Mail Order Bridal

Dear Perfect Wedding Dress,

Where for art thou? Ah yes, the internet. I can see you online. I can order you. But I can not try you on. Or see a sample in an uptight bridal boutique. Temptress.

Sure, you're perfect. So what could be wrong with ordering you sight unseen? Except it will take 4 months for you to get to me here in Canada which is pretty much forever in bridal planning months. Then, if you don't fit, I'll be forced to buy off the rack. Ick. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just a *tad* extra pressure. You know, on top of the whole planning-a-wedding-pressure. And I don't want to end up in something fru fru and poofy and beaded.

Plus, your price tag makes me go weak at the knees. Or maybe that's all the white wine.

I dream of you dear dress. All ivory and silky or whatever you're made of. I can picture myself floating down the isle glowing in your perfectness before throwing up over the side of the boat.

I simply must have you. That, and a good seamstress. Perhaps some gravol wouldn't hurt either.

Raised Eyebrow

So I was feeling a little weighty and bloated and cranky this week. And what better way to improve a warped self-imagine and 'tude than a little salon therapy? One hair cut, lash and brow tint and brow wax later I was starting to feel like myself again. Until...

My esthetician turned to me and said, "I've never done this before in my whole career" followed by a l-o-n-g pause. I didn't know what was going to happen next. For some reason I thought she was going to put the moves on me or something. Instead she confessed that one third of my left eyebrow was inadvertently waxed off.

Part of me was relieved. Part of me was horrified. All of me couldn't stop laughing. I mean what could I do? It's not like she MEANT to make me look like a Romulan.

I guess technically I'm 10 eyebrow hairs lighter now...so yay me.

Un-Pap-ular

[Interior...Doctor's Office]
Doctor: So what's brings you in today Redhead?
Me: I'm here for my [whispers] check-up.
That's why I look so cagey.
Doctor: When did you have your last...check-up?
Me: It would have been a year ago in November. Not last last November but this last November that just past. Plus now it's February so 12 plus 3 carry the 1...a year and three months.
I really need to learn to count in my head.
Doctor: Have you ever had an abnormal...check-up?
Maybe once.
Me: Not that I recall.
Doctor: Then you can get one every two years.
What kind of cracker jack doctor are you?
Me: But last year you told me to make sure I was tested again in a year because my tests were so infrequent.
Don't you remember every word I say?
Doctor: Now I'm telling you, you can get it done every two years.
Me: Not that I'm trying to argue to have a...check-up, god knows it isn't a barrel of monkeys. Like getting strip-searched at the airport by a Danny Devito look-a-like. But I definitely want to have it done today while I'm here. I just drove an hour and a half for this.
Plus, I shaved.
Doctor: Why don't you have a doctor in the city?
Because God is trying to punish me.
Me: It's impossible to find a doctor's that's taking new patients. Besides, I wanted to keep you while I was undergoing all of those tests with the specialist.
Doctor: Yeah, I've got friends in the city who can't find a doc earlier.
Then why did you ask dumb-ass?
Doctor: [Hands me a paper gown, closes the hospitalish curtain, and mumbles small talk]
Should I take off the knee-high nylons or leave them on? I'm not sure of pap-protocol. I decide to leave them on. Even though they smell odd, like sweaty bologna...thanks to my unbreathable faux-snakeskin boots.
Me: Ready. Set. Glove.
Doctor: [Still trying to make small talk] Now relax.
Yeah huh. Give me a pair of those gloves and I'll tell you to relax.

This reminds me of my Grade 12 prom - my breasts weren't squeezed at all. I ask about an itchy mole that has cropped up on my arm, which has me paranoid with visions of skin cancer. But the doctor says it's nothing to worry about (unless it starts oozing puss...ew!).

I think my doctor actually finds this hard . And he's a young doctor. Not that it's easier when you're younger (less experience and all that - again, just like Grade 12 prom). But it's weird. He's a DOCTOR. And a man. It's not like I'm repulsive when I'm half dressed (even if all I'm wearing is an unflattering paper gown).

Oh god. Maybe that's it. Or maybe he thinks it's weird that I shave. Or that I left my bologna-smelling knee-highs on. Or maybe I'm just being silly.

Still, I hope he's not that timid in the delivery room. Poor baby.

Oops I Did It Again...

Have you ever gone to the bathroom, only to realize mid-pee that you don't hear the tinkle tinkle of urine...

