thing was my first time drinking. *wink*

Oh wait, you just read that wink didn't you?

To my mum who is probably reading, I didn't mean to wink. ;)

Moving on.

Remember when I kicked all kinds of handyman ass and put up a new mailbox for my Nana? Well some of the local fuckos* admired my handy work so much they stole the mailbox. And the wooden post it was attached to. And the wooden post that wooden post was attached to, and nestled in the ground.

So Sunday afternoon I took my Nana to the local hardware places to scope out something more...durable. I thought it would be funny to get one that would deliver an electric shock to anyone who is within shocking range for longer than 10 seconds. But they were on back order. Instead we opted for one of those plastic looks-like-one-piece but are actually many pieces mailboxes. I liked this option because it comes with almost everything you need. Everything except a 4" x 4" piece of lumber.

Being newly single, it was time to brush up on my flirting skills. And what better way to get back at 'er than with a hunky hardware guy. I sauntered up to the counter and was greeted by the biggest sly smile I've gotten in a while. He was so rugged looking - shoulder length dirty blonde hair (nicely conditioned), scruffly semi-bread, rippling muscles and a golden tan. Like a guy who works outside a lot. Or a golden retriever. And sure he was missing a few of his fingers on his right hand (so safety isn't his thing ok?). But still. Mmmmm...

Wait, where was I?

Ahem. Yes, wood. Er, a wooden post. So he helped me pick the length (I opted for an 8 foot post cut down to 6 feet). My Nana was questioning what tools I was going to use to dig a hole big enough for the post and to assemble the mailbox. I kept telling her it'd be no problem and that all I needed was a shovel, a drill, a screwdriver and a socket wrench. The hunky hardware guy seemed impressed that I knew my tools (boy, do I!). By the time I got to the cash register, I was sweating. And it wasn't from any heavy lifting (he did it all). Even my Nana was checking him out and making highly inappropriate comments (thank goodness I was the only one in ear shot).

In retrospect, it took just shy of two hours to dig (down almost three feet) and assemble the finished product. I ended up sawing the 6 foot post down to 4 feet. But man-o, that thing looks ****ing awesome. And there's no way some fucko* is lifting it, let alone walking away with it.

I can't help but wonder what the hunky hardware guy was really thinking when he was helping me. I hope he wasn't thinking about toast.

* The word fucko was first coined by Peter DeWolf.

Friday, June 01, 2007