Friday, August 14, 2009

The End?

It's over.

This blog, that is ;)

You can get your fill of the adventures of the Redhead-Next-Door, but in a new fab blog! Check out Life With Dick.

It might be til death due you part, but that doesn't mean you can't blog about it.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Dental Damn

So my dreams of a non-braces wedding were dashed yesterday by my dentist. I will be wed in full-on teeth metal.

Paul has never kissed me without braces. And now he's marrying me, teeth unseen. What if we get married, I get my braces off, and I'm a bad kisser? Yeah, you're right. That would NEVER happen. Once good kisser, always a good kisser. If anything, it'll be better without the braces. Like sex without the condom. But with teeth. And metal.

Monday, July 13, 2009

To Do, Before I Do

My "To Do" list before the wedding (which is in less than a month away if you are counting and if you're not, you really should start) keeps growing. And growing. I have no idea how I'm we're going to get it all done. Our home-made white wine seems to be helping me feel better about the whole task-list-from-hell thing, but at the same time is a wee bit of a hinderence (what with me passing out on the couch each night).

And I'm not talking about the little things to do that will go unnoticed if they're not done (like wedding programs). We're talking big things (like flowers). Perhaps seaweed could serve as a enviromentally friendly substitue? Plus, it would tie in well with our wedding venue (a boat).

If that wasn't enough, the tailor called yesterday to say I have to come pick up my wedding dress right away because she sold her business. Say what? So, now I don't even know if the alterations were done. I'm freaking out. I'm staying positive. At the very least, I can always fashion myself a spur-of-the-moment potential wedding dress out of toilet paper (like they do on that Cashmere toilet paper commercial). Although, I am getting married on the high seas...for those of us who've had to substitue toilet paper for paper towel in the ladies washroom, you know how well water and toilet paper go together. Ew.

Needless to say, I haven't had much of a chance for blogging. I did finish up a post I started back in May (check it out here). I'm in the process of designing a new post-wedding blog. More on that soon :)

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

A Day By Any Other Name...

I was half-asleep this morning when I heard Paul talking downstairs. I rolled over to his [empty] side of the bed, trying to get a good look at the clock with my one eye that would open. 6:00 am?

What is he doing awake at 6:00 am on a Saturday?

Paul sets a cup of tea on the bedside table for me.

Paul: "Time to get up beautiful."
Me: "I thought it was Saturday and we didn't have to go to work."
Paul: "I wish I was Saturday, then we could stay in bed and [censored].
Me: "At least it's Wednesday, the week is half-over."
Paul: "Hon, you know it's Tuesday, right?"
Me: "Oh bugger."

Tuesday, June 30, 2009


With my wedding to Paul only 39 days away, life has been crazy busy gettin' ur done, and not leaving things to the last minute (as per my usual live-on-the-edge procrastination style). I've had nightmares of showing up at the ceremony and the Justice of the Peace isn't there because we forgot to call her. Or, forgetting to get the marriage license and then not being able to tie the knot. Very Freudian I'm sure.

My wedding dress finally arrived. I couldn't sleep a wink the night before, I was so anxious to see my dress for the first time. Touch it. Wear it. OMG would it even fit?

I took Paul's daughter Hannah (age 9) with me for the unveiling, a nice step-mother step-daughter bonding moment. I unzipped the garmet bag, and got all goose-bumpy. The dress is the perfect medium shade of ivory to match my redheaded complexion. I slipped my feet into the dress, pulled it up to my chest, zipped it up. It was...too big. Ok, I can deal with that. After all, that's why God invented tailors. I turned around to face the mirror. And...nothing. I thought this moment would make me cry or make me feel "this is THE dress" or something, anything. All I felt was slightly underwhelmed. Which is NOT the feeling you want to have when trying on your [2nd and last] wedding dress.

I went out to the waiting room to show Hannah. Surely she would see something I was missing, and reassure me the dress was DDG and I looked radiant. All my doubts were placed in the hands of a 9 year-old girl.

Me: "What do you think Hannah?"
Hannah: "Uh................................."

It's too late to order another dress. So, I decided to focus on the positives of the dress - makes me look tall and lanky with curves in all the right spots. And the color looks amazing on me if I do say so myself (well somebody's got to!).

