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!?!?"