An Open Letter to My Future Boyfriend

Dear [insert delicious sounding name that rolls off my tongue here],

See how patiently I'm waiting? And, looking somewhat mischievous I might add. Perched gracefully (which isn't easy in that outfit or those shoes) atop a mini-step ladder just waiting for you to come graze my thigh and put something special in my box.

And then...

But first. I need to make a confession (or 8).

The Top 8 Things I Need To Confess to My Future Boyfriend:
- I have a blog: The Redhead-Next-Door. Ever hear of it? Oh :( Well, anyway. I wish you could read it and then tell me you want to be with me anyway. You know, after the initial shock wears off and you regain consciousness.
- I need to be lead by a strong man. Not in a passive 1950's house-wife kind of way. But in a knows how to plan a date, fix things when they break, protector, makes me feel cared for kind of way. [Please, no angry letters from feminists! I know what you are thinking, you crazy feminists, and you're wrong].
- I'm not perfect. Or a virgin. (So don't expect me to be either).
- Sometimes I like to cook. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I try really hard but it still boils over/ burns/ turns to mush/ tastes like cardboard. But I always look cute in an apron.
- I wear men's dress socks.
- I use humor as a defense mechanism.
- What "they" say about redheads - our stubborness, our passion, etc etc - all true
- When all else fails, just hold me.

I'm looking forward to meeting you (hopefully before my ovaries completely rot away).

xoxo,

Erika

Profile of the Damned

For those of you who've ever tried online dating (I'm forming a support group btw) you know it's all fun and games until it's time to write your profile. The dreaded 100 words or less junket of prose that's going to attract your future potential something or other.

Ok, it's probably not a shock to learn I have no trouble writing the profile. A chance to talk about moi? Using my favorite aphrodisiac - words? Easy. But I have little (possibly no) conscious thought as to how I'm actually coming across to the opposite sex. Too strong? Too ballsy?

[Here's where you come in]

So, I've decided to put my draft profile here for your viewing pleasure/horror and accept feedback/opinions/suggestions. Just keep in mind, I'm delicate :) Oops...that should read "devilish".

Opening line: Writers make novel lovers.

Fun, flirty redhead. Smart and witty to boot. Also likes boots. Constantly looking for writing material. Should mention, am part-time writer, full-time [insert non-glam but completely rewarding day job here]. Can cook more often than not. Major "sure thing" is stuffed mushroom making capabilities, best served with white wine. Thinks cheesecake is...Mmmmmm. Flies by the seat of pants. Has never actually flown in plane. Prefers skirts to pants. Fit and curvy.

Seeking guy with "wow" written all over him. Will accept home-made t-shirt with "wow" written on it. Knows what gentleman means, and can spell it. Has sense of humor. Employed in [insert non-glam but completely rewarding job here]. Considers himself more of a "dog person" than a "cat person". Active. Sweet. Sweaty occasionally. Makes the first move. Has grab-worthy butt.

So whatcha think? Too much? Not enough? Yes, yes, after you've stopped laughing and can formulate sentences.

Busy Beaver

Today's post is going to be short and sweet (like me). Well, except I'm not short. Then again, I'm not what you would call tall either. But I am unquestionably sweet.

Top 10...8 Things To Do This Weekend:

- visit "the" city for some shopping (window), gambling at the casino ($1.00 Cdn), fine dinning (carbo loading for Sunday's race) and a play at the theatre (pick up acting tips, or maybe an actor).
- do laundry because I officially have no clean [insert name of clothing item here]
- clean house so it no longer resembles home of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan
- [finally] get a good night sleep
- run 5km race with Suzie on Sunday without "hospital incident"
- try to concentrate on running race and not staring at muscular touchable butts of male runners in front of me
- bake chocolate chip cookies
- spend time with Dad

I have a feeling there'll be a few post ideas being "developed" this weekend.

A Day In The Life Of the Redhead-Next-Door (aka cute n' klutzy)

Yay - my first ever Podcast!

For those of you like me (i.e. no sound on their PC at home) I've also provided a transcription. Sure, you don't get my neat-o sound effects like the fake cat meow, but still....

