Lunch at Wendy's

I took my five-year-old daughter to Wendy's after ballet the other day.  We sat down to eat and she noticed a toddler sitting at a table nearby she recognized.  I mentioned to her that we'd taken her to Wendy's when she was just a new baby, only a few days old.  The conversation, as always, was interesting.

Her:  So did I eat fries?

Me:  No, you were only a few days old. Babies drink milk.

Her: They have baby's milk here?

Me:  Honey, babies drink special milk they don't have here. Actually, after mommies have babies, they make very special milk.

Her:  Oh - that's because mommies know how to make everything!

Me:  (Laughing) Yes, that's true, but actually,  they make it in their boobies.

Her:   Huh….  THAT'S why babies suck on them!

Cripes.

Coronation Street aka Corrie

When I went to DR with my sister and 4 friends last year for my 40th birthday, we planned to have a lot of fun.  

One particular night, there was a shooter special at the bars on the resort.  We were all drinking but my sister was way ahead of the group. She was downing the shooters like they were koolaid.  My sister was tanked, but entertaining. We were having a lot of fun, and decided when the last bar at our resort closed, we go next door to the sister resort and continue drinking there since their bar was open until 2:00 am.  

As we walked over, we noticed there were a lot of people around.  My sister was walking a little ahead and started chatting up this teeny little black woman, walking with her child.  This lady had a thick British accent, so when my sister heard it, she was thrilled (she is a HUGE Coronation Street fan).  She also started speaking in a British accent.

The other 5 of us are looking at each other, as my sister continues on chatting away in her british accent. 

Sister:  Did yew just arrive today?

The British woman: Yes, we just arrived tonight.

Sister:  So, where are yew from?

The British woman:  I'm from Birmingham.

Sister:  Ah - Birmingham, Alabama?

The British Woman:  Birmingham, ENGLAND.

Sister:  Ah, I see.

My sister hung back and let the woman walk off. The five of us girls were killing ourselves laughing.  My sister didn't flinch.  Liquid confidence.

Touchdown

For my 40th birthday, I went to the Dominican Republic with my sister and four friends.  The first full day we were there, we went to the required "welcome" session at the all-inclusive resort and heard about the excursions available, how to make a dinner reservation, where to get towels, etc.  Towards the end, the staff person mentioned that there is a "drink special" every day, and that day's special was a pina colada. All our drinks on the resort were free, but he wanted to mention this because pina coladas contain coconut milk. He warned us that drinking too many of those might cause a person to spend an exorbitant amount of time in the bathroom.

This was particularly interesting to me because I have constipation issues that seem to be worse when I travel. I was already uncomfortable that first full day, so I made a mental note to drink as many pina coladas that day as possible.  My sister, on the other hand, has IBS so she steered clear of the pina coladas. We were rooming together so I warned her of my plan.

During the day, my sister had quite a bit to drink.  We got back to our room very late and crashed. I woke up at 8:00 am or so (having kids forces your internal clock to wake you up even when you'd like to sleep in). There was a rumbling in my tummy.  In the darkened room, I quietly got up and went to the bathroom hoping not to trip on something and wake her since she is a very light sleeper.

The pina coladas had worked! I was so happy that I would not be bound up for the entire trip!

As I quietly came out of the bathroom, and slowly headed to the bed to lay down.  In the darkness, I heard my sister's raspy voice:  Touchdown?

I stopped mid-stride in the dark and replied:  TOUCHDOWN!!!

Her:  Yeah, I heard you in there.

Me: ….oh buddy, I'm sorry.  That's no fun.

Her:  No, no, it's fine. I just wanted to make sure that was you. The noise woke me up and I wanted to make sure I hadn't shit the bed.

Me:  WHAT?  LOL!!! OMG!!!

Her:  (Still not laughing)  Are you done?

Me:  (Still laughing) Um, yes.

Her:  Good. Move out of the way!!

She ran for the bathroom and I was left there… laughing hysterically.

Funny Kid

My husband made chocolate chip cookies.  It was just one of those cookie-dough packages so Hubby spooned it out and baked them. My 5 year old daughter loves to bake.  My daughter was not really impressed that he'd gone ahead and made the cookies without asking her assistance but she said nothing.

Fast forward several days, and there is just one, lone cookie left in a container on the counter.

My daughter inquires:  What is that?

Hubby responds:  It's the last of the cookies we made the other day.

Daughter (pointedly at her father):  You made the cookies.

As she walked away towards the mudroom, she said under her breath:  There is no "we" around here!

