Wayback Playback: The Last 10 Days

I'm huge and lumbering and nesting in a really big way, but seeing the same old post up for weeks on end is making me sad. To fix that, I'm digging through the archives of a now-abandoned journal for some of my old faves. This is the story of the whirlwind leading up to our Vegas nuptials originally published on October 9, 2007. 


The Boy and I had been talking about getting married in Vegas for a while, but not seriously. Or at least *I* wasn't serious. But as time went on, it became clear that he found the idea very intriguing. Eventually, I relented and said "IF you really want to get married in Vegas, I will do it. BUT only on the condition that the whole thing is as tacky as possible. Yes, that's right. I want to be married by Elvis."

As you know, he proposed on September 29th. He told me he did want to get married in Vegas, and asked me to marry him. Obviously I said yes. It was sweet, it was low-key, and it was very us. The next day, I hopped in the car and went off to the bridal shop. I was looking for a veil, and maybe a dress if I could find one that a) fit, b) was available off the rack, and c) wasn't some nasty, silly, hideous, poofy cake dress. Lo and behold, I found one that was perfect and only needed hemming. Only 5% of brides fit a dress size exactly, and I was one of them. I had always wanted a mantilla, and there it was. A fingertip length mantilla, with a pattern that matched the dress perfectly.

Next, I had to find a seamstress to hem the dress. The first one the dress shop recommended lived about 45 minutes away. Doable, but extremely problematic, given that I was leaving for Vegas in 5 days. The next suggestion was a woman who lives literally 4 blocks away, who did work from home on the side, and who was willing and able to take on the alterations. Seriously, some brides spend almost a year finding a dress, having it sized, and finding a veil that matches the dress that she loves. It took me 45 minutes.

THEN, I had to find a ring for the groom. Since he knew he was springing this on me, he bought a wedding band that interlocked with my engagement ring. We got his size figured out, and we found the perfect band online. BUT, only a limited number of sizes were kept in stock, so it'd be miraculous if the ring he wanted, in his (uncommon) size, was available for overnight shipping. Apparently miracles happen. Now we had to find an Elvis to perform the ceremony... God Bless The Internet!

In 24 hours, I got engaged, found a wedding dress, had my final fitting for the hem, found a chapel that was available, found the groom's ring, AND booked an Elvis. When the stars align like that, you gotta' know it's right. The only thing left to do is take a deep breath and say I do. Thankyouveramusch, I did!

Wayback Playback: Life Lessons

I'm being kind of a half-assed blogger these days, sorry! I've got a few weeks left of Operation: Try Again and I'm spending most of my free time running or cooking. Oh, what an exciting life I lead! To keep you interested (Hahaha! Oh, how I flatter myself!) I'm digging through the archives of a now-abandoned journal for some of my old faves. This was originally posted on February 9, 2008 when stick-figure drawings were all the rage. If you watch the X Factor (and I don't, but the promos are unavoidable), when you see Britney, remember this:

*sigh* AGAIN?



(Image from: www.thesuperficial.com)

Look, I know the poor girl has been going through a tough time and all, but for Christ's sake, will someone please buy her sorry ass some fucking pants?

Dear Britney,

It seems that, yet again, you have inflicted your vagina on the unsuspecting public while performing the relatively simple (for most of us) act of getting out of a car. Perhaps I can help. Seriously girl, buy some fucking pants. I know you're running out of money, but there are plenty of retailers that have plenty of pants in plenty of styles and colours to fit every budget. Find some. In the meantime, since you seem opposed to protecting what tiny shred of dignity you might have left by wearing said pants, let's see if we can avoid any more "The World is Your Gynecologist" episodes, shall we?

First, let's examine (pardon the pun) what you're doing wrong. When you exit a car, you're splaying yourself like a sleazy, drunken starfish, which results in this:


Now, I realize that your momma is a piece of trailer trash herself, so she didn't done learned you no better. Fear not, I will be your guide.

1. Before you get IN the car, pull your skirt down so that your Brit-bits are not touching the seat fabric. There should be complete coverage of the ass by the skirt. You are now halfway to a successful exit.
2. When you arrive at the crack house your final destination, before you even open the car door, check to make sure that your skirt is still down. Aim for the knees.
3. Put your knees AND ankles together, and open the door.

You should look like this:


4. With knees and ankles STILL together and legs working as a single, cohesive unit, pivot and lower your feet to the ground outside the car:


5. Stand up.

Congratulations!  You have successfully exited a car without exposing your no-no bits to the hoards of photographers dogging your every move as you spiral downward into total madness. Go celebrate! Not with drugs and alcohol, you've had enough of those for two lifetimes. Have a bucket of fried chicken or something. You're welcome!