I haven't actually heard the recording (again, no sound) but ran it by a focus group first (can one person be considered a focus group?) and was assured my first podcast was postable. Or was that compostable?



Hi. I'm Erika. You probably remember me from such blogs as "The Redhead-Next-Door" which you're currently reading...er, listening to and the short lived "Will Write For Booze."

And yes, this is my actual voice. Isn't that right Mrs. Bigglesworth? "Meow."

You picked a ****ing fantastic day to check out my blog because...[whispers] I have a secret to tell you.

[Whispers] Come closer. [Whispers] Even closer. What, do I have something contagious? I'm going to tell you a secret, not blow in your eye. Get in here!

There, that's better.

Are you ready?

Ok [deep breath]. Here goes. I. Am. A. Klutz. There, I said it. Klutz, with a capital K.

If there was an Elaine Benes physical comedy fanclub, I would in fact be President.

You don't believe me do you?

May I present: Exhibit A!

Today I was soooo hungry. I was tempted to eat my lunch at break time. But then I thought, what would I eat at lunch time? There was some unappealing almost-out-of-date oatmeal in my cubicle. Yuck.

I could have wandered around the cubicle farm doing my cutest "feed me" face like puppies, kittens and Nicole Richie do until somebody caves and feeds them. It was what they call "in the biz" quite the quandry. Well, maybe we don't call it that. Quandry. But I'm sure in some businesses, somewhere, they do. Quandry. That's fun to say isn't it?

Anyhoo.

Instead, I scraped together the $1.89 to go to the local "shall remain nameless" coffee shop for a double double and a ham and cheese biscuit. Mmmmmmmm...

While scarfing down my biscuit and coffee I was watching a controversial op ed piece on gay marriage and a bit of the biscuit got caught on my brace elastic which acted like a sling shot firing the piece of ham and cheesy goodness down my throat. Luckily, I don't have much of a gag reflex.

Anyhoo.

On to Exhibit B!

Fast forward to lunch. While scrafing down my tuna and jalapeno cheese sandwich on white bread I went to take a drink of Pepsi through a straw and tipped the can of Pepsi like I was drinking it from my lips. It was both refreshing and sticky when half of the can emptied into my lap. Unfortunately I was wearing my favorite cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy . My favorite skirt that now looked like somebody had really runny diarrhia on it.

I ran to the office kitchen holding the front of my skirt like some sort of diarrhia filled bag and promptly applied paper towel. And more paper towel. And then, finally, yup, more paper towel. Can somebody order some ****ing absorbant paper towel for in here!!!

Because of the amount of water it took to remove the big brown Pepsi stain, my cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy was now see-through. Ok perhaps, if you work at a brothel, not ok if you work in an office where you regularily meet with clients.

But wait, there's more.

Finally, I present Exhibit C.

After shivering under the air conditioning in my soaking wet see-through skirt all afternoon I decided to make myself a cup of hot chocolate to warm up. Because let's face it, the blanket I had wrapped around me "tog-a party style" was doing nothing for my image. I boiled the kettle. I carefully spooned four teaspoons of yummy powdery coco-y goodness into my lime green cup. I tenderly handled the kettle, cautiously pouring the hot water where it mingled with the hot chocolate, enveloping it. Mmmmmm...

I lifted the succulant cup to my moistened lips. Not too quickly, it's best not to rush these sort of things. Ooooo and then...

I looked down at my skirt. And right below my perky **** was a big blob of hot chocolate.

Maybe I need to invest in one of those big lobster bibs.

Love and Furniture

I am currently working on a dating theory entitled, "Curse of the furniture." Ok, so it doesn't sound very catchy just yet. But I'm in the initial stages of development. And catchy titles don't happen until much much later...like after experimental tests on lab subjects and after many [many] bottles of wine.

My "research" is based on two experiences, with two relationships that went to s***. But I'll let you be the judge.

The first was with Gordon* (*His real name). Gordon was getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Gordon was fun. Gordon was smart. I really liked it when Gordon ******************* and **********. Anyhoo, Gordon's son was ready to move into a big boy bed. I still had my son's toddler bed, which wasn't being used, so I offered it to Gordon. In exchange, he offered an outdoor stove thingy to my parents which they were in the market for. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could of been because our timing was off. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was that our waists were the same measurement. Though, I doubted.

