Eau de Toilette

[Interior...office 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.

Saucy

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 with...store 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?

10,000 Reasons

I just noticed...my 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.

Bitchtastic

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 remains...is it Friday yet?

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 now..it'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.

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