Eau de Toilette

[Interior...office washroom]

Friday, 5:31 pm

Occupant: 1

There's nothing better than the feeling you get on a Friday, 2 minutes after quiting time. Your mind is on auto pilot. You're thinking about unwinding with a glass of white wine, knitting and crazy weekend sex.

Nothing interupts this prelude to the weekend quicker than the slapping realization that the toilet won't flush. It's not that the toilet is broken (or worse, clogged beyond plunger salvation). No, the flusher handle is just...not...working.

So, you jiggle the flusher handle. It's loose when clearly there should be toilet flushing tension. Being the handy gal you are, you decide to inspect. Off goes the toilet lid. Ah ha! There's the problem. The chain (which is supposed to be connected to the flusher handle) has come off. You quickly try to reattach said chain to said flusher.

Unfortunately when you pick it up, this causes a chain reaction [tee hee] and the toilet to flush. This in itself is a good thing, this with the toilet lid off...not so much. So now you're trying to reattach a chain onto a metal arm with a soft gentle toilet spray showering over you. And what's a girl to do when toilet water gets in your eyes? You drop the chain of the flusher into the toilet tank ofcourse. Because of the sheer force of the flush the chain gets sucked partially down into the toilet pipe.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Not one to give up, you push up the sleeve of your coat and reach your arm way way down, into the bowels [tee hee] of the toilet tank reaching for the chain. Playing chicken with the dirty toilet tank water and your wool blend swing jacket. Your finger tips reach...and yes! You got it! You are awesome. And it's Friday. And you're going to have crazy weekend sex. You almost forgot.
Oops. All that grabbing and yanking the chain causes the toilet to spray a fine mist of tank water again. All over your nice coat. And clothes. And maybe a little bit in your hair. Like you got caught in a brief summer shower...of toilet water.

Not normally one to throw in the towel (or in this case, have one on hand) you know when you've reached your handy girl limit, and gracefully bow in defeat. After all, it's Friday at 5:35 pm and no one's gonna miss the flusher until Monday. Just a quick hand scrub stands between you and crazy weekend sex.

One push of the soap dispenser...and the soap has shot out and onto the crotch of your pants. Now, in addition to being covered in a fine mist of eau ew de toilette, you have a white foamy blob on your trousers. You use paper towel to rub and absorb, but it makes it worse, speading it around in to a bigger white pastey blob on your crotch. Crazy weekend sex? Right now you'd settle for a crazy weekend shower.

Saucy

I have a secret. A favorite place I like to go at lunch when I'm in the mood for...salad. But not just any salad - we're talking mouth watering can still taste it hours later even though you've already brushed your teeth three times kind of salad. The one and only, ceasar salad. This place makes it perfect. And there's the option of adding a scoop of chicken salad. And not just any type of chicken salad - it always has cranberries or olives or oranges in it - extra special, extra yummy. And almonds....mmmmm...almonds. Ooo ooo ooo and home-made croutons.

But today, my salad wasn't perfect. It was very far from perfect. It was Chef Gordon Ramsay should come and intervene kind of un-perfect. My scoop of chicken salad was floating on top of the salad in a river of sauce (in addition to the extra extra saucy ceasar salad). I haven't seen anything that saucy since Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie. There was no almonds. And my home-made croutons were replaced with...store bought. Ick.

Sure, everyone has an off day. Even salad makers. But I suspect my favorite place is under new management. Clue #1: the sweet girl who waited on me at the cash register disappeared in back to make my salad and lost two customer in the process, who grew tired/hungry/heard gushes of sauce coming from the kitchen. I know it's hard times with the economy and all, but where does - chef + extra sauce on salad = happy customer?

10,000 Reasons

I just noticed...my blog has hit a milestone! Over 10,000 readers have checked out my adventures in singledom within the last year and three months. I don't mean to toot my own horn but toot toot. You like me, you really like me!

It helps that the Redhead-Next-Door has been endorsed* by some of my closest celebrity friends** like Hulk Hogan, Susan Lucci, Terrance and Phillip, Brian Boitano, Ashton Kutcher, Cindy Crawford, and pre-head-shaving Britney.

Through endless dating escapades, work drama and bad hair, you kept reading. And I thank you. Sure, I would keep writing even if no one was reading. But who am I kidding? I love being an attention whore. So, keep reading! You don't want to miss what's coming next...