Besides, it's all about the accessories. They make an outfit. Right? I'll pretend I didn't hear that.

Paul tried to smooth things over by telling me I'd look radiant in anything. Uh huh. What a GUY thing to say. Some smuck probably told his bride-to-be she'd look good in this outfit too (see right).

Oh bloody hell.

Monday, June 08, 2009


After an action-packed weekend which included my Toyota Corolla receiving a lap dance from a Hummer on Sunday (so not cool), I fell asleep exhausted last night.

This morning at work I get a call from my mother.

Mum: "How come I'm hearing that you were in a car accident from Facebook?"

How can one woman inject such guilt into one simple question? I swear I have Jewish relatives somewhere. And the way she said "Facebook" like it was a person, a person who I told a secret too. I remember when she used to say the same thing, but about my blog. Seriously, my mom is the only one I know who could be jealous of a non-entity.

To maintain my good-daughter status, I offered to call my mom more often with updates on my life, so she wouldn't have to read it second-hand from a social networking site.

And true-to-form I called her that very evening with an "update" - a job interview for a swanky new position!

Me: "Hi Mum, just calling you with an update on my life since this morning."
Mum: "Ok, but make it quick. I'm on my way to a dinner party."

I can't win.

Friday, June 05, 2009

WTF Friday

Today I checked myself out in the mirror in our office bathroom (typical). And I realized WTF was I thinking when I got myself dressed this morning (untypical)? My outfit du jour is...colorful (think lilac, mint green, cream AND coral) if not a tad bit frumpy in a covers-too-much-of-me kind of way. When I'm much more of a show-off-an-asset kind of girl. Oddly enough, Paul had given it his approval, wanting us to be late for work so he could show me how much he liked it. Humph! Men!

It doesn't help matters that I've forgotten my glasses somewhere and can barely see a thing on my PC screen. Actually, maybe that could be my defense for my outfit. Not that my coworkers would say anything [to my face].

Unfortunately the receptionist has just informed me that my 1 o'clock appointment (which I completely completely forgot about) is here to see me. And 15 minutes early at that. How long does it take to make a paperclip dress?

Friday, May 29, 2009

Friday 4:30 Count-down

I'm trying not to think of my "to do" list for the weekend. One thing is crossed off - wedding invitations are in the mail! Mostly. Well, more like 2/3s but whatever. I need to count small victories when I can. Not like calories. But definitely like glasses of wine. Is it 4:30 pm yet? Geesh.

Friday, May 08, 2009

Pubic Enemy Number 1

I would really like to know who the crotch Sasquatch is at my office. And why, oh why, the follicle offender keeps leaving dark curlies lounging about on the one-and-only washroom toilet seat.

I will find you anti-bush whacker. And when I do...your ass is waxed.

Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

Another day, another birthday bringing me ever so closer to 40. And wrinkles. And gravity.

Thirty-three sounds like an odd year. Thirty-two was so good. Like here, here, here too, and who could forget here. But not so much here, or arguably here.

Can thirty-three really top it?

I skipped out of the office this afternoon to grab some much needed caffine. Walking down the side walk I was beginning to wonder when I'd start to lose my sexy and youthful magic. Especially with my impending nuptials. Every woman ages at least 5 years at the altar.

My thoughts were interrupted by a man, who tripped walking across the street. Apparently multitasking isn't his thing because he was too busy rubbernecking at yours truly to focus on unimportant things like staying vertical. He tried to cover his tracks and act "cool" like he meant to trip. Uh huh.

Ok, that made me feel better.

I waited in line at "Sounds like Jim Nortons" for my coffee. The guy in front me ordered his iced cappuccino, and gave me the once down, once up dealy. Then he smiled and said "hellllllo". Maybe I'm paraphrasing - there might have been less L's in that hello but I'm pretty sure I got the meaning. Now I was getting cocky. I smiled the "I'm trying to be polite but not even in your dreams" look.

Ok, that made me feel better. And like I needed a shower. But better.

On the way back to my office, a construction worker called out "Hey baby, where'd you get a fine body like THAT?" Without missing a beat, I scoffed "Jillian Michaels." I could hear him asking one of his buddies whether Jillan Michaels was the name of a local gym.

Ha! Still got the magic.