Kids Say the Darndest Things

My husband's first cousin and his family live across the street from us. He is an RCMP officer.  Our 8 year old son plays with their 7 year old son regularly, so the boys are very comfortable in either house.

Last week I got a text from the mom. Apparently my son had asked her husband:

"When you go to work, do you drive around all day and eat donuts?"

Out of the mouths of babes. 

Shawarma

I love my husband. But we are opposites in so many things.  I'm the extravert, he's the introvert. I'm the loud one, he's the quiet one.  Some would say that's what makes us work. I would say that's what makes me want to choke him on a regular basis.

One of the many things that makes us different is that I like a variety of foods - spicy, sweet, tangy, whatever.  Hubby not so much.  As an adult, I will TRY new things.  He still clings to the "I don't like it" line when he's never tried whatever it is I'm convincing him to try.  He's a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.  Fine.  Just don't fence ME in!

That being said, he notices when I have had something different. I brush my teeth, but he's like a blood hound.  If I've had something that has even the mildest hint of aroma, he will comment.  "What did you have for lunch?"  This happens frequently because, well, he's not got the adventurous taste buds I have.

One of my favs is chicken shawarma.  There are several Lebanese restaurants in the City so at lunch, sometimes I'll go grab a shawarma.  They are delish.  One particular day, I had shawarma.  I knew the comments would start when I got home from work, so to prepare, I sent Jamie a text to joke about what he'd no doubt smell.  Sums us up pretty well:

"I had shawarma for lunch so my breath is garlicky.  But I'd like you to put the moves on me later."

The response?  "Fine…  No kissing."

"Fine by me."

And that's how it's done.

Cubicle Life

I sit in a corner cubicle by the kitchen, so there is a lot of traffic on the other side of my fabric wall. The wall is over 5 feet tall, so I often don't know who is walking by.  I've gotten very good at ignoring the conversations and blocking out the noise, except for when I hear my name or when it's very quiet and there's only one conversation.

One day, I was privy to a exchange on the other side of my fabric wall that had me in stitches.  Two women had met as they came around opposite sides of the corner and began talking.

Woman 1:  Katie, I'm so very sorry to hear about your grandmother's passing.

Silence.

Woman 2: Um... I'm Kim.

I hit the desk laughing!  These two had worked together for almost a year and a half at this point.  Once they heard my outburst, they started laughing too. Afterwards, Kim admitted that she wasn't sure she'd volunteer that the woman had made a mistake, but they did not know I was on the other side of the fabric wall.  It couldn't have been timed better.

Pop-tabs

My dad collects pop-tabs (the little metal tabs off the top of cans of pop, juice, beer, etc.) to give to the local Shriners Club, who collect the tabs province-wide.  Apparently, there is a scrap metal dealer who pays the group cash that the Shriners can then use to purchase whatever they need at the Shriners Children's Hospital in Montreal.  An easy way to make some money for a worthwhile cause.

I started a jar at my work because we have a lot of pop drinkers there.  You still get the same amount for the can when you return it, so flipping the tab off is easy.  A note was sent out to staff, letting them know that the jar was in the kitchen, and that the proceeds would be used to purchase equipment for the Children's Hospital in Montreal.

One day, two of the staff members were in the kitchen, commenting on the jar and how it was an easy way to help out.

"Isn't it a great way to help out the Shriners Children's Hospital?"

"Oh, yes.  Isn't it incredible that they can make wheelchairs out of those pop-tabs?"

Silence.

"Um, I don't think that's what they do...."

"Oh, yes, they melt the metal down and make wheelchairs."

Good times.

Test Message Mishap

In the current age, text messages are a quick and easy way to communicate.

One particular day, I texted Hubby a dirty message with a proposition.  A few hours later (while I was in the middle of a meeting), I received the following text from Hubby:

"Are you at school?"

I had no idea what he was talking about.  "What?" was my reply.

A few minutes later (because he's an extremely slow typer)...

"Sorry, that was not for you. Greg is going to be confused by that text I just sent him."

My husband and I both have cell phones and text on occasion.  I text quite a bit to a variety of people, but he only texts me and his eldest son, who is 19.

I started laughing.  Turns out that he replied to Greg, and whatever he wrote, Greg's response was "Yeah."

OMG.

Uncle

My uncle is funny, but not on purpose. He says things sometimes that aren't 'quite' right, and it's hilarious.  Case in point:

He was offered some used men's clothes for a regular yard sale he has outside his apartment building.  He called me, very excited, because it was mostly name brand stuff, and I quote:    Tommy Hillifer, Jack Crew and Polio.