The Top 10 Reasons to Keep Reading the Redhead-Next-Door:

The Top Reason to Keep Reading the Redhead-Next-Door:

1. Even more outrageously funny stories so unbelievable, even I can't make stuff like that up.


* By "endorsed" I mean I casually not-so-casually mentioned their name in my post.

** While I have not actually "met" the aformentioned celebs, if I did, they would totally want to be friends with me because let's face it, I rock.

Bitchtastic

Do you ever have one of those days...

The kind where you feel, a touch bitchtastic. And the bitcher you get, the bitchier you want to get. It's a real bitch catch-22 revolving-bitch-door.

But don't worry. Loved ones, coworkers, random people - I was an equal opportunity bitch to everyone.

It certainly doesn't help that I'm craving chocolate sooooo badly. But I can't because of this gd GI Diet I'm on. Or that my feet smell remotely like dog vomit (don't ask). And that the best part of my day was almost falling on the icy sidewalk but using my boss to break my fall.

I just feel blah. Bitchy and blah. Apathetic.

Only one question remains...is it Friday yet?

Move Over Ladies, Here Comes the Mantyhose

It started with the rise of the Metrosexual. Then came all the Manscaping, MG-strings, and Bromancing. And now..it's the Mantyhose.

Is nothing sacred? I mean, what woman would find these sexy on their buffcake beefcake?

I'm so glad Paul knows how to nuture his cave-man side. That, and he isn't sporting a mullett [anymore].

Then again, those buns on Adam over there do look rather squeezeable, don't they? I mean, the mantyhose really accentuate his features. Ooooo - imagine the front view.

What was I getting at?

Oh right. Something about...oh hell. I need a cold shower.

Being Erika

I do not make New Year's resolutions. Period. Unless of course you count not making a New Year's resolution as a New Year's resolution itself. But you're not counting, right?

In the words of Undercover Mother, 2008 was a "banner year."

Example #1: I got engaged! Again. But this engagement was different. Is different. Paul's proposal was unexpected and romantic. Sure, he proposed on New Year's Eve (which was his plan for popping the question to another paramour before they derailed at Splitsville). But still, it was sweet when he said he wanted to start the New Year off right by making me his wife. As opposed to my now ex-husband, who popped the question (when we got back together after I left him to date his best friend) by saying, "If I take you back, it's not as my girlfriend. It's as my wife." Ah...isn't it romantic? And somewhere a banjo plays.

Example #2: I got a new job! Sure, it's completely sucking out my soul. But it's new! And it enabled me to set up shop in Paul's city. Which brings me to...

Example #3: Paul and I bought a house! After lots and lots of househunting we're finally livin' in sin. No thanks to my credit rating. If it were up to my bank we'd be in a cardboard box, or a slightly more upscale dumpster. But with Paul's financial finesse...the sky's* the limit.

Example #4: I no longer cook! No more apron-wearing for this chicka. Dreams really can come true. Which brings me to...

Example #5: I've gained 40 pounds! Yes folks, you read right. 4-0 as in forty. Apparently it's not entirely impossible to gain this much in a year (like, if you're pregnant and carrying around the weight of an extra human being growing inside you). And apparently, Paul is also a really really good cook.

So we decided to make a life-style change (which is soooo different than making a resolution *wink wink*) and drop some poundage. And by poundage, I mean I'm dropping all 40 pounds. We bought a fancy scale and everything. I've never even owned a scale in my life (In retrospect, this probably didn't do anything to help me know how much weight I was gaining).

The weird part is, when I look at myself, I still see me. Regular me. And not the 40-pound plus me. But the numbers don't lie. No matter how much I try to make myself lighter at weigh-in time.

Not surprisingly, Paul has also packed on the pounds. He's so supportive that way. So I'm making a point to be supportive back. When Paul weighed himself, he turned to me and said, "I don't understand, how could I have gained [censored] pounds. So I said, "Are you kidding me? You ate like 2 litres of ice cream this week alone." See? Supportive. That's me.

I was worried about falling off the eating/exercise band wagon within the first few days. Paul's parents were visiting on the weekend. They were checking out our new fancy scale (which we keep in our bedroom because nothing says sexy like a scale) and Paul sat down on our bed...then it broke. There's nothing like breaking a bed to motivate you. Trust me.

