Today’s Post Is Brought To You By The Letter “H” as in Hospital

First of all, let me just say that real hospitals look nothing like the set of ER. There’s no soft lighting, there’s no glamour and worst of all there’s no John Stamos.

Two weeks ago I went in for a little “procedure.” I wish I could say it was for something silly like Botox or a lung transplant. But it wasn’t. I went in for a scope and two biopsies.

Sure, scope sounds fun. Like mouthwash. But what they really mean is you’re about to swallow a long tube. You might possibly gag on said tube. But try not to, because there’s a camera at the end of the tube and the doctor is trying to get a good look at your organs to make sure you don’t have cancer. And the doctor really doesn’t want an internal view of your vomit geyser.

I had a vague idea of what was going to happen. But when it comes to hospital procedures…it’s all in the details.

Detail #1: The nurse called my name, and handed me a hospital gown. A hospital gown? No one mentioned a hospital gown. I hadn’t really envisioned what I would or would not be wearing for my scope.

Nurse: Here you go love. Just put this on. Nothing else on from the waist up. Ties go to the back. And leave your shoes on dear.
Me: [blink blink]

Oh crap. I had heels on. Nice. Hospital gown and high heels. Thank goodness John Stamos wasn’t there. So what’s a girl to do? I strutted my stuff, nobody works a hospital gown and heels like yours truly.

Detail #2: I knew I was going to be sedated for the procedure. But in true RND fashion, I didn’t think about how that was going to happen.

Nurse: Ok love, just sit right down here and we’ll get your IV started.
Me: [blink blink]

Oh crap. I thought I’d take a pill to put me to sleep, or one of those masks with the sleeping gas. So what’s a girl to do? I fainted.

So let's review. Heels + hospital gown + sedation = blog post.

Tuned in next time for adventures with ultrasounds…

Can You Keep A Secret?

Ahhhh…this is the life. Right now I’m in my bedroom sitting on the chaise typing. I’m half-cuddled half-lounging on said chaise with a black faux fur throw. My wine glass is on the window sill beside me. Did I mention I’m typing? On a laptop! I like the little clicky clicky noise the keys make when I type. It’s very Carrie a la Sex In The City.

Mary (aka Undercover Mother) had suggested, no, implored me to get a laptop because my posts were dwindling down to infrequent dribble. Coincidentally my bank just upped the credit limit on my visa, so I debated maxing it out again just so I could have the luxury of writing a post whenever (and more importantly wherever) I wanted. I could have a whole post category for “bathroom posts”. Or “posts written while eating mustard.” The possibilities are endless really.

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to max out my credit card. I KNOW.

So instead, Paul brought home his laptop from work. Now I can have the thrill of typing in odd mustard enabling locations without the credit crunch. There’s only one catch…

I had to promise not to open any documents because there’s secret government stuff on Paul’s laptop. I KNOW.

So the first thing I thought was…there’s got to be ex-girlfriend stuff on here. And probably porn. When Paul said, “You need to promise not to open any documents on there,” was that guyspeak for “You need to promise not to snoop on there”?

Resist. Resist. But then, I saw it. The Recycle Bin, out of the corner of my eye. All full of electronic papery goodness. Taunting me. Resist. Resist. Might. Be. Secret. Government. Documents.

I HAD to peak (like you wouldn’t). And technically I didn’t break my promise. Because not once did I look at any documents. I only checked out the pictures. And technically I didn’t look AT them. I just changed the view to “thumbnails” so I could see without getting all double clicky. [Besides, I tried double clicking on them and FYI you have to restore things from the Recycle Bin if you want to view them].

And sure enough…there were pictures of his ex-girlfriends. And me. All parts of Paul’s life mixed up together. What did he see in them? It’s beyond me. Not that I have the best ex-boyfriend hall of fame. One of the differences between us is I have deleted, burned, tossed, and pawned almost every ex-boyfriend related memento I had. All part of the getting-over-your-ass philosophy I practiced (except the jewelry - my momma didn’t raise no fool). Paul’s more of a ho-hoarder. Exhibit A: our second date. It started to rain. I was dressed in a mini and a tee. Paul gave me a sweater to borrow, to stay warm. It was three sizes too big for me. But it was his “cousin’s” so I didn’t say a word. I quickly learned that “cousin” was Paul’s early dating code word for ex-girlfriend. The sweater was donated to charity (but I kept a pair of “her” designer sunglasses – my momma didn’t raise no fool).

Is it weird that I know the names of Paul’s ex-girlfriends but he couldn’t name one of mine (my ex-husband excluded)? I know how many girls Paul has slept with but he has never asked me how many guys I’ve been with. Maybe girls are just born with the need-to-know gene while guys remain oblivious. I’m sure Darwinism isn’t putting it high on the list of must-haves.

And yes, there was porn.

Fly Away

Have you ever been not paying attention and then you look down and notice your maxi pad has fallen from your hand into the toilet.

Brings new meaning to the phrase "with wings". As if.

I'm "It"

I've been tagged by the devine Delicieux over at Cynically Yours. It's been so long since I've been tagged I hope I remember how to...you know, do IT. Like riding a bicycle I suspose, but without all the ass chapping.

1. Do you have the same friends since childhood?

Yes, but only the really interesting ones. Actually, that's not true. My best friend in the WORLD was Cindy (her real name). Cindy was my invisible friend when I was a kid. Until that fateful day when my sister Kiki stole Cindy from me. And my world was never quite the same. I've had the same girlfriends since junior high. Not sure why they put up with me. But they do

2. What do you value most about your friends?

My friends make me laugh, they make me cry. They know when I need to be bitch slapped, they know when I need to be hugged. They are loyal and protective and there for me when I need them. We don't need to be in contact 24/7. If it's been a while, we pick up right where we left off. There's no ego's involved. Except my gigantic one.

3. Are your friends your sounding boards?

No. I keep my ideas to myself. That way no one thinks I've completely lost it and become a nutter. Some times I write about my ideas. Like this.

4. What is your favorite activity to share with your friends?

Pillow fights, in our underwear. Like you couldn't guess.

And now according to the rules, I have to list 5 things under each of the following headers, and pass this award on to 5 more people

10 Years ago I:
- Was newly seperated from my husband
- Was a single mother
- Had a mad crush on my info systems professor
- Weighed 115 pounds
- Was so poor I washed our clothes in the bath tub

5 things on today's "To do" list:

- Sign up for NaNoWriMo

- Help Aidan with his school project (I want an A!)

- Kiss Paul

- Drink a glass of wine, ok maybe three

- Tackle the laundry

5 snacks that I enjoy:
- Wine (it's a snack right?)

- Cheddar cheese

- Cheesecake bites

- Chippies

- Paul

5 things I would do if I were a millionaire:

- Quit my job, seriously

- Pay off my debts (hmmm, that would only leave a couple bucks ;)

- Pay a shrink to fix my airplane phobia

- Travel the world

- Have a personal massage therapist and hairdresser on staff, 24/7, mmmmmm

5 places that I have lived:

- in a womb

- in an apartment

- in a condo

- in a rental house

- in my own house

5 jobs that I have had:

- Waitress

- Private Investigator

- Personal Assistant

- Reporter

- Editor

Alrightly, that about does it for this tagged chicka. I know I'm supposed to tag 5 people. But I'm a rebel. I roll like that ;)

Sins I've Committed (Today)

In no random order, these are the things I've done today that will probably ensure I'm headed down under (and I don't mean Australia).