One word: furniture.

Then, most recently ofcourse, there is Liam** (**Not his real name). Liam is getting back on his feet after a messy divorce. Liam paid attention. Liam could cook. He was the only guy I've ever been with who could ************************** and thought about ************** . Anyhoo, Liam was remodeling his daughter's bedroom and had been using a wooden baby change table to heap her clothes on. I had a sweet little antique dresser that wasn't being used, so I leant it to Liam. Ok, sounds good so far, right? Wrong! We broke up soon after. Sure, it could have been that he turned into a control freak. Or that we weren't compatable. Maybe it was because he hated how his feet looked and wouldn't wear sandles even on a warm summer's day. [Ok, maybe it was the last one . Sandles on guys = mmmm...sexy!] Though, I doubted.

One word: furniture.

On a more positive note...I'm back to online dating. I think "sucker for punishment" are the words you're looking for.

Undiscovered Dating Techniques #5: Wrestlemania

This technique was a tip from Undercover Mother.

What you are about to read is the most up-to-date dating [etc] techniques unknown to womankind. If you are a guy and reading this...STOP. It makes it harder for us girls to work our "ways" on you when you know what said "ways" are. Besides, you'll thank me for it when you're on the receiving end of this kind of action. Yes, ACTION. Now go spend some quality time in the bathroom with the new towels (the extra soft ones).

Ok, now that the guys are gone I can tell you that my good friend Hulk Hogan is going to be helping me demonstrate these dating techniques. It's a shame the guys aren't reading this post. I bet they'd really like Hulk Hogan. Or at least all this talk about spandex.

Hulk Hogan: "Thanks for having me here Big Red. Ooooooo yeah!"

RND: "Uh...Hulky, isn't that the catch phrase of your former arch enemy Macho Man Randy Savage? And remember, I told you never to call me Big Red again."

So ladies, you're out at da club and you spot a hunk. Naturally, you want to get his attention away from the local skanks. Take a page from the Hulkster and ... [see below]

Use this face too.

I call it the "Grin and Bare It" technique.

Now that will REALLY get his attention.

HH: "I pity the fool!"

RND: "Um, doesn't Mr. T say that?"

HH: "I pity the drunk fool."

RND: "Better."

However, if your boy-toy's eyes are skank-afied like Captain Kirk on an alien planet looking to boldly go where no man's gone before, then it's time for Plan B...aptly named, the "Breast Press".

Warning: This particular technique should only be used if you have a good sized set of knockers, ie. at least a C cup. Or a B cup (but only if he's really short).

HH: "Who-ya Master Chief!"

RND: [unimpressed] "GI Jane"

So he's still not getting it huh? Are you sure you're trying!

Ok, this is a fail safe. It's called the "Flying ****" [see below]. Honey, if he doesn't get it...he's either dead, or dumb. And you don't want either (but especially the latter).

HH: "If you believe in yourself..."

RND: [interrupts] "Come on! Billy Blanks?"




So there you have it. A few new "moves" to add to your repertoire. Please consult with your physician before attempting any of the moves depicted above which were developed by trained professionals and then taught to wrestlers.

Or, as one guy suggests, you could just walk up to the guy and say "Hi, I like you. You must like me 'cause I'm adorable. So, let's skip the horseshit and jump to getting to know each other better."

Hmmm...simple and direct with the promise of physical action. It's so crazy, it just might work.

Timing

Yesterday I went for a run to get my timing/distance/total body conditioning/chance of cardiac arrest up to par for my upcoming marathon next Sunday. I was joined by my 10-year-old son (via his bike).

It was hot by Canadian standards (30 C), so I found myself taking more-frequent-than-usual water breaks.