Ghosts of Boyfriends Past - The Karate Kid

I figured it might be best to start at the beginning. Not the "beginning" beginning (because that goes way back to when I was 14 and begins with "A long tiome ago, in a galaxy far far away"), but the beginning of my first love.

Ah, first love. I was 17. He was 18. And thus began my life long interest in older men. He was a black belt in karate. And thus began my life long appreciation of the martial arts, and the guys that do them.

The first day we met, I ran into him with my friends, whom he knew. We were at the mall. I was shopping for bell bottoms which had recently made a come back (they did!). He was so cute and funny (my Achilles heel combo when it comes to men). The group of us decided to grab some food at Subway, which was new in town. I'd never been there before and felt awkward about my lack of sandwich condiment knowledge.

Two days later, I was checking the mail, and noticed a Subway comments card inside. It was from HIM. He had completed the feedback section for a future date - for the night of our first date. Cocky bastard. Which was irresistible. And it was one of the most original ways I have ever been asked out on a date.

He taught me self-defence, and how to protect myself from aggressive male advances, which I used (though mostly on him). He taught me that love is not always enough. And to think twice about dating a guy who thought he was Spiderman.

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

What A Difference A Letter Makes

If you work in an office chances are your fingers fly across the keyboard. You're so good (and by "you're" I mean, me) that you don't even stop and think about what you're doing.

Today, I decided to check out for all the lastest news. After all, a girl in the know, better than two in the bush. Or something like that.

Unfortunately, instead of typing, I typed Now folks, let me tell you - that's a whole OTHER website. And you're going to have a hard time explaining that to Human Resources (and by "you're" I mean, me).

In unrelated news...this is my 250th post!

Today's Post Is Brought to You By The Letter "V" As In...(Don't Make Me Say It!)

Are you trying to get in shape for a public event? Like, um, say a wedding, or a class reunion, or a Britney Spears concert?

Me too! And to help me in my feat, I picked up all three of the new Jillian Michaels workout DVDs. If this chick can whip the Biggest Loser contestants into shape, imagine what's in store for little old young me? Fab-u-lous-ness.

I did my first workout last night and learned a very valuable lesson. FYI...

1 piece of New York cheesecake + 1 Jillian Michaels Banish Fat Boost Metabolism DVD = vomit

I never was one for math problems. But Jillian, you just might want to add this disclaimer to your DVD intro.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Climb Every Mountain

In between getting ready for work this morning, scarfing down breakfast coffee, making the bed, and emptying the dishwasher...

I managed to drag an over-flowing laundry basket down the hallway to the top of the stairs, hoping that Paul would take the hint, and carry it down to the laundry room (aka the room where things go, but never return).

Paul: "Honey, I think the laundry monster came by and pooped in our hallway."


Monday, May 04, 2009

Dating Montage

I figured since my single girl days are numbered (96 to be exact), I should pay homage to the many men (many many many men) who made me the woman I am today. And no, I don't mean bitter. But definitely wiser, as in, "WTF was I thinking?"

Um, that was a rhetorical question.

Each week, I'll feature...let's see...96 days divided by 7 equals 13.71 weeks till I get married. Which means I'd have to write about...carry the ten...2.55 guys per week. That 0.55 post should be interesting.

To protect the "innocent" and "wankers" alike, I'll use nouns instead of names. This will also cut down on the confusion as I describe "that guy" and "that guy" because I don't actually remember all of their names. Isn't that horrible?

Again, a rhetorical question.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Math Problem

At lunch, I read the soup can labels, opting to go with the "Garden Tomato" which had only 120 calories (versus the "Creamy Tomato" with 170 calories) all the while thinking to myself that now I could "afford" to get the Sour Cream n' Onion bag of chips that had my name on it. Oh. Yes. I. Did.

Talk To The Booty, 'Cause the Face Ain't Listening

I can always tell when I've gained a bit of weight, usually because my bikini briefs could be mistaken for a thong.

Working 9 to 5

I was really hoping to win the lottery last night so that I could call in "rich" to work today.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Off the Mark

My Saturday morning martial arts class was smaller than usual, which I like for two reasons: Number 1 - there are less bodies sweating in the dojang (although smelly french guy more than made up for it), and Number 2 - I get the chance to shine with my mad martial arts skills.