Sin #1: I'm very spoiled since moving in with Paul. He makes me coffee every morning, and delivers it to me when I step out of the shower all clean and shiney. It's my princess moment. Well, Paul's away on business this week. And this morning I didn't have time to make my morning coffee. There was too much morning stuff to do. Like...er, making breakfast. Ok, technically I didn't make breakfast, I just opened an Ensure shake. But the shake cap was on like really really tight. So, I was just lazy and didn't feel like making the coffee. Whatever. I'm not one to apply labels. Liar!

To solve all my caffine problems, I hit the Sounds Like Jim Nortons drive-thru and ordered 2 coffees - a medium double double for the drive and a large triple triple for starters. Which lead to...

Sin #2: When I gave the Sounds Like Jim Nortons girl my money, I gave her an extra 12 cents for a tip. Not 10%, but this blog doesn't generate an income. Being the polite Sounds Like Jim Nortons girl that she was, she tried to give me back my change. Like as if I can't add or something. But instead of saying, "do you want your 12 cents?" I hear "do you want your 2 cents?" Tempting but, um no. I don't. And I didn't even bother to correct her. Perhaps I should have, she probably needs the cash to pick up some elective math classes at the local elementary school.

Sin #3: This was my favorite sin of the day by far. I went to Old Navy to shop for a cute coat for the cold Canadian chilly days. I picked three colorful contenders and went to try them on. The Old Navy chick asked me my name for their [dumb-ass] white boards on the dressing room door. I said "Ann." It took all my mite not to giggle. It made it all the better when she asked, "Do you spell that A-N-N or A-N-N-E?" So I mocked, "It doesn't matter, I'll answer to either."

If you can't have a little fun...Oh hell. Tee hee.

Caveman Is As Caveman Does

Last night Paul and I went to a "Black Shirt Party" at his coworker's apartment.

When we arrived the ratio of women to men was 6 to 1, with Paul being the lone male. The lone wolf. The alpha male. We made ourselves at home on a nice large ottoman. We chatted, we laughed, we watched one of the party-goers demonstrate how she can put both her legs behind her head at the same time. I kid you not. And, it's not as impressive as it sounds. Ok, it actually doesn't even sound impressive, just a whole lotta hussy.

About a half hour later, the number of men climbed to 2 with the addition of another of Paul's [married] coworkers. I opted to move to a chair because my back was not digging ottoman style sitting. We chatted, we laughed, we watched the bendy party-goer almost fall out of her shirt every time she inhaled.

Twenty minutes later, the number of men was at an all-evening high of 4 when single guy #1 and #2 arrived. I was still in my chair and Paul was still on the ottoman nearby. Quicker than you can say "caveman" Paul put his hand on my leg. Ok, a not-so-subtle mark-your-girl move. The guys mixed their drinks in the kitchen and then joined the rest of the party goers in the livingroom. Paul leaned over, way over, so he was leaning into my lap. I was worried that at any moment he was going to start peeing around me.

I guess the ways of the caveman (or canine) are alive and leaning.

Today's Post Is Brought To You By The Letter "B" (as in bedroom)

Getting used to sharing a bed with someone EVERY NIGHT is taking some getting used to. After 10 years of sleeping soundly (mostly with myself), my body has hardwired itself. Developed a bed memory if you will. And that memory is stretching out in all four directions at the same time. Kind of like a weather vane, but much more graceful and less iron-y.

Paul says for such a little woman, I manage to take up a whole lotta bed. And my bed spreading powers enable me to push around a 200+ pound man of muscle to the furthest nether regions of the bed corners and make him curl up like a prison mate at lights out. To my credit, this is done while I'm totally asleep.

Thursday evening, we were snuggling in for the night. But I needed more room...

Me: "Beep. Beep."

Who says that? A car horn, yes. A grown woman, no. Or she shouldn't (unless she's talking to her toddler and even then, never in public).

I couldn't help but burst out laughing. It WAS pretty funny. And automatic. I can only wonder what else I've been mindlessly muttering. At least I didn't say, "Assume the position bitch."

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Liar Liar

[Interior...Jim Norton's]

Me: [Waiting patiently in line for my turn to get my usual sweet delicious need-it-to-think large triple triple coffee]
Jim Norton's Girl: "Hey, where've ya been? I haven't seen you all week."
Me: [Looking around to see who this chick is talking to. She's looking at me.]
Me: "I've been here every day this week."
Jim Norton's Girl: "Liar."
Me: [blink blink] "The only day I wasn't here was yesterday." [Why do I even feel the need to explain my whereabouts to the coffee shop girl?]
Jim Norton's Girl: "Oh ya, I've been working all nights. That explains it."
Me: [Yes, but that doesn't explain you're crazy and possibly a stalker. Moving slowly away from the crazy Jim Norton's girl, avoiding eye contact]

Perhaps it's an extra-large coffee day.

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Wine-Oh

Paul and I decided to buy a do-it-yourself make-your-own-wine-kit as our first grown-up homeowner task. And by "together" I mean Paul's doing it. Originally, we thought making our own wine would be fun! A good story! [Notice the foreboding via exclamation marks].

We also thought it would be less expensive than the current $50/week bill at the LC [that's Liqour Commission for you non-Canadians]. The wine kit cost $100 Cdn and makes 30 bottles of wine. That's just over $3 a bottle! Until we realized we didn't have 30 empty wine bottles laying around. So we had to start buying more wine to drink to get empty wine bottles to fill with our home made wine. You can see the vicious cycle that's immerging.

Sure, right now the wine smells like dirty socks. But whatever. How hard can it be to make a good vintage wine? Wait, don't answer that. At the very least, we'll have 30 future Happy this-and-that gifts for people we don't especially like.

Oh who am I kidding. I'll drink it. Besides, nothing could come close to the "Redhead-Next-Door special" I made as a teenager (back when I used to help myself to my parents liquor cabinet but before I grew balls and wanted my premature batender skills to go unnoticed). I mixed a touch of rum, vodka, peach schnapps, cherry liqueur, mint vermouth, whiskey, and whatever the hell else was in there T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R, into a gigantic sports water bottle. And drank it. Or tried to. With my best friend Terri. Now she had balls. It had quite the after taste (the drink, as opposed to someones balls, although...). And during taste (again, the drink and not balls, although...).

Perhaps I should quit while I'm ahead should have quit while I was ahead.

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Thanksgiving Misgivings

For all my non-Canadian readers, it's Thanksgiving weekend in Canada, which means several things...

#1. We relish the fact we're celebrating Thanksgiving before the Americans (we're such pioneers in Canada! After all, we did invent such trendy things as the Tuque and Celine Dion).

#2. We get to count our blessings and be thankful and all that crap for how "utterly" fantastic our lives are and rainbows shine out our arses and such.

#3. We get to eat. A lot. And then feel really really full. As in, my turkey has a first name, it's v-o-m-i-t.

But for me this Thanksgiving is all about getting organized and trying to unfuckup some parts of my life that could use a bit of spit polish. Example one: this blog. I've gotten out of the habit of posting (which I hate) because it's so theraputic to write about my causalities of pride. And there's so much to write about. Really. It's amazing I have any pride left. [Ok, I don't actually have any pride left, I just have a really big ego that spurs me on.]

Get ready for a supersized blog-blitz of juice-tastic proportions.

It's Monday...

Within the first 30 minutes of the alarm clock going off, I've managed to...

a) break the top off the shampoo bottle and send it sailing across the bathroom
b) put shaving cream in my hair instead of conditioner
c) watch my nipples morph turn into mini-self-propelled-rockets as I run out of hot water and enjoy the benefits of a cold morning shower (benefits = 0)

It's amazing I managed to leave the house this morning.

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].