Tooth Fairy

One of my 7 year old son's friends would often catch a ride with us to summer camp. He's eight and lives in the neighborhood too, so it just made sense for the parents to trade off pick-ups and drop-offs.  A six-year-old cousin also lives across the street and went to the same summer camp would also sometimes be part of the caravan to camp.

One particular day, the three boys were riding in the back of the car with my husband driving that day.  One of the boys had lost a tooth, and believing they were without a parent listening in, they began to speculate on who or what might actually be leaving the money under the pillow.  Was there really a tooth fairy??  The conversation went as follows:

"So, did you get any money?"

"Yep, I got $5."

"$5??? I only got $2!"

"Do you think it was really the tooth fairy?"

"Who else would it be? Do you think it was your Mom or Dad?"

"So, does Santa bring presents??"

At this moment, the 8 year old caught my husband's eye in the rear-view mirror - he had been listening in and giggling at the deep conversation between the boys in the backseat.  The 8 year old looked a little panicked and then proceeded to assure the other two that it was in fact the tooth fairy who's left the money, and changed the subject.  My husband giggled a little in the front seat.

On arrival at the summer camp, the three boys got out of the car and followed my husband towards the entrance.  The 8 year old sped up and sidled my husband, looking straight ahead, leaving the other two boys a few feet back.  He actually scared my husband, because he just came out of nowhere.  Still staring straight ahead and talking quietly, without moving his lips, the forty-year-old-trapped-in-an-eight-year-old-body said, "Don't worry, Jamie, your secret is safe with me."

The Buffet

My friend and I would occasionally leave work at lunch and head across the street to the Chinese food place for their lunchtime buffet.  It was good and cheap.

One particular day (the last one we went to actually), there weren't too many around, and the food was very good - everything was very hot and fresh.   We'd gotten our egg rolls and won tons to start, then were back to fill up our plates.  As we scoffed, more people came in for the buffet.

We polished our plates off, and she looks at me and whispers, "Do you think anyone would notice if I went up again?"

I assured her not, it's a buffet, you're supposed to eat as much as you can.  Besides, most of the people in the restaurant had come in after we'd already eaten one plate of food, so how would they know how many times she'd gone up.

So off she went and loaded her plate up again.  Just as she was finishing loading up, I roared across the restaurant:  "Hey, is that your THIRD plate???"

She turned purple and practically ran across the restaurant and plunked herself on the chair opposite me.  "You bitch," she hissed.

"Sorry, I couldn't resist."

Remember this was the LAST time we went to the buffet.

I do feel bad though, she likely would've gone back for a 4th plate...

Snip, snip!

My hubby and I have four kids, and it was time for the conversation on who was going to permanently look after making sure we were completely done.  I thought he should have to go get snipped because I'd had several c-sections, and he'd really gotten off scott-free.  He was hesitant until I said I really wouldn't mind one more kid.  He made the appointment that week.

The "surgery" day rolled around, and I offered to go with him, but he insisted it was not a big deal, and he could go himself.  So, I dropped him off and went home to wait for the call to pick him up, which came several hours later.

Out he came from the hospital, walking like he'd been riding a horse for days - which I have to say, made me giggle.  All that was missing was his 10 gallon hat.  And a sprig of straw in his mouth.

He got in the van, and off we went.  He told me about the other patients that day.  One guy was there with his wife, but sat facing away from her, and wouldn't speak to her.  Another guy started to panic.  My hubby claims the doc told him he was a superstar because he came alone, and no faint spells.

I asked some questions, and then the rest of the story came out.

When Hubby arrived, a nurse took him to a room he can only describe as a janitor's closet... it had a big sink with wheeled bucket and mop in the corner.  The nurse asked him to disrobe and apply some numbing cream to his freshly-shaved testicles (that's what you're supposed to do), and apply a clear bandage over the cream to keep it in place.  Left alone with this tube, he got undressed, squeezed every bit of cream out, slathered it on, rubbed it in good, applied the clear bandage and sat down to wait.

This went on for several minutes, with nothing to do, so he decided to read the label on this tube of mystery cream.  He was horrified to read that the cream should NOT be rubbed in!  Shit, he thought, now what?  He waited a while for the nurse to come back, and panic had set in.  He tried - unsuccessfully - to peel the clear bandage back off and possibly squeeze a teeny bit of the cream out to add to what was already on, but to no avail.  All that accomplished was that his testicles were wrinkled up from the bandage sticking to itself.  And he could FEEL what he was doing.  Clearly this wasn't right.