Now, I just don't show off for just any old reason. Ok, maybe I do...a bit. But Paul is also in the class. So, I want him to know two things: Number 1 - I am not always a total klutz, and Number 2 - my hands are leathal weapons.

Sure, it doesn't hurt that my instructor is DDG either.

Kicking was the morning's agenda. I got into the "zone" and hauled off and attacked the inanimate kicking post (kinda like a punching bag but stationed on the floor, on a pole). After a half hour, our instructor announced that by far, my kicks were the best out of the whole class. I blushed slightly, and pumped my fist, mouthing "yes" to Paul.

Next we moved from kicking the inanimate object, to kicking our instructor who was holding up a hogu (chest protector) both to protect himself and to provide the class with a kicking target. As the line got shorter and my turn drew near, I gave myself a pep talk, "Ok, you can do this. Just like before." But there's a difference between kicking an inanimate object and kicking your DDG instructor for two reasons: Number 1 - he smells way better than rubber, and Number 2 - he's DDG and intimidating. Ok, that might be three reasons...

I took my stance, took a breath, tried not to look in his eyes, and let my leg fly. Unfortunately, my nervousness affected my aim, and I kicked my instructor in the hip. The second time around I vowed to be better, my best-class-kicker reputation was on the line! Breathe, aim, kick in the ribs. Breathe, aim, kick in the ribs. My second kick flew and struck my the leg.

Oops. I felt so bad. Not just for hitting him. But for letting myself get flustered enough to impact my mad martial arts skills.

But I did learn the following lessons: Number 1 - it's impossible to show Paul I'm not a total klutz and Number 2 - I'd better hope I don't get attacked on the street by hot looking thugs.

Friday, April 17, 2009

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me...

Lately, it's like I've been living in a cave. Literally.

Ever since Paul found out his ex has shacked up across the street, he's constantly closing our curtains. Mmmmm...k.

I tried to ask (nonchalantly, natch) what was up with the constant state of darkness in our house? His answer, "I feel like someone is watching us." I probed further to see if "someone" meant HER. Paul said he'd "forgotten" all about her living a bagel's throw away, and made ME feel like the paranoid one for remembering she lived there. Mmmmm...k.

Things are getting weird up in here.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009


I finished my morning pre-work primping routine and headed down the stairs to mix my trusty travel mug full of an especially large dose of coffee. Paul was already out the door, taking the trash to the curb for pick-up. On my way to the kitchen, I noticed Paul chatting it up with a chick at the end of our drive-way. I didn't think much about it, after all, Paul chats with everyone - in the elevator, in line at the grocery store, in the dentist chair, in the bathroom. Ok, maybe not that last one.

While trying to decide whether to wear black stilettos or plum flats I noticed Paul was still chatting with this chick. Hmmm. Someone was being a little too-friendly around the garbage.

I found my nose pressed to the glass by the front door trying to get a better look. Who did this chick think she was? Her and her 6-weeks-too-long-between-trims pixie cut. I was half-way tempted to walk out and pee a circle around Paul. But cooler heads prevailed. And by cooler heads, I mean Paul walked back up the driveway into the house.

Turns out the welcome wagon is our new neighbour. She's also Paul's ex-girlfriend. The one he dated right before moi. It's one thing to run into your man's ex on the sidewalk. It's another to have them shacking up across the street within binocular range. Not that I've looked or anything. Much.

There goes the neighbourhood.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Mail Order Bridal

Dear Perfect Wedding Dress,

Where for art thou? Ah yes, the internet. I can see you online. I can order you. But I can not try you on. Or see a sample in an uptight bridal boutique. Temptress.

Sure, you're perfect. So what could be wrong with ordering you sight unseen? Except it will take 4 months for you to get to me here in Canada which is pretty much forever in bridal planning months. Then, if you don't fit, I'll be forced to buy off the rack. Ick. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just a *tad* extra pressure. You know, on top of the whole planning-a-wedding-pressure. And I don't want to end up in something fru fru and poofy and beaded.

Plus, your price tag makes me go weak at the knees. Or maybe that's all the white wine.

I dream of you dear dress. All ivory and silky or whatever you're made of. I can picture myself floating down the isle glowing in your perfectness before throwing up over the side of the boat.