Posts For A Rainy Day

Dear Blog,

Oh how I miss you [gives "air hugs and kisses"].

But I will be back soon. *Promise* And filled with lots of juicy blog posts about (and in no particular order): living in sin with Paul, mucking through the daily grind in the job from hell, buying my our first house, communicating only by hand signals for two days, not expecting to be expecting, rotten bananas and Paul's abnormally small...tools.

Hope all is well. And by "well" I mean you're a sobbing mess without me.

See you soon.

RND

Le Freak

I was looking in the mirror post-lunch post-tooth brushing trying to figure out why I look so different today. More pale than usual. Almost sickly. With a touch of je ne sais pas ce qui.

And then it hits me...

I don't have any eye brows.

I forgot to pencil them in/on.

My eye brow hair is strawberry/blondish/invisible. So I have to fill them in with a brow pencil. Every...single...day. Usually I get my brows/lashes/anything else I can tinted (in case I forget, I'm covered) but my spa appointment isn't until next week. So for the rest of the afternoon, I'll hide out in my office, hoping no one notices the chicka without eye brows.

Note to self: maybe I could say I was involved in a freak BBQ lighting incident.

TGIF.

Cul De Sacked

Besides starting a new job this week I've also been blessed with the added stress of househunting. We still don't have a buyer for Paul's place so we're shacked up in his ultra cosy 2-bedroom condo (all 1197 square feet of it).

We looked at 3 houses. We learned a lot. Observe.

Top 10 Ways to Tell You Shouldn't Buy A House If...
1. The walls are painted green apple green (except the master bathroom which is a bright sailor blue)
2. Backyard fence is held up by 2 x 4 planks nailed to the house for support
3. Smells like dog and/or cat piss
4. Five-year old neighborhood children are flashing gang signs at you as you roll up curb side
5. Smells like cigarette and/or pot smoke
6. Only landscaping done on the property by previous owners was cultivating their grow-op
7. Your screaming, arguing, kids are the quiet ones on the street
8. There's multicolored built-in shelves made out of unfinished wood...in every room in the house
9. Closet in the master bedroom has a padlock on the outside of the door...and yup, built in shelves. Could have been home to Harry Potter.
10. The real estate agent says "I'll just wait for you outside while you look around"

Moving On Up

Packing and purging. Purging and packing. Two of my favorite past times. While I consider myself a veteran packer (I've had lots of practice living in more than 13 different rentals). But this time it's different. I'm moving to something (and someone) and not away from something (or someone).

At the same time. I'm rusty as hell. I haven't lived with a man since my first husband. Ten years and a whole lot of personal development later (read: therapy) I feel ready to try this whole living with a man thingy. But not just any man. Paul.

My stuff is being sorted into "keep", "sell" and "throw" piles (the sell pile is very very large). Unlike when I left my husband, I opted to take it all and leave him with only a wok and a spice rack (which is unfortunate since the wok was a wedding present from my aunt and she's never let me forget that my ex was enjoying sweet and sour chicken balls because of her. And because I really liked that spice rack!). I was hoping my ex-husband would realize over thyme and basil what a cheating, money-wasting jerk he was while he slept on the floor.

This time I am opting to resurrect the local economy with a huge yard sale featuring most of my belongings. It's just stuff after all. Whoa. Who said that? Was that me? Interesting.

It's scary and fun. Scary fun. In a good way. Not like when you're watching a horror movie and the blonde chick decides to check out the noise downstairs [Why DO they do that?]. It's more like taking a chance on something that is so worth it.

I have no doubt there will be moving pains. I don't live in a fairy tale. Although I do have a fondness for glass slippers and frogs. But think of all the delicious stories I'll have for blog posts. Bruhahahaha.

Tomorrow's Forecast: Hell Will Freeze Over

I got the job. I can't even write right now.

I got the job. Perhaps if I keep repeating it, it will eventually sink in.

I got the job. I start in two weeks (before they change their mind and realize what they've done :)

In other news...this is my 200th post!

Top 10 Ways to Make An Impression: The Job Interview Edition

Recently I went for a job interview for a position in Paul's city. The following are some simple and straight-forward tips I learned, that I thought I'd pass along to my fellow job hunters.

Top 10 Ways to Make An Impression: The Job Interview Edition
1. Completely rip the ass of your pantyhose getting out of your car. Have pantyhose hanging precariously by the front bits. Wonder whether you have enough time to dash into pharmacy to pick up new pair [answer is NO]. Thank your lucky stars: a) your skirt covers your bum, b) you decided to go with bikini briefs, and c) it's only semi-mildly windy.
2. Close the car door and turn to put money in the parking meter at the exact moment a truck drives through the only puddle on the street (which just so happens to be right beside you) and showers your new interview suit with a wave of cold muddy puddle water. Thank your lucky stars: a) your interview suit is brown so muddy puddle water blends in, and b) it's made of linen which soaks up liquid pronto.
3. Your interview suit is made of linen making it look like you slept in your suit. Convince office receptionist you are not homeless person but actual interviewee.
4. Continue laughing as you enter the interview room because of pantyhose and puddle incidents. Realize interview panel thinks you're either: a) crazy, or b) not taking the interview seriously. Picture Roseanne Barr naked to stop fits of laughter (works every time!).
5. Lead interviewer has a cold and advises she won't shake your hand in case she's contagious. Quip back "That's ok, I'll get you next time!" As if a) you're so confident you'll get the job and will shake her hand on your first day of work, or b) your going to keep interviewing until they give in and hire you, or c) you'll be stalking her until you get to shake her hand.
6. After every question, ask "Can you repeat the question?"
7. For questions you don't know the answer to say "That's a good question..." to buy yourself some time to think of something coherent and get rid of the deer-in-headlights look in your eyes.
8. To the question, "What types of decisions do you find hard to make and which do you find easy to make?" Answer: "I'm decisive, it's easy for me to make most decisions. The ones I find hardest are what to wear, like this outfit today."
9. Get so caught up in your fabulous answer that you forget the question (even though you've been talking for 7 minutes straight hoping something you said answers whatever they asked). Follow it up with "Can you repeat the question?"
10. At the end of the interview when they ask if you have any questions, ask "How did this position become available?" Watch them tear up as they answer, "He died."
Bonus Tip: Hand in your references, saying "They're expecting your call."

Wise Guy

Location: Walking Trail
Time: 7 pm

Me: [Trying not to laugh] "Paul darling, that's quite the walking outfit you have on there. Suede jacket, black t-shirt, jeans, white sneakers and sun glasses. You look like a member of the mob."
Paul: "Then what does that make you?"
Me: "Embarrassed."
And then we both collapse into fits of laughter.

The Mathematics of Job Hunting

# of months since becoming engaged to Paul = 5
# of months since beginning job search to move to Paul's city = 5
# of jobs applied for since beginning job search = 11
# of job interviews obtained since applying for jobs in Paul's city = 0
# of glasses of wine drank during this blog post = 1, 3
# of glasses of wine drank while writing cover letters for jobs applied for in Paul's city = 11

Ok, maybe those numbers are a bit off. I've drank way more than 11 glasses of wine.

[UPDATE: # of job interviews obtained since beginning this post = 1. Cue the Twilight Zone music please!].

Much Ado About Money

Revenue Canada* how I love thee.
Let me count the ways,
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four...

*Revenue Canada: the Canadian equivalent to the IRS. Same suits. Same jokes. With the bonus flair of a Canadian accent eh!

Happy Pretend Birthday To Me!

Since my official birthday was a tad rough, I decided to try celebrating it again today, by having my very own pretend birthday. And you know what? It was bloody fantastic. I had a great hair day. My outfit was fab. I got flowers. I got a card. My coworkers wished me a Happy Pretend Birthday. And since it was a pretend birthday, I pretended I was 30.