Finally, the nurse came back, and Hubby anxiously asked, "Um, is this all I get?"

The nurse was puzzled.  "All what?"

"How can I be responsible for applying this stuff?  I rubbed, and it says on the label not to rub...  Will I feel the cuts now, because I didn't do this right???"

She giggled, and assured Hubby that the cream was meant to numb in anticipation of a needle, it was not he ONLY numbing that he would get before the surgery.

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall during those 10 minutes when he thought that's all he was getting for pain.

Teehee

My friend/co-worker and I used to walk up the street from our office building to the mall to go to Shoppers Drug Mart on a very regular basis.  Daily, actually.  She liked her Pepsi, it was like a crack addiction, only worse.  She could afford it.

We would often be waited on by the same cashier, a guy who would joke with us, often asking "Where the other one was" if either of us dared approach the check-out area alone.  To which I would screech, "Dear, are you coming to pay for your pop?" and she would try to pretend I wasn't talking to her.

One day, we walked up to the register, and my friend was asked by this cashier if she'd like a bag for her bag of chips, to which she responded, "Yes."  Who the hell takes a bag for a little bag of chips??

"I wouldn't give her one, "  I whispered loudly, "She's just going to fill it up with other stuff on her way out!"

My friend was horrified, because she'd told me long ago that she'd been caught shoplifting as a teen the one time she tried it, egged on by a friend who had gotten away with it countless times.  She was still embarrassed about it as an adult, and when I implied that she might "lift" some stuff from Shoppers, her jaw dropped.

"OMG, don't say that!"  she hissed.  "He might think you mean it!"

"Well, I do.  Really, you only got caught that one time, got knows how many times you actually did it."

Her face turned to stone, her eyes bulged out.  "That is NOT funny."

The cashier was in hysterics at this point, mostly from my friends reaction.

I kept going.

"Listen," I said, "If you don't stop making such a scene, you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

Stunned, horrified silence from my friend, as the cashier giggled.

"I am married!!" she said, sticking out her hand to the cashier as some sort of proof.

"Yes, sure you are."  Her eyes bulged to the point of plopping out on her cheeks, as some customers came and got in the line behind us.

I couldn't resist.  "C'mon, Muffin, we can have this fight outside."

She had no idea what to do, so followed me, complaining the whole time the cashier might actually think we were gay.

Whatev.  :)

The Foreskin

A friend has asked me for some help finding someone to circumcise another friend's baby.  Believe it or not, it's getting more and more difficult to find a doctor to do it, and it's rarely IN the hospital, but rather in a doctor's office.  I dunno, I see the pros and cons, but ultimately, it's the mom and dad's decision.  Sorry, little guy - sometimes you have no choice.

So, I gave her the contact info for my family doctor to pass along.  Several weeks later, this friend and her hubby were with my family, touring our new house which was still under construction.  We were going from one "almost room" to the next, when it occurred to me that I hadn't heard back if the new mom and dad were happy with my family doctor's work.

"How did your friend get along with my doctor?  You know, about the circumcision?"  My friend replied that it had worked out great for her friend, and they were glad to have it over with.

My son (who was fourteen at the time) and Bonus-son (I don't like the term "step-son" - he was 16 then) were half-listening, so I inquired as to whether or not either knew what circumcision meant.

My bonus-son pipes in, "Oh yes... um... it's when they take extra skin off your pickle."

I looked at my son, "Do you know what it is?"

"Yes, I know."

"Do you know if you've been circumcised?" I was laughing.

Both boys smirked, and responded that they were.

That SHOULD have been the end of it, but my keener mathematician son thought he'd add his 2 cents worth.  He is a fountain of useless information.  Sadly, something like myself.

"You know, Mom, they take the extra and make face cream out of it."

There was stunned silence in the basement where we were all standing, including my two married friends who were on the house tour with us.  

"They take the extra WHAT?"  I was starting to giggle, as we all stood there, watching for his reaction.  He didn't flinch.

"They take the extra skin and make face cream.  I saw it on the Discovery Channel."

The four adults (being my hubby and I, and my friend and her hubby) all started roaring!!

"Yeah, that's it, there's a big VAT they throw the teeny pieces of skin in to whip up some moisturizer!  MUAAHHHAHAHAHAH!!"  We went on for a bit, but my son did not change his story.  I started to get a little aggravated.

"Look," I said, not laughing anymore, "I know you think this is funny, but give it up.   You didn't actually see this anywhere."

"Yes, I did, Mom."

Jesus C.  

"You did not!!"

"Yes, I did."

"For God's sake, give it up, would ya?"