I simply must have you. That, and a good seamstress. Perhaps some gravol wouldn't hurt either.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

Raised Eyebrow

So I was feeling a little weighty and bloated and cranky this week. And what better way to improve a warped self-imagine and 'tude than a little salon therapy? One hair cut, lash and brow tint and brow wax later I was starting to feel like myself again. Until...

My esthetician turned to me and said, "I've never done this before in my whole career" followed by a l-o-n-g pause. I didn't know what was going to happen next. For some reason I thought she was going to put the moves on me or something. Instead she confessed that one third of my left eyebrow was inadvertently waxed off.

Part of me was relieved. Part of me was horrified. All of me couldn't stop laughing. I mean what could I do? It's not like she MEANT to make me look like a Romulan.

I guess technically I'm 10 eyebrow hairs lighter yay me.

Saturday, February 28, 2009


[Interior...Doctor's Office]
Doctor: So what's brings you in today Redhead?
Me: I'm here for my [whispers] check-up.
That's why I look so cagey.
Doctor: When did you have your last...check-up?
Me: It would have been a year ago in November. Not last last November but this last November that just past. Plus now it's February so 12 plus 3 carry the 1...a year and three months.
I really need to learn to count in my head.
Doctor: Have you ever had an abnormal...check-up?
Maybe once.
Me: Not that I recall.
Doctor: Then you can get one every two years.
What kind of cracker jack doctor are you?
Me: But last year you told me to make sure I was tested again in a year because my tests were so infrequent.
Don't you remember every word I say?
Doctor: Now I'm telling you, you can get it done every two years.
Me: Not that I'm trying to argue to have a...check-up, god knows it isn't a barrel of monkeys. Like getting strip-searched at the airport by a Danny Devito look-a-like. But I definitely want to have it done today while I'm here. I just drove an hour and a half for this.
Plus, I shaved.
Doctor: Why don't you have a doctor in the city?
Because God is trying to punish me.
Me: It's impossible to find a doctor's that's taking new patients. Besides, I wanted to keep you while I was undergoing all of those tests with the specialist.
Doctor: Yeah, I've got friends in the city who can't find a doc earlier.
Then why did you ask dumb-ass?
Doctor: [Hands me a paper gown, closes the hospitalish curtain, and mumbles small talk]

Should I take off the knee-high nylons or leave them on? I'm not sure of pap-protocol. I decide to leave them on. Even though they smell odd, like sweaty bologna...thanks to my unbreathable faux-snakeskin boots.
Me: Ready. Set. Glove.
Doctor: [Still trying to make small talk] Now relax.
Yeah huh. Give me a pair of those gloves and I'll tell you to relax.

This reminds me of my Grade 12 prom - my breasts weren't squeezed at all. I ask about an itchy mole that has cropped up on my arm, which has me paranoid with visions of skin cancer. But the doctor says it's nothing to worry about (unless it starts oozing puss...ew!).

I think my doctor actually finds this hard . And he's a young doctor. Not that it's easier when you're younger (less experience and all that - again, just like Grade 12 prom). But it's weird. He's a DOCTOR. And a man. It's not like I'm repulsive when I'm half dressed (even if all I'm wearing is an unflattering paper gown).

Oh god. Maybe that's it. Or maybe he thinks it's weird that I shave. Or that I left my bologna-smelling knee-highs on. Or maybe I'm just being silly.

Still, I hope he's not that timid in the delivery room. Poor baby.

Oops I Did It Again...

Have you ever gone to the bathroom, only to realize mid-pee that you don't hear the tinkle tinkle of urine...

You do the between-the-legs-WTF-look (because you "hover" you don't sit EVER) and see the lid is down. Yup, you've just peed on the toilet lid, and the floor. And a bit on your coat.

Did I mention you're in the staff bathroom of your dental office?

Monday, February 16, 2009

Vitamin C

Paul was sick with the flu for the better part of last week, plus the weekend but managed to buck up enough for V-Day. There's nothing like the opportunity for lovin' to make a man rise from his death bed sick bed.

I'm not entirely/partly/remotely sure why men turn into moaning groaning babies when they get sick. Paul was nursing a "bad" case of snuffles co-mingled with a dash of coughing. And a fever - Ooooo. But by the sounds of it [literally], he had leperacy or malaria.