On one such break, I replaced my mini-water bottle back on my fuel belt. Then decided to make an adjustment to my panties. Normally I do a quick peripheral scan to make sure I don't have an audience and then "adjust". But for whatever reason yesterday, I did not. After taking care of my wedgie, I was passed by a fellow jogger (details: guy, tanned, hot, sweaty, no shirt, amazing....er, stride). Despite being hot from running, I could still feel my cheeks burn just a little more from slight embarassment. I mean, it's not like I was digging for gold or anything. It was, in my opinion, a lady-like wedgie removal (if there ever is such a thing). Besides, once you give birth via hospital delivery room with about 10 strangers viewing you in all your stirrup glory, only slight embarrassment can exist after that.

Reality check: there is one less guy in the world that will be asking me out.

I ran to catch up with my son, who continued to ride his bike and was about 8 meters ahead of me. As I came up along side of him, he turned to me and said, "Mum, you're beautiful."

My timing may be way off, but my son's is spot on.

Knocked Up

Oy, my tummy. It hurts right now. Come to think of it, I'm feeling slightly nauseous too. And that heartburn...where did THAT come from?

Oh yeah! From all the side splitting laughter I had at the movies watching "Knocked Up", not to mention the bag o' screaming sour candy I downed. What did you think I meant? Sheesh.

If you haven't seen this movie, run for a [expletive] cinematic experience. (Don't walk...unless ofcourse you are knocked up in which case you should tread carefully or maybe even skip the movie altogether unless you're asking for a quick slap of reality).

It's crude, it's rude, but best of all it's real.

What shocked me the most (more than the "crowning" shot or the sight of Seth Rogan's hairy ass) was how many old people were there in the theatre. This frail looking 78 year old was two feet away from me. I thought she would be offended. But she was fine (right after she took her medication anyway).

I can't say anymore - I don't want to give anything away. It restored something in me I had lost. A belief. That Paul Rudd can act. Sort of.

Note: Knocked Up (the movie) is not really appropriate for a first date (more like a second date...the movie...not actually getting knocked up).

Also Note: The Redhead-Next-Door does not advocate/promote/condone pre-marital/post-martial protected/unprotected sex especially when it results in the procreation and passing-on-of the "hairy ass" gene.

Answering Your Burning Questions, #3

Today's question comes from James.

He writes, "Where do I find a gorgeous, interesting, intelligent, active girl? (And preferrably one that fancies me).

My answer: At my house.

But seriously ;)

If you want food, you go to the grocery store. So, following that line of reasoning, if you want a gorgeous/interesting/intelligent/active girl, she can only be found in one place...at your local library. Under "fiction."

But seriously ;)

Like attracts like. Unless ofcourse you're complete opposites, and then, well, the opposite is true.

Perhaps you're not sending the proper message out to the universe?

Ok, here's how it works. The universe is made up of a big ball of energy. When we send out thoughts, they too are energy and the universe responds to our energy with...you guessed it...energy. The universe wants to give us what we want. Like REALLY wants to.

But you need to be really specific about the kind of girl you're looking for. Like REALLY specific (for example: has cute little mole on left side of stomach. I completely just made that up out of the blue BTW) or else the universe may get confused and send you Rosie O'Donnell.

Pour yourself a drink. Put on some [insert mood music here] and try making a list of every quality that pops into your head. Quiet the inner critic (with a second drink). And check your list twice (hey, it works for Santa!). Put the list next to your bed. It should be the first thing you look at when you wake up and the last thing you look at when you go to bed at night (for now). Give it 30 days and if the universe doesn't send you the woman you seek...

Then I guess I was wrong. You probably thought I was going to tell you "just be yourself" and all that crap huh.

*hugs* Hope this helps!

Answering Your Burning Questions, #2

Today's question comes from Tom.

He writes, "Dear R-N-D, should I ever confess to a girl I'm dating about how many women I've slept with?"

My answer: Not unless the answer is 1. Even if that IS your actual answer you risk sounding like a girly-man who just couldn't get his act together enough to fool some impresonable and/or drunk women into sleeping with him. (Or even worse, a man who has respect for women and chooses to worship them for the goodesses they are - blech). And any number higher than your age makes you sound like a man-whore.

FYI - girls can see through the old "you're the only one that matters to me" line from a mile away.

So what's a guy to do?

You could go for the fail safe "baker's dozen" which not everyone knows is 13 (ie. giving you that one "freebie"). Or you could use one of the following actual math formulas to come up with a plausable number:

And Tom, you're welcome.

