WTF?

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XOXO

The End?

It's over.

This blog, that is ;)

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

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

Dental Damn

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

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

To Do, Before I Do

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

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

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

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

A Day By Any Other Name...

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

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

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

Paul: "Time to get up beautiful."

Me: "I thought it was Saturday and we didn't have to go to work."

Paul: "I wish I was Saturday, then we could stay in bed and [censored].

Me: "At least it's Wednesday, the week is half-over."

Paul: "Hon, you know it's Tuesday, right?"

Me: "Oh bugger."

Undressed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh bloody hell.

Oy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't win.

WTF Friday

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

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

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

Friday 4:30 Count-down

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

Pubic Enemy Number 1

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

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

Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

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

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

Can thirty-three really top it?

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

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

Ok, that made me feel better.

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

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

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

Ha! Still got the magic.

Ghosts of Boyfriends Past - The Karate Kid

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

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

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

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

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

What A Difference A Letter Makes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Climb Every Mountain

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

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

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

Ugh.

Dating Montage

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

Um, that was a rhetorical question.

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

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

Again, a rhetorical question.

Math Problem

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

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

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

Working 9 to 5

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

Off the Mark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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