Not that I think Paul was faking it or anything. He really was sick. He even finger blew his nose in the shower. But I question the degree of sickness, of Paul, or any man. When a hang-nail can morph into flesh-eating disease, you need to distance yourself and stop encouraging any man-baby behaviour. I mean come on, child birth anyone?

I have the sinking senstation the flu is making a come back, and I'm numero uno on the hit list. So, I've been taking some preemptive action, mainly by boning up on my vitamin C's - coffee and chocolate. No moaning, no groaning. Just proactive kick-assness instead of reactive sorry-assness.

Now what's so hard about that?

Friday, February 06, 2009


During my vacation this week, I've been left to my own devices which includes cooking my own "meals" [note: I've been eating a lot of toast]. I am resigned to the fact that if I lived alone I would probably never cook and survive on the substance provided in take-aways.

With Paul doing all of the cooking, I've become a bit rusty in the kitchen. Considering my pre-Paul cooking skills (which consisted of stuffed mushroom caps and chocolate chip cookies), one could argue I have always been rusty in the kitchen. Apparently, sometimes there is no where to go but down. This morning I somehow managed to burn boiled eggs for breakfast. Burn. Boiled. Eggs.

Good thing I look cute in an apron.

Thursday, February 05, 2009

Desperate (to-be-a) Housewife

This week I'm enjoying a much needed three days off mini-vacation (the first in almost a year). And I've realized a few things:

1. I could seriously get used to being a stay-at-home housewife. For a month or so anyway. Before I got bored. But still, it would be one great month. Yesterday, I even ate chocolates...while watching soaps!

2. I need to get out of this life-sucking job and into something new. A job where people can be creative. And dress in clothes I drool over with envy. Where you don't get f-bombed by clients every ten minutes.

3. I should really start planning my wedding. It's in 6 months and 3 days (not that I'm counting). I don't even know where to start. Groom: check. Venue: check. Justice of the Peace: check. Ok, now what? I read all the planning books. And it's not like this is my first wedding, or Paul's for that matter. But this is THE wedding. Exclamation point. Full stop.

I think I need a vacation to recover from my vacation.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

On My Chinny Chin Chin

Lately I've noticed hair sprouting up in the most unexpected of places. Rogue hairs. Very stealth like. On my chin, upper lip, from moles, on a nipple (ok, ok, two nipples).

It used to be nothing a tweezer couldn't fix. But now my tweezing has reached olympic proportions. I am resigned to the fact this has everything to do with age. Yeah, yeah age is just a number - a number of chin hairs.

Luckily I'm a redhead so my unwary hairy situation is somewhat invisable to the naked eye. And by naked eye I mean Paul's eye. But I can see the little suckers. They're there, taunting me.

It brings me back to my first date with Paul and I spent hours doing some pre-date self-maintenance. I even plucked my knuckle hair. Knuckle hair! I mean who DOES that?

Guys are much more lax about the whole hair thing. Probably because men are supposed to be hairy. Men = hairy = fertile. Women = hairy = quasimodo.

If this is 32, what will 40 bring?

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Duty Calls

If you haven't had the pleasure of partaking in a colonoscopy, I'll give you the run down. No pun intended.

First, you drink a big jug the size of antifreeze full of clear liquid which boasts as much flavour as stale pineapple with a hint of cardboard. Then you spend the next 9 hours *ahem* "reading in the library".

Next, you go to the hospital where they shove a ******* up your *** and then they **** and you can't even ****, let alone **** for the next day.

I tried to forget that my ass resembled the Japanese flag and looked on the bright side - bonus weight loss! Two piddly pounds worth. Apparently my crap, much like my alcohol tolerance, is a light-weight.

And somewhere in Hollywood, someone is probably paying for this.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Eau de Toilette

[ washroom]

Friday, 5:31 pm

Occupant: 1

There's nothing better than the feeling you get on a Friday, 2 minutes after quiting time. Your mind is on auto pilot. You're thinking about unwinding with a glass of white wine, knitting and crazy weekend sex.

Nothing interupts this prelude to the weekend quicker than the slapping realization that the toilet won't flush. It's not that the toilet is broken (or worse, clogged beyond plunger salvation). No, the flusher handle is just...not...working.