[Got a burning question that doesn't require topical cream? Then email me at redhead-next-door@hotmail.com for advice you won't find anywhere else!]

Hand-y

I sometimes wonder how I come across to guys. My coworker Rowan has already informed me that men find me intimidating. I think he's just trying to make me paranoid [ok, it's only half working]. When I think I'm being all Wonder Women-esque, are men thinking I'm more Wonder Bread-esque?

Case in point...

[I find "case in point" a weird saying, probably because it reminds me of "case of beer" which is even funnier because I haven't been able to drink beer since I got horribly sick off a tall-boy can of Keith's when I was a mere 14. To add to the "color that is my life" I find a man drinking out of a beer bottle amazingly sexy and impossible to resist].

To my mum who is probably reading...the whole beer thing was my first time drinking. *wink*

Oh wait, you just read that wink didn't you?

To my mum who is probably reading, I didn't mean to wink. ;)

Moving on.

Remember when I kicked all kinds of handyman ass and put up a new mailbox for my Nana? Well some of the local fuckos* admired my handy work so much they stole the mailbox. And the wooden post it was attached to. And the wooden post that wooden post was attached to, and nestled in the ground.

So Sunday afternoon I took my Nana to the local hardware places to scope out something more...durable. I thought it would be funny to get one that would deliver an electric shock to anyone who is within shocking range for longer than 10 seconds. But they were on back order. Instead we opted for one of those plastic looks-like-one-piece but are actually many pieces mailboxes. I liked this option because it comes with almost everything you need. Everything except a 4" x 4" piece of lumber.

Being newly single, it was time to brush up on my flirting skills. And what better way to get back at 'er than with a hunky hardware guy. I sauntered up to the counter and was greeted by the biggest sly smile I've gotten in a while. He was so rugged looking - shoulder length dirty blonde hair (nicely conditioned), scruffly semi-bread, rippling muscles and a golden tan. Like a guy who works outside a lot. Or a golden retriever. And sure he was missing a few of his fingers on his right hand (so safety isn't his thing ok?). But still. Mmmmm...

Wait, where was I?

Ahem. Yes, wood. Er, a wooden post. So he helped me pick the length (I opted for an 8 foot post cut down to 6 feet). My Nana was questioning what tools I was going to use to dig a hole big enough for the post and to assemble the mailbox. I kept telling her it'd be no problem and that all I needed was a shovel, a drill, a screwdriver and a socket wrench. The hunky hardware guy seemed impressed that I knew my tools (boy, do I!). By the time I got to the cash register, I was sweating. And it wasn't from any heavy lifting (he did it all). Even my Nana was checking him out and making highly inappropriate comments (thank goodness I was the only one in ear shot).

In retrospect, it took just shy of two hours to dig (down almost three feet) and assemble the finished product. I ended up sawing the 6 foot post down to 4 feet. But man-o, that thing looks ****ing awesome. And there's no way some fucko* is lifting it, let alone walking away with it.

I can't help but wonder what the hunky hardware guy was really thinking when he was helping me. I hope he wasn't thinking about toast.

* The word fucko was first coined by Peter DeWolf.

Survey Says...

Come to Momma

Dear Bloggie,

Please forgive me. I've been a very [very] bad girl.

It was not very nice of me to go away like that so suddenly. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh. It's ok. Erika's back.

There's a lot that's happened since I've been away. To get you up to speed (without the filler and shameless swearing - well, maybe a bit of the swearing), I thought it'd be best to do a...wait for it...list. I know how you like lists. And when I do that special swirly thing with my tongue.

Top 10 Things That Happened While I Lived As A Non-Blogger:
- Took 3 hour allergy test (using both forearms, plus a bicep). Threat of death if consuming nuts or shelfish replaced by much more practical allergy to all trees and grass.
- Slacked off training for marathon. Will now amp up (ie. start) training and run 10 km in three weeks.
- Gained 5-7 pounds (or possibly 20...I don't own a scale and just ask Mr. Stewart, my Grade 10 math teacher, I was never good at guessing)
- Stopped buying succulant celery because my [ex] boyfriend Liam thinks it tastes like water (yes, yes, we're getting to the "ex" part)
- Had horrible drama-filled Sunday morning complete with door slamming, yelling, breaking up and Tim Hortons and uneaten raisin bread toast. Still bruised from quick and painful fall from Cloud #9.
- Considered taking Liam back
- Considered becoming a lesbian
- Remembered I like penises and teeny tiny man boobies
- Had heart-to-heart talk with Undercover Mother complete with crying, ice cream and cotton candy
- Renewed [possibly lifetime] membership to the "Single Girls Club"

See, you didn't miss too much.

