One Is A Lonely Number

Last night Paul and I went to my 11-year old son Aidan's school meet and greet. I was sitting in the gym listening to the headmaster trying to spark some enthusiasm in the parents, all the while thinking...I look fab.

I always over-analyze my first annual meeting with the annual homeroom teacher. After all, it sets a precedent for the entire school year. Show up looking like a slob and even the nicest 6th grade teacher will judge what kind of a parent you are. So, I opted for a balance between professional mum and caring mum with a dash of hip thrown in.

As the general assembly drew to a close, I double checked myself before making my way over with Paul to introduce ourselves to the teacher. And then I realized, for the second time this week, one of my earlobes was naked! My second favorite pair of earrings was now a single. An orphan. To be added to the pile of other single earrings in my jewelry box. I'm not sure why I keep them. I guess one day I'm hoping they will be reunited with their mates. Ah, I'm such a hopeless romantic, even when it comes to earrings. Or maybe I could make a wind chime out of single earrings...Martha would be proud.

Luckily, the calamity of the single earring was adverted before meeting Aidan's teacher. Or else she would have mistaken me for one of those parents who's a bit...odd. Then she would think, by association, that my child is odd too. Quirky yes, odd no.

In the end, we didn't get to meet the homeroom teacher. She opted for a presentation style intro to all of the parents [note to self: some people are born to be public speakers, others like those who use "um" and "ah" after every second word, are not]. So I got to give her the once over from afar. She doesn't look like a teacher. She looks...angular. And very un-funny. But it's a good thing I'm not judgemental!

The Blogs They Are A-Changin'

I've made a few minor blog changes that kick ass. Mainly, I've added the "In The Neighbourhood" feature under the "Classic Rehead-Next-Door" best-post picks. Now you can follow me and get the latest R-N-D news...without even looking through my garbage!

So come on, follow me. Please. I don't want to be a follow-less icon.

That's Ape

My morning shower is my time to think. I get some of my best ideas in the shower. I solve problems in the shower. And eventually, I get clean in the shower.

This morning I was so distracted thinking that I shaved one leg. And only one leg. Normally not the end of the world. Unless...

Did I mention I'm wearing short capris?

And my hair grows really fast.

And when I try to be all lady-like and cross my legs I hear a scritchy scritchy noise.

Ok, so it's not the END of the world. Just the last shred of my pride.


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Bump Watch

Contrary to popular belief (and by belief I mean tons of emails and being approached by people on the street asking questions)...I am not pregnant. I've just gained 15 pounds.

This must be how Eva Longoria-Parker feels.


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The Common-Law 15

Ahhhhh....unlawfully unwedded bliss.

If there's one thing that Paul knows, it's my faults. [Not that there's a lot of them or anything]. He accepts the fact that I. Don't. Cook. At least not well enough to be called food, or resemble anything edible, not to mention the probability of dysentery.

Needless to say Paul's been doing all the cooking since we moved in together. And I'm rather enjoying it. It's much like being waited on in a restaurant (without the pricey bill and I get to pinch the chef's butt without being thrown out). Pastas, curry dishes, stuffed chicken...yummy yum!

In fact, Paul's cooking is sooooo good, I've gained 15 pounds. Much like the freshman who goes off to college and is introduced to campus caf food. But without all the beer bonging.

Yes, part of me misses cooking my piece de la resistence...grilled cheese sandwiches. And yet another bigger part of me [literally] misses being able to fit into my clothes.

Ahhhhh...the price of love.

Er, Um, Aaaaaa

Remember me? Tee hee.

What? Seriously. Seriously? I haven't been gone THAT long.

What? I have not! You're still rocking your Rehead-Next-Door tattoo, right? Oh good. For a minute there, I was worried.

That vacay did me good. If you can call it a vacation. After lots and lots of packing, I moved in with Paul. Then we sold his condo,again, lots and lots of packing. Then we moved again, hello - packing! but this time into our very own brand spanking new house. And you know what that means? Well yes, it means lots of gyproc dusk, but it also means breaking in the rooms of our new house. Perhaps once we can afford to buy curtains.

Sure, I'll miss Chip and Danny but I've got new neighbors to discover. Like the Hillbillies that live across the road. Who needs to watch an episode of Cops when you can just look out your window? Then there's Mr and Mrs Newfie (cool hillbillies for you non-Canadians) and the Fat Pack. Wisteria Lane it's not. Hysteria Lane, maybe.

And the best part, they have no idea about the Redhead-Next-Door [insert menacing laugh here].