So, you jiggle the flusher handle. It's loose when clearly there should be toilet flushing tension. Being the handy gal you are, you decide to inspect. Off goes the toilet lid. Ah ha! There's the problem. The chain (which is supposed to be connected to the flusher handle) has come off. You quickly try to reattach said chain to said flusher.

Unfortunately when you pick it up, this causes a chain reaction [tee hee] and the toilet to flush. This in itself is a good thing, this with the toilet lid off...not so much.
So now you're trying to reattach a chain onto a metal arm with a soft gentle toilet spray showering over you. And what's a girl to do when toilet water gets in your eyes? You drop the chain of the flusher into the toilet tank ofcourse. Because of the sheer force of the flush the chain gets sucked partially down into the toilet pipe.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Not one to give up, you push up the sleeve of your coat and reach your arm way way down, into the bowels [tee hee] of the toilet tank reaching for the chain. Playing chicken with the dirty toilet tank water and your wool blend swing jacket. Your finger tips reach...and yes! You got it! You are awesome. And it's Friday. And you're going to have crazy weekend sex. You almost forgot.

Oops. All that grabbing and yanking the chain causes the toilet to spray a fine mist of tank water again. All over your nice coat. And clothes. And maybe a little bit in your hair. Like you got caught in a brief summer shower...of toilet water.

Not normally one to throw in the towel (or in this case, have one on hand) you know when you've reached your handy girl limit, and gracefully bow in defeat. After all, it's Friday at 5:35 pm and no one's gonna miss the flusher until Monday. Just a quick hand scrub stands between you and crazy weekend sex.

One push of the soap dispenser...and the soap has shot out and onto the crotch of your pants. Now, in addition to being covered in a fine mist of eau ew de toilette, you have a white foamy blob on your trousers. You use paper towel to rub and absorb, but it makes it worse, speading it around in to a bigger white pastey blob on your crotch. Crazy weekend sex? Right now you'd settle for a crazy weekend shower.

Friday, January 23, 2009


I have a secret. A favorite place I like to go at lunch when I'm in the mood for...salad. But not just any salad - we're talking mouth watering can still taste it hours later even though you've already brushed your teeth three times kind of salad. The one and only, ceasar salad. This place makes it perfect. And there's the option of adding a scoop of chicken salad. And not just any type of chicken salad - it always has cranberries or olives or oranges in it - extra special, extra yummy. And almonds....mmmmm...almonds. Ooo ooo ooo and home-made croutons.

But today, my salad wasn't perfect. It was very far from perfect. It was Chef Gordon Ramsay should come and intervene kind of un-perfect. My scoop of chicken salad was floating on top of the salad in a river of sauce (in addition to the extra extra saucy ceasar salad). I haven't seen anything that saucy since Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie. There was no almonds. And my home-made croutons were replaced bought. Ick.

Sure, everyone has an off day. Even salad makers. But I suspect my favorite place is under new management. Clue #1: the sweet girl who waited on me at the cash register disappeared in back to make my salad and lost two customer in the process, who grew tired/hungry/heard gushes of sauce coming from the kitchen. I know it's hard times with the economy and all, but where does - chef + extra sauce on salad = happy customer?

Friday, January 16, 2009

10,000 Reasons

I just blog has hit a milestone! Over 10,000 readers have checked out my adventures in singledom within the last year and three months. I don't mean to toot my own horn but toot toot. You like me, you really like me!

It helps that the Redhead-Next-Door has been endorsed* by some of my closest celebrity friends** like Hulk Hogan, Susan Lucci, Terrance and Phillip, Brian Boitano, Ashton Kutcher, Cindy Crawford, and pre-head-shaving Britney.

Through endless dating escapades, work drama and bad hair, you kept reading. And I thank you. Sure, I would keep writing even if no one was reading. But who am I kidding? I love being an attention whore. So, keep reading! You don't want to miss what's coming next...

The Top 10 Reasons to Keep Reading the Redhead-Next-Door:

The Top Reason to Keep Reading the Redhead-Next-Door:

1. Even more outrageously funny stories so unbelievable, even I can't make stuff like that up.

* By "endorsed" I mean I casually not-so-casually mentioned their name in my post.