You do the between-the-legs-WTF-look (because you "hover" you don't sit EVER) and see the lid is down. Yup, you've just peed on the toilet lid, and the floor. And a bit on your coat.

Did I mention you're in the staff bathroom of your dental office?

Vitamin C

Paul was sick with the flu for the better part of last week, plus the weekend but managed to buck up enough for V-Day. There's nothing like the opportunity for lovin' to make a man rise from his death bed sick bed.

I'm not entirely/partly/remotely sure why men turn into moaning groaning babies when they get sick. Paul was nursing a "bad" case of snuffles co-mingled with a dash of coughing. And a fever - Ooooo. But by the sounds of it [literally], he had leperacy or malaria.

Not that I think Paul was faking it or anything. He really was sick. He even finger blew his nose in the shower. But I question the degree of sickness, of Paul, or any man. When a hang-nail can morph into flesh-eating disease, you need to distance yourself and stop encouraging any man-baby behaviour. I mean come on, child birth anyone?

I have the sinking senstation the flu is making a come back, and I'm numero uno on the hit list. So, I've been taking some preemptive action, mainly by boning up on my vitamin C's - coffee and chocolate. No moaning, no groaning. Just proactive kick-assness instead of reactive sorry-assness.

Now what's so hard about that?

Eggsactly

During my vacation this week, I've been left to my own devices which includes cooking my own "meals" [note: I've been eating a lot of toast]. I am resigned to the fact that if I lived alone I would probably never cook and survive on the substance provided in take-aways.

With Paul doing all of the cooking, I've become a bit rusty in the kitchen. Considering my pre-Paul cooking skills (which consisted of stuffed mushroom caps and chocolate chip cookies), one could argue I have always been rusty in the kitchen. Apparently, sometimes there is no where to go but down. This morning I somehow managed to burn boiled eggs for breakfast. Burn. Boiled. Eggs.

Good thing I look cute in an apron.

Desperate (to-be-a) Housewife

This week I'm enjoying a much needed three days off mini-vacation (the first in almost a year). And I've realized a few things:

1. I could seriously get used to being a stay-at-home housewife. For a month or so anyway. Before I got bored. But still, it would be one great month. Yesterday, I even ate chocolates...while watching soaps!

2. I need to get out of this life-sucking job and into something new. A job where people can be creative. And dress in clothes I drool over with envy. Where you don't get f-bombed by clients every ten minutes.

3. I should really start planning my wedding. It's in 6 months and 3 days (not that I'm counting). I don't even know where to start. Groom: check. Venue: check. Justice of the Peace: check. Ok, now what? I read all the planning books. And it's not like this is my first wedding, or Paul's for that matter. But this is THE wedding. Exclamation point. Full stop.

I think I need a vacation to recover from my vacation.

On My Chinny Chin Chin

Lately I've noticed hair sprouting up in the most unexpected of places. Rogue hairs. Very stealth like. On my chin, upper lip, from moles, on a nipple (ok, ok, two nipples).

It used to be nothing a tweezer couldn't fix. But now my tweezing has reached olympic proportions. I am resigned to the fact this has everything to do with age. Yeah, yeah age is just a number - a number of chin hairs.

Luckily I'm a redhead so my unwary hairy situation is somewhat invisable to the naked eye. And by naked eye I mean Paul's eye. But I can see the little suckers. They're there, taunting me.

It brings me back to my first date with Paul and I spent hours doing some pre-date self-maintenance. I even plucked my knuckle hair. Knuckle hair! I mean who DOES that?

Guys are much more lax about the whole hair thing. Probably because men are supposed to be hairy. Men = hairy = fertile. Women = hairy = quasimodo.

If this is 32, what will 40 bring?

Duty Calls

If you haven't had the pleasure of partaking in a colonoscopy, I'll give you the run down. No pun intended.

First, you drink a big jug the size of antifreeze full of clear liquid which boasts as much flavour as stale pineapple with a hint of cardboard. Then you spend the next 9 hours *ahem* "reading in the library".

Next, you go to the hospital where they shove a ******* up your *** and then they **** and you can't even ****, let alone **** for the next day.

I tried to forget that my ass resembled the Japanese flag and looked on the bright side - bonus weight loss! Two piddly pounds worth. Apparently my crap, much like my alcohol tolerance, is a light-weight.

And somewhere in Hollywood, someone is probably paying for this.

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…