Paul's mom suggested we not do anything "too athletic" until we got a new bed. So I suggested we go bed shopping ASAP. And we did. We picked out something nice and sturdy. After all, we plan on putting it through it's paces. You know, in the name of weight-loss. *cough cough*

*Sky = 1/4 of a million dollars

New Year, New Me

If there's one thing I love about New Year's, it's the newness of it. The chance to change. The chance to purge. I clean out my closet, my diet, my life. And this year is no different.

I am now the proud owner of a laptop (thanks to Paul). And shortly, a wireless internet connector thingy. Limits are never ending, like my supply of home-made wine (again, thanks Paul). So stay tunned. The blog changes they are a-comin'. And possibly Alcoholics Anonymous.

Wedding Planning: The Sea Sick Edition

Ok, so...the wedding to Paul is off. Not off off. But delayed. Way delayed. As in 6 months kind of delayed.

It sucks being sick. On the plus side, it gives me time to lose the weight I've gained being sick. Which is ironic because when you think of someone being sick, you think of someone small and tiny and fragile, not the lime backer I've become.

Gone is the "elope and let someone in a foreign country plan the details of our day" line of thinking.

In is the "what the heck are we going to do now" line of thinking.

Paul and I are finding ourselves faced with questions about why we're not eloping anymore from people who don't know I'm sick. I didn't really want to tell many people. Only my closest family and friends knew the real story. So, we get to create all sorts of fun reasons why we're getting married in 8 months and 5 days, instead of in 3 months.

When it comes to all things-wedding, we're opting for anti-boring. Did you really expect anything less from moi? Since this is the second wedding for both Paul and I (first to one another though!), it's a lot easier to plan the wedding we want, and not give in to outside pressure.

We're going for an intimate and romantic feeling. At first I thought intimate meant cheaper. [Note: It does not].

Out: large guest list of people we hardly know
In: 100 of our closest friends and family
Out: church ceremony and tacky legion reception/dance
In: ceremony and reception on a tall ship
Out: cheesy wedding music
In: cellist playing on board
Out: wedding cake
In: cheesecake

We went and toured the wedding venue (aka the boat). And there's only one problem. We were on it for a total of 20 minutes and I was seasick. I can picture it now...Paul and I turn to face each other, to recite the vows we've written for one another, and instead I turn and vomit over the side of the boat.

Isn't it romantic?

Sounds Like "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall"

4 pairs of pants in the closet, 4 pairs of pants... [that fit]
Wash a pair, your fiance puts them in the dryer
3 pairs of GD pants that fit your fat ass in the closet

Ur In...I'm Out

My sister Kiki and my Brother-In-Law (who I affectionately refer to as B-I-L or Bil for short), came to stay with Paul and I for the weekend.

To cap off our Saturday evening dinner theatre, we dediced to head to the Casino for some cha-ching!

Want to know my method for scoring big at the slots? I walk around, and wait until a machine "calls to me." Ok, it doesn't actually call to me, because THAT would be crazy. But I get a certain "pull" - like Captain T. Kirk and his tractor beam.

I walk up to the machine, pop in my money. I converse in some small talk and then softly let it know what's coming - like Captain Kirk and his er, tractor beam. Cha-ching! Works every time. Unfortunately, Paul is lucky in love and well, that's it. We have a $20 cdn limit (each). Paul's money is gone within 2 minutes. My money doubles, triples, quadruples, um... fiveruples. Anyway you get the idea.

Saturday night I wasn't feeling the tractor beam. No matter how much I walked, not one machine beaconed to me. I lost. Again and again. I even asked Paul to stand on the other side of the room for fear his unlucky-except-in-loveness was rubbing off on me. It didn't make a difference. My casino mojo was nogo.

Down to my last $5, I felt a little something. A twinge perhaps? I moved quickly. Sat down. And pulled that slot machine handle for all it was worth. And then...I felt something. One part excitement, one part...moisture? What the...ew ew ew. Is that urine?

Oh. My. God. Somebody peed on my seat.

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."

Think this post was the beep? Rate it on Humor-Blogs.com.

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.

Think this post was full of extra-large goodness? Rate it on Humor-Blogs.com.

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.

Did this post give you a buzz? Rate it on Humor-Blogs.com.

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.