One of the best real birthday presents I got, was from Paul. Remember my blog bumper sticker idea? Oh, really? And you call yourself a fan! Oh, really? Well keep reading...you might want to reconsider.

Anyhoo. Paul designed some "Read the Blog" Redhead-Next-Door bumper stickers himself. And by "some" I mean one. And got three of them made (It's the thought that counts. He is so thoughtful). And I am going to have three very happy blog fans.

Happy Birthday To Me!

My son (age 11) just woke me up out of bed with a high pitched, fast talking yell from his room. It sounded much like "Mum...warble warble warble". To which he promptly opened fire with a power puke all over the carpet in the hallway, the hall walls and his bathroom sink. [I mean walls...who even does that unless they're in Poltergeist?] I didn't even have time to react (unless you count finally directing the spray to the toilet but by that time the regurgitation massacre was over).

So now I'm left with a rather large, rather suspect, stain on my hallway floor. A stain which looks like someone may have been murdered there, except it smells like beef stew. And is more orange-y with bits of green than bloody (thanks to all those leafy greens in the salad at supper).

Ironically, this whole episode started precisely at midnight. I am officially 32. And so far, my birthday sucks donkey dick.

Oh karma, how you mock me.

The Great Dick-bate

Me: "Let's rent 27 Dresses this weekend (the movie, and not actually renting 27 dresses)!"
Paul: "Sounds like a chick flick. Iron Man is at the theatre. I was thinking of taking Aidan for some male bonding. You could come too."
Me: "Hmmm...sounds like a dick flick. I think I'll opt for the inevitable taffeta filled music montage."

And somewhere, Thelma and Louise give a high five.

Q and A with Paul, The Gettin' Hitched Edition

Via the phone...

Me: Let's get right to the juicy stuff. What do you think about your ex-wife offering to help plan our wedding?
Paul: [laughs] Typical. I have no interest in taking her up on that offer.
Me: Glad you cleared THAT up.

Me: How many hours do you estimate you spent looking for the perfect ring for me?
Paul: [adding out loud] 25 total.
Me: How does this compare to the number of hours you masturbate?
Paul: [laughs] That's less than 25 hours total a week.

Me: When did you know I was THE ONE?
Paul: Waking up with you and realizing I wanted to do that forever. And that purr that you do.

Me: Moving on. Describe in one word what marriage means to you.
Paul: A commitment.
Me: That's two words.
Paul: This is hard! I thought you loved me [pouts]. I would say commitment but that's not what marriage means to me.
Me: What the?
Paul: [continuing] A partnership with someone you want to share the rest of your life with. I guess I'd have to use "share" if I had to put it in one word. And I don't mean the singer [Cher].
Me: Where's a drum roll when you need one.

Me: Do you think I should change my name when we get married?
Paul: I'm of two opinions: I love the idea of you having my last name - it means you're mine.
Me: [Picturing Paul in a loin cloth carrying me over his shoulder back to the cave].
Paul: But your maiden name - it's who you are. If I was more nouveau, we'd make up our own last name.

Me: What's the first thing you want to do after we get hitched?
Paul: [laughs] Right after? Walk hand in hand [censored]. Kiss you senseless [censored] and hold on to you saying, "mine forever."

Me: What's the one tradition you want to include in our wedding?
Paul: Pardon?
Me: What's the one tradition you want to include in our wedding?
Paul: I thought you said "position". Tradition...I see it as more of a simple affair.
Me: [Picturing hot dogs and beer].

Me: Do you think I will turn into a Bridezilla?
Paul: A what?
Me: [Long explanation as to what this is]. I'm sure it's a non-issue. Now get back to making those guest favors!!!

Me: What's the one household chore you will least like to do when we're married?
Paul: Cleaning the showers and putting away the laundry.
Me: So, pretty much the same as now. How will we decide who does what around the house?
Paul: I think it'll be easy. I'll be doing more cooking than cleaning.
Me: I see you've already put some thought into this.

Me: What's your biggest fear about getting married?
Paul: Comfort. I'm afraid I'll become comfortable and won't be trying as hard. I fear taking you for granted and not showing you how special you are.
Me: Don't worry, I won't let you forget.

Me: What's the best part about getting married?
Paul: [long pause] Someone to share everything with.
Me: I thought you would say "more sex".
Paul: Honey, it's hard to get more sex than I do now.
Me: [Thinking to myself perhaps it's time to attend a support meeting].

Me: Did you purpose on New Year's Eve so that you will never forget our engagement anniversary?
Paul: No [laughs].

Me: Have you ever lied to me?
Paul: White lies...that's it.
Me: Ahem! Like sorry I didn't call hon, my cell phone battery died. Like that?

Me: How would you describe my decorating style?
Paul: Unfortunately you don't have a lot of money. But if you did, it would be light and colorful. I'm more "dark."
Me: Uh huh. What will happen to my "hand me down furniture" once we move in together?
Paul: It's going to look great in our rec room.
Me: Ouch.

Another One Bites the Dust

Canada - I regret to announce the suddenly passing of Mavi Jeans on April 13, 2008 at 3:31 pm. The Jeans are survived by their owner and wearer, Erika. She will miss wearing them every week because she only had two pairs of jeans special enough to call "wearable". She will miss pouring herself into them for dates and making guys drool (especially Paul) about the special way they fit her curves. Like other pants owned by Erika, who shall remain nameless out of respect, Mavi Jeans passing was due to a large rip in the ass area. It was over quickly, she did not suffer. Few jeans were like you Mavi, R.I.P.

Set To Vibrate

In my home province, they made a little law that goes like this, as of April 1st YOU CAN'T DRIVE AND CHAT ON YOUR CELL PHONE AT THE SAME TIME. Unless it's a hands free phone and you're using a looks-like-you-work-at-McDonald's headset. Thank goodness they didn't say anything about not applying mascara and driving. My phone rings occasionally while I'm in my car, but my eyes are always calling for more lash batting power.

When your phone rings you now have two options: a) let it ring and go to voicemail or b) pull over on the road/highway and answer the phone. Gee, I don't see anything dangerous about THAT.

I guess the law was made for those bad driver's who need their focus all their energy (and faculties) on driving to avoid being in an accident. Thank goodness they didn't say anything about not eating Big Mac's and fries and driving. My phone rings occasionally while I'm in my car, but my tummy is always calling for more [whatever they put in that crap].

Random Compliment, #8

Supervisor: "I am really intimidated by your hair today."
What I Said: "And look. I can even do the Charlie's Angels hair swish."
[does sexy hair swishy flip thingy]
What I Should Have Said: "My hair just said to give me a 10% raise."

Random Compliment, #7

Supervisor: "You look amazing today Erika. You are way too sexy for this office."
What I Said: "Um, thanks. I think."
What I Should Have Said: "Ooo. You noticed too eh?"

Tales from Vacation: Preamble

For the first time [EVER] I took a vacation. Like, as in a VACATION vacation, i.e. an adult vacation. No, not THAT kind of adult vacation. But one with no kids. And you do more than stay home in your pj's and house clean, you actually go somewhere. More than 20 km's away!

I decided to venture to a part of the country I've never been to (which isn't as hard as it sounds since I've only been to three provinces). I know, I know. For such a worldly writer, I don't actually get out much.

Because of my embargo on air travel I opted for the classic ski road trip...a deux with Paul. To Quebec City...the city of love (second only to Paris and Moscow). We'd I'd forgotten that Quebec isn't a bilingual province (unless you count French and Asshole as official languages).