Erika

Blog Today. Gone Tomorrow.

Dear Blog,

As I approach my 100th post in 10 months (9 more to go!) I'm amazed...

At the crazy topics I've covered.

The things I've done in the name of "research".

The high consumption of booze.

The bad dates (too many).

The good dates (just enough).

The high consumption of booze.

I've come a long way from the no-dating-til-it's-all-done-list little Redhead-Next-Door. Now I'm in a normal well-adjusted albeit crazy-in-love relationship. And I have you to thank dear Blog [well that, and my fantastic bottom].

We had some great times Blog. We've laughed. We've cried. We've had pillow fights in our underwear.

But now, it's time to say goodbye. I know this isn't something that we've talked about, but we always knew one day we would go our seperate ways.

I will miss you Blog; you were my first.

xoxo, Erika

[Post Blog Post Note: Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting over the last 10 months. I love you all! I'll be starting up another blog soon. For anyone who'd like the link, send me an email at redhead-next-door@hotmail.com].

Zoom Zoom Zoom

I'm quickly learning that guys love tinkering and general fix-it's for a woman in need ["need" is often self-determined by said guy]. More than likely an automatic response that can be tracked back to caveman days when the cave dude was always trying to help a cute cave girl reach the cub off the top rock. Guys like to feel wanted and needed. It's not rocket science.

Liam offered to check out my stereo system because the sound in the right side speaker was dodgy. He peered around the component, and promptly asked for a flashlight so he could examine the wires and determine the problem. Ofcourse, I was assigned to be the pretty tech assistant/ flashlight holder. Liam was able to figure out after 2 seconds that my problem was "I need a man" for various things about the house. Ah huh. [I did get him back the next day while cooking lunch, he was unable to put saran wrap over a container of leftovers, so I told him he "needed a woman."]

In addition to gaget and electronic diagnosis, men also like taking on internet -based "research" for their girlfriend/ partner/ wife/ girl they're shagging. And no, I don't mean THAT kind of research. I'm talking safety ratings and fuel economy.

I'm in the market for a new car. While my current car is in relatively good condition considering it's age (think Demi Moore), I'm concerned about it's dependability (think Bruce Willis). With every thump, whirl and swish, I become more convinced that I should turn down the bass and stop listening to Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" and pay more attention to what's going on under the hood/ axel/ splash guard.

Liam was sweet enough to take me out for a test drive on Friday (the cars, not me). I had explained that I already knew which dealership I wanted to deal with (Toyota), and which car I wanted (Corolla Sport in impulse red). Naturally, being the man who's researched (and researched), he didn't want his careful hours of auto anaylsis to be wasted, so he pursuaded to get me to try a few others cars to get a feel for quality and performance.

The first dealership we went to had shoddy customer service. After our test drive, the saleman asked Liam what he thought of the car. Playing it "cool" Liam said that he really really liked it. I, on the other hand was not convinced and the salesman knew it. Silence sayd a lot.

Trying to work his salesman magic, the man offered that Liam's opinion didn't matter as I was the one with the decision making power. Well duh. Obviously he thought we were purchasing a vehicle together, and figured that women hold a lot of weight when it comes to making big ticket purchases. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

The next dealership had over-the-top customer service. The salesman explained every single minor detail about the car - what every button did. The 400 pound salesman was leaning in from the driver's side door (I was sitting in the driver seat trying to remember which button gave the oil readout and which one pumped up the seat). He was two inches from my face the whole time, I was trying not to laugh, wondering whether I should smoke a cigarette afterwards.