Wayback Playback: Why I hate contemporary art

My surgery is a done deal. While I recover, I'm digging through the archives of a now-abandoned journal for some of my old faves. This was originally posted on April 24, 2008 after a trip to New York City. It was our last hurrah as couple with no kids. I'm sorry I wasted some of it on contemporary art.


I'll admit it, I am not exactly an art connoisseur. I like pictures of things that I can recognize. I don't mind if it's a little "out of focus" looking, like Monet. Heck, I can even take the loose interpretations of Van Gogh. Take this Monet for example. It's so well known it borders on cliched but I love the whole series anyway, so THERE! :P



There is a texture to it, created by brushstrokes and layers of colours that is abstract and precise at the same time, coming together to form something that is magnificent to behold:



And then... there is Contemporary Art, like Picasso:


If it weren't for the tits, I'd have no idea this represented a person. In fact, I'm still not completely convinced.

How about Jackson Pollock?


Some guy named Fred who paints houses for a living has a drop cloth that looks just like this in the back of his pickup truck.

And then, there is the truly offensive. The swill that sycophantic twats in galleries all over the world swoon over, while the rest of us wonder what the fuck this world is coming to. Like this one, with a tag that reads "In the last 10 years of his life, Reinhardt focused solely on square black paintings." Now you're wondering if there is seriously a square, black painting hanging in a gallery somewhere, right?



Yes, there is. At MOMA, in fact. If this is high art, I'm Wonder Woman. It made me want to say Fuck. Right. Off. to the half-wit at the museum who stood in front of this thing and said out loud "It just speaks to me on so many levels." No it doesn't. Go look at a sheet of black construction paper and see if it says the same thing, you moron. This is not moving, it's doesn't "speak to anyone," other than as a profound insult to the intelligence of gallery visitors every day.

Because of the proliferation of shit like the black painting above, and the installation that that was a fountain and a strobe light masquerading as art, I give contemporary art two thumbs down. Or one finger up. Whatever.

Life with a Parasite has been nominated as a contender for the Circle of Moms Top 25 Canadian Mom Blogs. Please vote for me. You can vote once a day until November 17th. Thank you in advance!

Wayback Playback: Screw it! I'll just pay for the lipo

My surgery is later today. While I deal with some prep work, I'm digging through the archives of a now-abandoned journal for some of my old faves. This was originally posted on March 25, 2007. Apparently some things, like my potty-mouth and challenges with exercise, never change.


I like boxing. It's a great workout, and let's face it, from time to time we ALL want to beat the crap out of someone something. Sadly, my home is only slightly bigger than a shoe box, so my dreams of having my very own heavy bag to beat the living snot out of after a hard day at The Bank could not be realized. Not wanting to see her daughter go without something so obviously beneficial to her mental health, my mom bought me a Bally Boxer for Christmas. And then forgot all about it until my birthday eight weeks later. At least we know I'm not adopted.

The Bally Boxer is like one of those giant "Punch the Clown" things you had at birthday parties when you were a kid. OK, maybe YOU didn't have them at YOUR birthday parties, but it's not MY fault you led a sheltered life. You filled the base with water, and the kids took turns knocking ol' Chuckles down until he could get up no more. Training for sociopaths? Perhaps. Anyway, here is what the grown up version looks like:


See, water in the base, air in the top, and Bob's your uncle. EXCEPT! If you're ever planning to buy one of these things, you should know there is a flaw in the design. The base is filled with water because that's what weighs it down. Weighs it down = makes it heavy, for those who need things spelled out, as I apparently do. When you fill things with water, inevitably some will not make it into the container. And wet things get slippery, (Ah, STFU! What are you, twelve?) and wet things that are slippery - and ARE HEAVY! - are hard to handle. You might accidentally drop the flimsy plastic piece of shit (formerly known as the Bally Boxer) on the hard surface that is your kitchen floor. And do you know what happens next?



After a great deal of swearing, standing ankle deep in ice cold water in your kitchen, you might get one hell of a workout laughing until your sides hurt as you mop up the giant fucking mess made by the giant fucking hole in your flimsy plastic piece of shit (formerly known as the Bally Boxer). And with that, I have had enough exercise for today. I also think it's late enough in the day to start drinking.

Life with a Parasite has been nominated as a contender for the Circle of Moms Top 25 Canadian Mom Blogs. Please vote for me. You can vote once a day until November 17th. Thank you in advance!