I've got enough post material for weeks...or this week (memory depending). Happy reading :)

Age Ain't Nothin' But A Number

My coworker Megan received a huge bouquet of flowers today at work (a day early birthday present from her hubby and kids). Megan has the day off tomorrow. Sure, her hubby could have given the flowers to her at home, on her actual birthday. But how would that make her coworkers sniff with envy?

I accidentally overheard Megan tell another coworker about her big upcoming milestone birthday (ok,ok, so I was eavesdropping alright!).

Male Coworker: "Megan, how old are you going to be?"
Megan: [whispers] "40."
Me: [from several cubicles over] "Wow. I'm going to be 40 in 9 more years!"
Megan: "Sure Erika. Rub it in."

Tee hee. It's so much fun to be mean me.

Sounds Like...

Back when I was a baby Redhead-Next-Door, my mum (an emergency room nurse) used to pride herself on her home made baby food. She'd toil away in the kitchen (or so I'm told...over and over and over again) just so that my sister and I could have the healthiest (aka preservative-free, sugar-free, taste free) most nutritious food possible.

When I was a preschool Redhead-Next-Door my mum (still an emergency room nurse) used to pride herself on not giving my sister and I junk food. Instead she gave us raisins, doesn't-even-taste-like-chocolate carib chocolate chips and mini marshmellows (or so my therapist tells me after our regression hypo-therapy sessions) saying they were "candy".

We didn't eat at McDonalds; unless you count my sister's 6th birthday party (talk about favoritism...I had to wait until my 18th birthday party). We didn't get popcorn at the movies; unless you count the butter-free low-fat kind mum smuggled into the theatre in sandwich baggies in a nap sack.

It wasn't until I was a teen Redhead-Next-Door that I discovered the wondrous world of junk food (and hair gel but that's a whole other story). And so began my secret affair with all things junk (which could possibly explain my first marriage but that's a whole other story).

Even after my son was born, I was shamed by my inability to follow the way of the carib. The pull of salty artery-clogging chips was strong it was. I vowed not to be so saturated-fat strict with my child but also not make it a feel good food free for all.

One day I knew my junk jiving had reached epic proportions. I was in the bathroom unwrapping a maxi pad and my son Aidan (aged 5) knocked on the door and asked, "Mum, what are you eating in there? I hope you're not eating all the chips!"

What's A Four Letter Word For...

Sunday, Easter

[Interior: The living room of Paul's parent's house]

Paul's Dad: (doing the weekend newspaper crossword) "What's a four letter word for great, wild sex?"
Me: "Paul. P-A-U-L"
[Laughter from future mom, dad, sister and brother in-laws]
Me: [internal dialog] Shit shit shit. Did I just say that out loud? Oh god, and to his parents? Why didn't I just blurt out "yoga" or something. Yes, yoga sex. Sounds like wild fun, doesn't it? Instead I said "Paul." And now his family thinks we have wild crazy monkey sex or something.
Paul: [kisses me on the cheek, slightly blushing but mostly beaming]
[Laughter begins to die down]
Paul's Mom: "You're going to buy her whatever she wants now, aren't you Paul?"
Paul: "Yes, yes I am."
Me: "Anyone up for a drink?"

Top 10 Ways to Be Creative In An Oral Emergency

Another Monday. Another post.

Today I decided to scoff my elimination diet* (scoff scoff) and get a chicken "tornado" wrap from the local "sounds like Tobeys" super-monopoly, er...I mean supermarket store.

I wolfed it down (a cross between inhale and make sweet salvia love to it) and went to grab my handy-dandy purple travel toothbrush for a little oral hygiene pick-me-up before my next client. [Note to self: do not use the word "client" after a sentence containing the phrase "oral hygiene pick-me-up" unless wanting to sound like a wayward wanton tart].

I realized my handy dandy purple travel toothbrush is in my black purse. And not in the snake-skin brown purse I'm sporting today (which nicely matches the snake-skin boots I'm wearing). First thought: Don't panic. Maybe this is the first time in a year you won't have something mangled in the front of your braces like the grill of a 1970 Chevy driving through Alabama in August. Upon closer inspection in the loo, it was now time to panic. Suck me silly and call me crazy but chunks of brown, green and white in your teeth just don't scream "professional" to me.

But in true Redhead-Next-Door-idness why panic when you can get creative...

Top 10 Ways To Be Creative In An Oral Emergency:

1. Fashion piece of paper towel into pointy toothpick thingy except it's paper towel and try to dismangle food chunks. Doesn't have the stiff-as-wood properties like a toothpick. Quite useless really on chicken. Absorbancy qualities might be best left to soup stuck in the teeth.
2. Use piece of fruit, like a grape, for make-shift spongy toothbrush. Run the risk of adding more food to the fire.
3. Attempt to quickly use dinner fork as a toothpick. Run the risk of getting fork stuck in braces. Or getting caught using fork as a toothpick by staffer. Try to keep your cool and state (very matter of factly) "I saw this on Oprah." When all else fails, return to Oprah. She can do not wrong in the eyes of most women. And Dr. Phil.
4. Fashion paperclip into bacteria filled toothpick. Use and hope to goodness sake you don't contract typhoid fever.

Ok, I know I said Top 10...but really what are you expecting after #4? It works. And let us never speak of this again. [hauuuuuck] Does my throat seem red and bumpy to you?

*Elimination diet: when you eliminate certain foods out of your diet to figure out which foods your body is sensitive to. Or in my case, eliminate all foods that taste good. Just when you thought it couldn't suck any more, you eliminate coffee. And then you know what sucks really means.

Today's Post Is Brought To You By The Letter "E" (as in Eeeeeew)

Today is Monday. It's undeniably Monday.

So far I've managed to fall into a large drizzle bordering on puddle of unrine (most likely NOT my own) during a code one hovering manuever in the bathroom. Paul, funny enough, didn't know about the art of hovering until I filled him in.

Note to guys: "hovering" is a term used to describe the multitasking feat of defying physics, maintaining kung fu-esque balance while posed in muscle cramping/leg shaking squat form by ladies when urinating. Coined because we "hover" over the bowl and do not make skin to porcelin contact with the lid (or with anything else for that matter). And depending on how much water you drink, can be quite the workout.

Sometimes I don't think you guys know how lucky you are. Just for one day I'd like to know what it was like to stand, point and pee. Or write my name in the snow. You do that, right? Just like we girls have pillow fights in our underwear at sleepovers.

Honk if You're Horny or Self-Marketing

More often than not I find myself putting a link to my blog in an email message to a friend/ former pro-wrestler/ Z-list actor/ neighborhood meat-cutter with the phrase "read the blog" instead of writing out the whole sordid story again.

Usually this works better if: a) I've actually blogged about said sordid story, and, b) I don't make fun of my friend/ former pro-wrestler/ Z-list actor/ neighborhood meat-cutter in my blog.

Call me lazy but...

Ouch. That hurts right here. *makes pointing motion to heart*

But wait a minute. Wait just a freakin' minute. I think I'm on to something here (as opposed to just being on something). Picture it: you're inching down the freeway and instead of applying your second coat of mascara, you decide to check out the bumper stickers on the cars in front of you. Some have "Honk if you're horny" or "Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere." But what if there was a bumper sticker that read "Read the Blog - redheadnextdoor.blogspot.com".
Wouldn't you be intrigued and compelled to find the nearest PC to see what all the bru-ha-ha was about? I think you'd be lying if you said "no." Liar!

Then my blog would be flooded with readers...like Oprah and Uma and Obama (and other equally fun names to say). I could quit my day job (after all, more readers means a book deal right?), move to Paul's city and write full time.