We saved the best for last and Toyota did not disappoint. The moment Liam sat in the driver's seat and felt the leather bound steering wheel, he was hooked. I'll never forget his words, "You were so right, this car is THE ONE." We drove up to the Wal-Mart car park and I hopped into the driver's side, feeling a bit less nervous about driving a brand new car. I drove about 5 feet - the length of one parking space (just like in that car commercial) and said, "I like it!" Then we laughed hysterically.

Liam did show me how to measure performance and quality versus value for your money. Plus, he got to reve some engines and drive some cars. But sometimes you just need a woman ;)

Every Body

Once in a while, you just have to stop and ask yourself, "What the fuck?" Because there are some things in this world that just don't add up [Like the continuing popularity of Ron Jeremy].

Or, like this binding is-it-a-diaper or-is-it-a-straight-jacket contraption (see right). No doubt, it was designed by a man because there's no way a sista would do this to another sista.

This tighty whitey body cast inspired undergarment is one of many similar lingerie warfare pieces pictured in North American department store catalogues.

Sheesh, remember when the bra and pantey section of the catalogue served to inspire moments of self-lovin' ? Ah, the good old days.

Since when are women expected to eradicate all traces of their curves in exchange for smooth silhouette lines you could bounce a quarter off? There is so much pressure on women to conform. Remember pre-Ben Afflect Jennifer Lopez? You don't? Um ok. How about ahhhhhh.....well, it's happening ok!

Surely men don't want to spend precious minutes (or hours depending on manual deterity) unwrapping a woman who's bound like an Egyptian style mummy. Could you picture a dude wearing one of these to feel better about how he looked in clothes? Exactly.

So women, embrace your curves - all of them. Being comfortable enough to breath is way sexier than elastic-y containment. For the first time ever in a relationship, I actually feel sexy without trying so hard or feeling the need to be perfect and failing that, covering up. Before, I'd always buy a new shirt to wear for a date or exercise like a leg-warmer-wearing maniac. But Liam makes me feel sexy without feeling like I need to have my ta-ta's flanked by low cut v-neck shirts all the time.

Ladies, you don't need to hide what God (or Haagen-Dazs ice cream) gave you. Men, am I right or am I right?

Blog Post Fact: I ate a second helping of cheesey mashed potatoes while writing this post.

[Post Blog Note: I'm not sure what brought on this tirade. Perhaps it's the Vex I'm drinking right now (note to self:Vex makes you an angry albeit literary gifted drunk).]

Not-So Mellow Yellow

When I first got my braces put on, I was given the option of picking the color of the bands that hold on the wire running across my upper jaw.

There was probably about 20 colors to chose from ranging from grey [too boring and/or robotic] to pink [too girlie] to orange [too raver] to blue [too boyish] to green [needs no further explanation]. This is to make braces wearing fun for the children and teenagers of the world, who account for 99.9% of the braces wearing population. The dentist that was doing my braces told me that pink and purple were the most popular colors for girls. Uh huh.

I had to choose wisely because the bands would be on for 4 weeks. Hmmm...let's be logical about this...what's going to match with most of my clothes and accesories. Being the smarty-thinking-ahead kind of gal that I am, I went with white (which for those of you in the "know" realize that white is not an actual color but I digress). My rational was that at least it would look natural, and minimize the visual effects of the grey metal against my teeth.

And it worked. From Wednesday to Saturday, I was told by coworkers, family and friends that you could barely notice I had braces at all. Naturally, I gave myself a hearty pat on the back.

That Saturday I went over to Liam's for supper, etc. Since my teeth were still very tender, he put careful thought into the menu, and what I was actually going to be able to tongue on the roof of my mouth and then swallow.

Liam is a fabulous cook. He likes things spicey - just like me. He decided to cook up a yummy curry, mushroom, pepper and potato dish. It was sooooooo delicious.

After supper I headed to the bathroom to brush/floss/mouthwash [repeat] the gobs of food stuck in my braces. Imagine my shock and horror when I looked in the mirror and noticed that my nice white bands were now a bright glowing neon curry-yellow color.