** While I have not actually "met" the aformentioned celebs, if I did, they would totally want to be friends with me because let's face it, I rock.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Do you ever have one of those days...

The kind where you feel, a touch bitchtastic. And the bitcher you get, the bitchier you want to get. It's a real bitch catch-22 revolving-bitch-door.

But don't worry. Loved ones, coworkers, random people - I was an equal opportunity bitch to everyone.

It certainly doesn't help that I'm craving chocolate sooooo badly. But I can't because of this gd GI Diet I'm on. Or that my feet smell remotely like dog vomit (don't ask). And that the best part of my day was almost falling on the icy sidewalk but using my boss to break my fall.

I just feel blah. Bitchy and blah. Apathetic.

Only one question it Friday yet?

Friday, January 09, 2009

Move Over Ladies, Here Comes the Mantyhose

It started with the rise of the Metrosexual. Then came all the Manscaping, MG-strings, and Bromancing. And's the Mantyhose.

Is nothing sacred? I mean, what woman would find these sexy on their buffcake beefcake?

I'm so glad Paul knows how to nuture his cave-man side. That, and he isn't sporting a mullett [anymore].

Then again, those buns on Adam over there do look rather squeezeable, don't they? I mean, the mantyhose really accentuate his features. Ooooo - imagine the front view.

What was I getting at?

Oh right. Something about...oh hell. I need a cold shower.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Being Erika

I do not make New Year's resolutions. Period. Unless of course you count not making a New Year's resolution as a New Year's resolution itself. But you're not counting, right?

In the words of Undercover Mother, 2008 was a "banner year."

Example #1: I got engaged! Again. But this engagement was different. Is different. Paul's proposal was unexpected and romantic. Sure, he proposed on New Year's Eve (which was his plan for popping the question to another paramour before they derailed at Splitsville). But still, it was sweet when he said he wanted to start the New Year off right by making me his wife. As opposed to my now ex-husband, who popped the question (when we got back together after I left him to date his best friend) by saying, "If I take you back, it's not as my girlfriend. It's as my wife." Ah...isn't it romantic? And somewhere a banjo plays.

Example #2: I got a new job! Sure, it's completely sucking out my soul. But it's new! And it enabled me to set up shop in Paul's city. Which brings me to...

Example #3: Paul and I bought a house! After lots and lots of househunting we're finally livin' in sin. No thanks to my credit rating. If it were up to my bank we'd be in a cardboard box, or a slightly more upscale dumpster. But with Paul's financial finesse...the sky's* the limit.

Example #4: I no longer cook! No more apron-wearing for this chicka. Dreams really can come true. Which brings me to...

Example #5: I've gained 40 pounds! Yes folks, you read right. 4-0 as in forty. Apparently it's not entirely impossible to gain this much in a year (like, if you're pregnant and carrying around the weight of an extra human being growing inside you). And apparently, Paul is also a really really good cook.

So we decided to make a life-style change (which is soooo different than making a resolution *wink wink*) and drop some poundage. And by poundage, I mean I'm dropping all 40 pounds. We bought a fancy scale and everything. I've never even owned a scale in my life (In retrospect, this probably didn't do anything to help me know how much weight I was gaining).

The weird part is, when I look at myself, I still see me. Regular me. And not the 40-pound plus me. But the numbers don't lie. No matter how much I try to make myself lighter at weigh-in time.

Not surprisingly, Paul has also packed on the pounds. He's so supportive that way. So I'm making a point to be supportive back. When Paul weighed himself, he turned to me and said, "I don't understand, how could I have gained [censored] pounds. So I said, "Are you kidding me? You ate like 2 litres of ice cream this week alone." See? Supportive. That's me.

I was worried about falling off the eating/exercise band wagon within the first few days. Paul's parents were visiting on the weekend. They were checking out our new fancy scale (which we keep in our bedroom because nothing says sexy like a scale) and Paul sat down on our bed...then it broke. There's nothing like breaking a bed to motivate you. Trust me.

Paul's mom suggested we not do anything "too athletic" until we got a new bed. So I suggested we go bed shopping ASAP. And we did. We picked out something nice and sturdy. After all, we plan on putting it through it's paces. You know, in the name of weight-loss. *cough cough*

*Sky = 1/4 of a million dollars