Perhaps there is room for another semi-fiction chick-lit memoir writer. And somewhere someone applies a second coat of mascara on the freeway.

After Taste

I've been sipping the same cup of coffee since 8:30 am this morning (it's now 10:38 am) and said cup of coffee (from sounds like Jim Nortons) has been reheated three times and now has the undeniable taste of ass (or at least what I think ass might taste like if it was made into a liquidy brown drink with caffine) so I guess that means my breath smells like shit and my mouth is a quasi asshole.

Nailed It

This morning I was flying around the house doing odds and ends before I left for work (emptying the garbage, doing dishes, sorting laundry - all very glam) when I noticed my faux-index fingernail was missing.

First thought: Crap.

Second thought: How hard can it be to find a nail?

** 10 minutes of searching with zero results later...***

Third thought: I'll just put on another faux-index fingernail. Add a dab of instant-bond nail glue and presto! The nail is in place.

Next thought: WTF? My faux-index fingernail is glued on with a slight slant to the left. Normally this wouldn't be all that noticeable except yesterday I re-glued my faux-middle fingernail on the same hand and it has a slight slant to the right. And now it looks like my fingernails are giving a peace sign. Not my fingers, just the nails.

My faux fingeranils are way too hip for me.

Kids Say the Darndest Things, Part 2

[Poking my head into my son Aidan's room this morning at 7:10am]

Me: "There's no school today honey. You'll get to spend the day at home with Paul."

Aidan: "Yay! I get to spent time with Future Dad."

And I picture Paul in a cape with heroic pose (as heroic as you can be in tights) with a big FD on his chest.

[Seeing] Stars On Ice

Remember what happened the last time I went skating?

What do you mean you haven't memorized every single one of my posts??? And you call yourself a reader. Pffft!

Ok, so let me refresh your memory.

Some staffers at work (including yours truly) have decided to head to the local rink every Thursday for some lunch time triple axles. Yesterday was our first outing. I'm rustier (if that's even a word) than the last time.

I cautiously wobbled my way onto the ice (kind of like a new born baby fawn or colt or spider) shouting, "I'm gonna break a hip!" only to notice the rink was full of old people. And I'm not talking 50 year olds...I mean old...like 70. Somehow I don't think they appreciated my sense of humor.

[Note to self: it's uncomfortable when you put your foot in your mouth, especially when wearing skates. Don't make fun of old people. They have enough to worry about, like breaking a hip].

I managed to stay upright for 28 of the 30 minutes. I was distracted by the old people skating circles around me. Literally. And they're so cute too...skating around, arm in arm. Like little shriveled up dancers. But with mittens. When I did fall, it was a wipe-out of epic proportions. A collective "Ooooo" rose up from my crowd of fellow skaters. A sweet old man stopped to pick me up. He said something sweet and old-man-ish. I smiled and said something sweet and redhead-next-door-ish. We parted ways as I began to dust the massive amounts of snow and ice shavings off my ass.

My pants were soaked. I probably looked like I peed myself. I bet those old people were pitying me. Not because of my lack of skating ability, but because they know how uncomfortable it is when you pee your pants.

Technical Difficulties

You know it's going to be a fun day when you try to send a fax with the photocopier.

Calm Before The Porn

My brother-in-law, Tony, emailed me at work on Friday.

Tony: "I just sent you some video files that I hope you can open
that I think are funny. I've been laughing uncontrollably every time
I show someone here in the office so hope you get a kick out of
them too. "

Me: "Surfing the porn again eh. Tee hee. Just kidding. Thanks
Tony :) I can always use a good laugh!"

Tony: "You know it's kinda funny, I was just on the phone with Tech
Support and they had control of my computer and up pops your
email message "Surfing the porn again eh. Tee hee." They had
control of my PC so I couldn't even close it.  EMBARRASSING ;(
I guess that's the price I pay for surfing for porn!!!!" 

Me: "HAHA - that is funny! I'm sorry. I know you are very professional
and would never surf porn at work (that's what the home PC is for ;)
If Tech Support needs a character witness, they can call me! I'll
vouch for you."

Tony: "Tech Support are capable of monitoring what I surf at work
but I don't think need you to vouch for my porn surfing at home :) !!!!! "

I love my brother-in-law.

The Price of Engagement

I'm still close with my high school girlfriends because a) I don't make girlfriends all that easily, and b) they kick ass. The girls were wondering when they could see "the ring" making me feel a bit like Frodo.

I advised them via email I was thinking about hosting a "Meet the Fiance" party next weekend. Suzie emailed back, "You mean FIANCE...I hope, or does Paul like to be referred to as the Finance."

Oops. I re-read my email - turns out I'd written "finance" instead of "fiance."

Thank goodness husband is easier to spell.

20 Questions: The "So Your Engaged" Edition

Paul and I were engaged less than 24 hours when the litany of questions began from the information wolves. And boy were they hungry (the information wolves and not actual people). I stopped keeping snacks in my cubicle long ago because it encourages people to stop by and graze. And grazing usually leads to questions.

Questions ranged from the normal curiosity, "So have you set a date?" and "Where are you getting married?" to the more probing "Will you be moving to [Paul's city]?" and "Will you be changing your last name or keeping your maiden name?" to the anal probing because it's so invasive "Are you pregnant?" and/or "Will you be having more children?"

We JUST got engaged.

I was just expecting people to want to gawk at my ring and ask questions about how Paul proposed. I really didn't expect to have the wedding details sorted by the next day. It's life, not laundry.

Ringing In The New Year

If you live in Canada, there's one thing that happens every single year on New Year's Eve. Yes, there's fireworks. A kiss at midnight....mmmmm hmmmm. Someone having one too many bottles of Spumante followed by an in-depth convo with Sparkles the cat. But that could happen anywhere. I'm talking about Canada eh, as in A big ass snow storm. And this year was no exception.

I had to work New Year's Eve in the AM so Paul spent the night at my place. Our plan was to drive up to the city after I got off work. Paul's brother Steve and his wife Misty were hosting a murder mystery party, set in the 1920's. Paul was playing the role of the Mayor. I was Flirty Flapper, his dish on the side.

Flirty flapper costume: check
Winter tires: um....no

The raging snow storm made me question whether we should risk the drive. Paul was adamant we were going. I tried to reason with him. He said he wanted to show me off at the party. Awwww. That's sweet (in a realizing your potential-trophy-girlfriend-material kind of way). Ever the practical voice of reason, I offered, "Honey, it doesn't matter where we are on New Year's Eve as long as we're together." Paul retorted, "We're going." So much for the voice of reason.

I half understood his drive to well, drive. Paul spent his last New Year's drinking alone in his condo (probably talking to Sparkles). The year before that he was dumped on New Year's Eve by his then-girlfriend while they were traveling abroad right before he was about to propose. He was possessed with breaking the jinx on his New Year's.

So I prayed a lot during the drive - "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." Paul was unusually quiet the whole two and a half hours. Like really unusually quiet (This is the same guy that met an oil tycoon while swimming in the Italian sea).

Paul wanted to cook me a nice romantic dinner before we headed to the party. Unfortunately our drive was an hour longer than usual because of the weather (and we left late) so we were slightly short on time. Again, being the ever practical voice of reason I said, "Let's just grab a salad at [name of grocery empire]." Paul sighed and conceded.

Back at Paul's place we were making dip, getting our salad ready, and making last minute adjustments to our costumes.