I brushed and brushed and brushed (all the while trying not to piss myself laughing). Still bright yellow. It reminded me of that episode on Friends when Ross whiten's his teeth and they glow in the dark. Now instead of looking like I had white teeth, I looked like I was a three pack a day smoker. My only consolation was knowing that at least they weren't green (or even much worse, brown).

When I went to the dentist for a quick check up the next week, I ran into the dentist that put on my braces and told her my funny story (of which I'm sure there will be lots over the course of the next two years). Without missing a beat, she said, "Oh didn't I tell you that? And, mustard is just as bad."

Alrighty then. Lesson learned.

Maybe next time I'll just get pink. Then at least I'll look like I have gum disease instead.

A Face Even A Mother Could Love

Once in a while (though you'd think I'd learn my lesson by now) I am persuaded by the relentless Peter DeWolf to try something new.

His most recent quest is to recruit people to join Facebook. I firmly believe he holds shares or some sort of stake in the Facebook corporation. Free questionable massages perhaps.

I now tenderly refer to Peter as my "dealer" and Facebook is my "drug" of the moment. I only joined tonight and spent a mind boggling two hours like that [snaps fingers] when I could have been typing up a really good blog post. Because after all, let's face it - you all deserve one after all the non-posting that's been going on around here.

So instead of thinking of something clever, I'm left scrambling to crank something out before Dancing With The Stars comes on.

There's a whole lot of stuff I had planned to do tonight. Heck, I was going to be (dare I say...) productive.

Here's just a few of the very important things I was going to tackle BFB (before Facebook):
- 5 loads of laundry
- 1 sink full of dirty dishes
- 2 unruley eyebrows
- 1 drawer of un-color coded knickers
- 2 unmade beds
- 1 ultra-funny blog post
- 1 Glamour magazine
- 3 car quotes
- 1 mini-pedicure
- 60 minutes of quality time with Billy Blanks
- 1 piece of chocolate chunk cheesecake

And here's what I've accomplished:
__________________________

Ok, so I DID eat the cheesecake. Oh well, I guess there's always tomorrow.

Eb and Flow

Yowza.

Hormones + full moon = one wacky girlfriend

Today it's Wednesday. The universe has returned to normal. Liam and I have returned to normal. He came over after work this morning. We talked, we laughed, we kissed (not necessarily in that order :)

Thank you for your advice, words of support and recommendations of mental health treatment facilities. It was appreciated.

Fighting Fair

After 6 weeks of passionate bliss Liam and I are having our first fight [or "row" as the English say]. At least I think that's what this is.

Although, I thought I remembered fights being two sided, back and forth, and then lots of making up. I guess we've had two mini-versions of those types of fights which lasted all of 30 seconds (the two sided back and forth part and not necessarily the making out...er, I mean making up part).

This is different. He needs a few days to think. I'm not sure what happened exactly but apparently "it" got him thinking following our phone conversation yesterday morning. I was [admitedly] cranky and appologized in advance for [any] potential attitude. But mostly I was quiet. I didn't want my crankiness to rub off on him. (Yes, I really am THAT thoughtful).

I knew something was up today when I didn't hear from him until mid-afternoon. But I was thinking more along the lines of heavily involved in home renovation project, was in car accident, got deported, or (my favorite) was busy planning something sweet to cheer me up. If only...

And now, I feel like a woman possessed.

Normally, something like this wouldn't bother me. And I've come to the cold hard realization it's because I've never cared this much about any guy. Ever. Period. I love him.

I'm sick to my stomach. I can barely see through the tears to type this. And don't even get me started about the snot dripping from my nose right now.

To top it off the radio is playing songs like "Mad About You" by Belinda Carlisle.

I called, once. I emailed - the first time to say I "understood" (no, no, I don't really) and he could take a few days to think, and the second time to pour my heart out because I can't wait any longer. I fear telling him too much, or worse, not telling him enough.

It would be easier if I knew what was on Liam's mind. After all, I was president of my high school debate club. Perhaps I'm over reacting.

I feel so vulnerable and open. So this is why I usually keep that wall up around me.

I guess I'll just keep refreshing my email screen to see if he's replied. (Nope).

Arg. This sucks.

[Post Blog Update: My soul-baring and email screen refreshing have paid off. Liam is coming over after work. ]