Paul: "Let's sit down for a minute."
Me: "We don't have time to sit down."
Paul: "Let's sit down for a minute." He puts his arm around me and corrals me over to the couch for a mandatory rest period. My head resting on his chest.
Paul: "Do you know how much you mean to me?"
Me: "Yes."
Paul: "Can I ask you something?"
Me: "Yes."
Paul: "Will you marry me?"
Me: (stunned) "Are you kidding?"
Paul: (looking worried) "No. I don't think so."
[Puts beautiful sparkling ring in my line of view]
Me: something incoherent
[kissing, kissing and more kissing until I realize I haven't officially given him an answer]
Me: "Yes, darling, yes I will marry you."
[Paul puts the ring on my finger]
Me: "Can you ask me again so I don't ruin it this time?"
Paul: (Laughing) "Yes, will you marry me?"
Me: "Yes!"

So that's why he wanted to "go to the party" so badly - the ring was at his place. Why he was so quiet. Why he wanted to cook a romantic dinner but he couldn't protest when I said salad. I was sooooo clueless the whole time! I'd never seen Paul so nervous. He confessed he wanted to start the year off right. Awww. Now that is the sweetest.

Oy! I'm getting married.

[And yes, we did go to the party. There may have been some editing in there. I'm not drawing a straight line for you here people.]

Happy Holidays

Merry wishes from all of us here at the Redhead Next Door! And by all of us I mean...me.

May all your Christmas wishes come true even if you are on Santa's naughty list. Ok, especially if you are on Santa's naughty list ;)

If My Life Was A Movie

If my life was made into a movie it would be called "Broke Ass Mountain."

Hair Therapy

I've been in a bit of funk lately. And by funk I mean full blown depression complete with fashion sensibility meltdown. Case in point: today I was wearing a plum and pink top with dark gray stripped pants and...wait for it...beige socks. I know! It's reached critical levels. Code red! Or blue! Or something.

Thankfully this only happens to me about once a year [Usually in winter when I haven't been getting enough of my vitamin sun, have been gaining my share of the freshman 15 without the tuition bills and am stressed out with holiday "cheer" about all the Christmas/birthday/ thank-you/bar mitzvah presents I have to buy that I don't have the money for].

Undercover Mother even gave me her reserve-for-dire-striates "Mary Tyler Moore chat" to snap me out of it. Somehow I'm feeling more Murphy Brown-in-the-dumps than Mary Tyler Moore-enthusiasm.

To top it off, I was suffering from a bad case of "cartoon hair" - hair so out of control that it could only be seen on a cartoon like Yugioh. I tried to tame my mane with a headband and bobby pins and hair spray with the remaining bit tucked back into a mini pony tail and more hair spray. Alas it was in vain. Or wait, is that me?

My coworkers actually asked my boss if I could go home "hair sick" it was THAT bad. So, I took my last $50 until pay day and got my hair cut. There's nothing like getting your hair cut to cheer you up. All it took was one Charlie's Angels hair flip and I'm back in action.

It didn't completely cure my funk. I promptly called a bottle of wine "fucker" tonight when half the cork broke off inside the bottle. And I'm currently devouring my second piece of cheesecake in 12 hours. But somehow, I think I'll make it after all.

Ugg-ly

Ugg boots. Did you ever wonder if they got their name because "Ugg" is short for ugly? Um, yeah. Me neither [whistles].

I know Uggs are so two years ago but trends take a while to work their way up North and to the East and then a bit more North.

It doesn't matter how many times I see them. I still laugh and think they're ugly ugly ugly. But I absolutely want a pair! Oooo - you marketing execs are good [narrows eyes].

Last year I bought a pair of non-Ugg boots because I refused to give in to the I-Love-Ugg-ness sweeping the nation.

So in protest, I bought a pair that looks like this...

I thought I was being all cute. Did you see the cute as a button (but more 3-D-ish) pom poms? Ugg's don't have pom poms. And the cute wedge heel? Ugg's don't have that either. Ugg's are flat like Keira Knightly. And plain like vanilla ice cream, or even Vanilla Ice.

And you know what? People laughed at me when I wore them. They gave me the "who-the-hell-do-you-think-you" look? Which I followed up with the "a-girl-who-likes-her feet-to-stay-warm-at-minus-10" look. People can be so cruel when it comes to winter fashion. So cruel [shudders].

Perhaps it's boot-karma coming back to kick me in the butt after all the laughing I did at Ugg wearers. As if!*

* Much like the delay for fashion trends to work their way up North and to the East and a bit more North, it also takes phrases like "as if", "schwing" and "who's your daddy" a while to catch on.

Misunderstandings With Paul, #1

Ah...the joys of PMS. It's a different variation of the same torture for each woman. But I think it really helps if you have an attentive and understanding boyfriend.

Me: "My boobs feel like bricks."
Paul: "Your poop feels like bricks!?!?"

Horror-scope

Today, my daily horoscope said:

"Wow! You are due for a sizzling couple of days, thanks to the smoldering Venus/Pluto, aspect today. Make sure that you’re looking your best, and if you can, indulge in a scented bath, or treat yourself to some sensuous scent to bring out your passionate and vibrant nature!"

What it should have said:

"Wow! You are in for a shitty day. Your alarm will not go off this morning making you cut out a few steps like shaving arms/legs while rushing to get ready for work. When you get to work, you'll eat a whole bag of Christmas jelly beans because you're PMS'ing and need to indulge in some emotional eating. You'll jump every time the phone rings, thinking it's the bank calling to say there isn't enough money in your account to cover both of the cheques you wrote. And your skin is "adjusting" to the cold weather so you'll unknowingly walk around half the day looking like you have a boogie hanging from your nose when really it's just a piece of skin. You're hairdresser is booked well into next week so don't even think about doing something about THAT [points to hair]. Treat yourself to some serious alcohol!"

The Most Important Meal of the Day

I'm at work, drinking my morning coffee. And eating chocolate. For breakfast. But it's "mint buds" so it's minty. And that's practically like brushing your teeth or using mouthwash. So, it's like I'm multitasking.

Today is going to be a good day.

Overheard in the Ladies Room

Visiting Lady #1: "Every time I turn around I have to pee."
Visiting Lady #2: [No doubt almost stunned into silence] "Um, maybe you should see a doctor."
Visiting Lady #1: "Yeah. Sometimes I feel like I have a prostrate."

And she really emphasized the "r" too. Even though, well, there's no "r" in prostate. And, well, women don't have a prostate. They don't have a prostrate either.

And these ladies are supposed to be professionals. It's like when people say they're going down to "The Wal-Mart." Sometimes I swear it's like I live in a trailer park.

A Do-Run-Run-Run A Do-Run-Run...Part 2

At lunch I went shopping at the department store beside my office and picked up a new pair of pantyhose. While trying to don said pantyhose in the office ladies room I realized a few things:
- the toilets in the office ladies room are not equiped with a lid
- trying to balance upright on one leg while trying to corral the other leg into constrictive pantyhose within a 2x2" space with an open toilet taunting you to fall into it, is not easy and will most likely lead to fits of uncontrolable laughter making toe-into-pantyhose entry an olympic sized challenge
- the color "nude" is misleading and can come off looking whiter than a cadaver, thereby making even a redhead's so-white-it's-transparent-skin appear even paler than usual
- wearing a beige skirt with chocolate brown boots on white legs looks colorful, which is not the same as professional

A Do-Run-Run-Run A Do-Run-Run-Run

I've officially been at work for all of 15 minutes. Not even long enough to drink half of the Starbucks coffee in my travel mug. But apparently long enough to get two large holes in my pantyhose.

I have no idea how it happened. I remember when my pantyhose used to rip for a reason [like when carrying a bushel of apples in a wooden basket, during an energetic make-out session, or trying to grab the last Donna Karen sweater at a Black Friday sale].

But for no reason...my life is becoming too ordinary.

Bringing Sexy Back

Tonight I was multitasking on my PC simultaneously writing a cover letter for a job opportunity closer to Paul and searching for a pair of sexy peep toes shoes.

One particular pair of shoes was being worn by a particularly leggy model. Which got me thinking about exotic dancers and how I really need to get practicing my Carmen Electra lap dance video for my romantic three-month-aversary weekend away with Paul. Which got me thinking I'm working out less since Paul and I started dating. Which got me thinking, I'm not feeling as sexy as I used to. And also that I need to pick up maple syrup at the grocery store because I'm down to the last drop. Yes, the inner-workings into the mind of a woman is both a weird and wonderful thing.

There's no question Paul thinks I'm sexy. All it takes is that "look" and his clothes seem to instantaneously drop to the floor. I'm sure it's all in my head. But I haven't felt this sexy-challenged since my pre-hair-gel days in junior high.

This calls for drastic action.

It's time to dust off my Billy Blanks Tae Bo [VHS] tapes. We're talking Billy Blanks in spandex. And leg warmers. Now that's hard core. If anyone can bring sexy back, it's Billy.

Top 10 Things to "Fix" This Week

Hello change! Meet Erika.

Sometimes things just seem to be going way too good. So good in fact you're wondering what could go wrong because things just seem a little too perfect.

Ok, so there's a few things I'd like to "fix". Things that aren't a big deal in the grand scheme of things. And by "grand scheme of things" I mean my life. Because after all, that's what I'm here to write about. And just as importantly that's what you're here to read about.

Top 10 Things To Fix This Week (in order from most "critical" to "meh")
1. Correct newly dyed hair color from don't-you-could-work-for-the-circus red to something less...freakish. Poopy brown perhaps.
2. New car smell of new car. I've tried a strawberry air fresher which somehow has made it worse because now my new car smells like a new car with a half-strawberry half-nail polish remover sort-of smell.
3. My resume. Trans-provincial love is proving most challenging and I've agreed to begin job searching in Paul's metropolitan sphere.
4. My bank account. I haven't seen that many negative signs since grade one math class.
5. My front step. It's off balance and sinking like the Titanic. Except my step is made of wood. And come to think of it, my step is sinking into the muddy ground in front of my house and not the freezing Atlantic ocean. And no one will die. Although I could lose my balance and tear another perfectly good pair of panty hose. How many innocent pairs of panty hose have to be sacrificed?

Ok, I know that's only 5. But what can I say, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Q and A with Paul

I thought it would be fun to "interview" Paul with some Q and A about yours truly for a blog post (oh hindsight you are sooooo 20/20). Lines that appear within this [ and ] are my inner thoughts to Paul's answers and were in no way uttered aloud during this Q and A exercise.

Via phone...

Me: What shoes was I wearing on our first date?
Paul: The black high heeled ones. I had to carry you up the hill pretending I wasn’t out of breath. It gave me a chance to check out your butt!
Me: [gives a "look" and then remembers we're chatting over the phone and "looks" don't work over the phone].

Me: What surprised you the most about me?
Paul: Your dirty mind.

Me: What’s your favorite Erika-undies?
Paul: The ones on the side of the bed.
Me: Wa-wa-waaaaa
Paul: The purple with black flowers or leaves or something that you bought at LaSenza.
Me: [Hmmm...quite the "safe answer" because he's just described about 5 pairs I have].

Me: Most awkward date moment?
Paul: Meeting your parents while sick.

Me: What Erika-ism-esque phrase do I say the most?
Paul: [laughs] [whistles] [laughs more] [coughs] I plead the 5th.

Me: When I say I'm doing "self-maintenance" what do you think that means?
Paul: [laughs] Plucking your eyebrow.
Me: Eyebrow!
Paul: Eyebrows. Eyebrows! Except you don't have any. Probably your nails. And probably some things I shouldn't know about because you're always so mysterious about self-maintenance.

Me: How many times have I beaten your ass at Scrabble?
Paul: Crap. I don’t know...25-30% of the time.
Me: [Thinking....it's way higher but I'll stay quiet to preserve your manhood/ego].

Me: What do you really think about my blog?
Paul: I’ve never really read it.
Me: [This is actually untrue. I have "allowed" Paul to read a few select posts. Very select as you can imagine].

Me: Name a crazy thing you’ve done for my love?
Paul: Called you from Europe on a cell phone. Spent 7 hours looking for the perfect present for you in Italy. Drove an hour and a half home in the pouring rain after our first date and called you at 3:30 in the morning to say I arrived home ok and had an amazing time.
Me: [Good answer].

Me: Name 3 things you wish I had in my kitchen?
Paul: A good set of knives, a good sized cutting board.
Me [Interrupting]: I just got a new cutting board.
Paul: Yes, you got a bit bigger cutting board. I mean an even bigger cutting board. And a good set of pots.
Me: I have a set of pots.
Paul: Yes, but I mean a good set. Yours are thin and things are always burning to the bottom.

Me: Moving on. Describe my decorating style?
Paul: Bright.
Me: What?
Paul: [mumbles and stammers and tries to explain what he meant]

Me: Do I make a good cup of coffee?
Paul: It's a little weak. But it's ok.
Me: I thought that's how you liked it?
Paul: No. I like strong coffee.

Me: We haven't had our first fight yet. What do you think it will be about?
Paul: Your jealousy.
Me: What? [Just because I'm annoyed that Paul's still friends with a crazy ex-girlfriend who calls him all hours with her drama is not the same thing as being jealous].

And then we preceded to get in our first fight. Irony, how you bitch-slap thee.

So Saucy

This week I traveled to the "big city" for training. This also happens to be the city where Paul lives. You know, purely coincidental.

We went out to eat at my favorite Chinese restaurant. I ordered my usual Combo A - chicken fried rice, egg roll and the piece de la resistance...sweet n' sour chicken balls (I also take pride that I've converted Paul into a Combo A devotee).

For the second time in two months my chicken balls were not smothered in sweet n' sour sauce. I like 'em saucy...like if the balls were the Titanic and the sauce was the ocean....you get where I'm going with this bad parallel? Good.

I looked at Paul and said in my best deadpan, "Honey, my balls are dry. I can't have dry balls. I like saucy balls."

After he finished laughing, Paul motioned for the waiter to come over. I was quickly trying to decide how to careful word my request. But perhaps I didn't have enough time.

Me: "Can I have some more sauce please, my balls are dry."

Our waiter got a nice tip.

You Give Me Fever

Picture it....

Afternoon staff meeting. Setting, interior office. Coffee and birthday cake have just been served.

While staffers are enjoying said cake, Boss (with a capital B) begins telling employees about month long bout with illness, including such side effects as month long vomitting and month long diarrhea. Wait a minute...this isn't on the agenda. It turns out Boss has been infected with Giardia (aka water born parasite) and is currently taking antibiotics.

Innocent Staffer: "Oooo - You got the Beaver Fever?"
30+ people all picturing the same thing followed by much much laughter.
Same Innocent Staffer: "My sister had that."
Again, 30+ people picturing the same thing followed by much much laughter.

Weird but True: Giardia is known as the "Beaver Fever" but not for the naughty reasons you or I think (ok, mostly me). Somehow I was picturing a sex-hungry animal.
Weird but True: It is recommended that when camping do not relieve yourself within 100 feet of a water source, wash your hands after touching animals, and avoid contact with feces during sexual activity.
Weird but True: I managed to eat my entire piece of cake despite obvious TMI.