He did not.

Then I forgot about it.  For quite a while, until one night I was home on the computer and I thought of looking on Snopes.com (the Urban Legend Website) or another to prove to the little shit he was wrong.

Unfortunately, I found nothing on Snopes, but I did find this....

http://www.plasmetic.com/skin/skin-care-cosmetics/foreskin-face-cream-from-skinmedica-promoted-by-oprah-winfrey.html

JEHOVAH.

I forwarded the link to my friend, and printed off a copy for my son.  He met me with a smirk that said, "I told you so."

Effin' little arse.  

Sigh.

I don't know if I was more disturbed by the fact that he knew about this or that you can make $100,000 per foreskin.   

I wonder does that link have contact info?  For a friend, of course.

Shit-Disturber

My husband claims to be an atheist, of which I am doubtful.  He was baptized as a Catholic, forced to go to church by his parents, and then when he was old enough, he stopped going.  Many Catholics have done the same.

Now, I am Catholic also, but over over the years I have become a "Cafeteria Catholic" - I pick and choose the things that I like, and leave the rest.  But Hubby cannot let it all go.  He enjoys questioning specific parts of the Catholic religion, especially when it comes to his mother's beliefs, to get her going.  It doesn't bother me much, I think it's important to question things, but he torments her with his questions.

So my husband's parents had just moved from where they'd lived for 17 years.  My husband was helping them move into their new place, and noticed a framed "picture" that had not yet been hung.  The art comprised of a picture of Jesus one side, and Mary on the other.  Then it started...

"Mom," said the Shit-Disturber, "This is Jesus and Mary, right?"

"Oh, yes," said his mom, pleased he recognized the religious figures.

"Now," he continued, "Is that Mary, his mother, or Mary, his whore?"

Stunned silence ensued from my MIL, while my father-in-law stifled the giggles.

"That's his mother."  She was not amused.

"Oh, because she looks a little young to be his mother.  How old was Jesus when he died?"

"Thirty-three."

"Huh.  And do you think that Jesus was a virgin when he died?"

"I suppose not," she said. My father-in-law continued to giggle with every word my Hubby spoke.  And my MIL got redder and redder.

"Ah, then it's probably Mary, his whore."

I seriously doubt that picture will end up in their living room.

And I suspect we'll get a copy for Christmas.

Teenagers

My 16 year old son is a bit of a math geek.  He is exceptional at figuring out math problems and never requires any studying.   This is the same kids who forgets to feed his cat.  Every day.  For 11 years.

So, a math test was coming up the day after Halloween, and he had agreed to stay back Halloween night and "study" in between knocks at the door from trick-or-treaters.  My husband and I took the 3 and 6 year-old goblins out in the neighborhood.  The houses are not close together and it was pretty cold and windy, so we circled back to get the van so we could move on to another part of the subdivision.

I walked up to the house and in the front door, and caught my son off guard.  He jumped up like I've only ever seen a terrified cat do, and shove something under his math book.

Panic set in.

"Um..." I said.  "What are you doing?"  I cannot begin to describe the awful things I thought a teen-aged boy might be hiding from his mother.  I'd had no brothers, but had heard the stories.  Boys really are pretty gross.

"Nothing."  The standard response for any question a teenager is asked.  Well, that or 'I don't know.'

I asked again.  "What are you doing?   What do you have?"

"Nothing."  He really is a genius.

"Tell me it's not porn."  I was making more of a statement than anything, thinking that's the worst it could be.

He blinked and stared.  I was sure he was shitting bricks at this point.

"No."

We stood there look at each other until I slowly walked over to the book and lifted it to reveal...

A sudoku puzzle.

"Jesus," I said as I turn to my husband.  He's hiding sudoku from me.

I kinda wish it HAD been porn.

More Noodles

Noodles was up to his usual hump-everything-in-sight tricks, and my sister gave me a call.

"Well," she said, "this is it.  Noodles has humped our preemie Cabbage Patch Kid."

Apparently, my sister came into the living room to find Noodles happily humping the naked, face-down, ass-up Cabbage Patch Kid on the couch.  The Kid's little tuft of hair was flailing about.  Clearly, nobody and nothing is safe.  Or unattractive.

I asked her if Noodles had stripped the Preemie off himself, and her frantic whispered reply was, "Um...  I don't know..."

I was telling another friend about this - she is still unconvinced he was fixed properly - and she was saying my sister should get it on video.  Maybe Noodles has a smoke afterwards, she thought.

What contest in hell could Noodles win with that video?  Surely even America's Home Videos has some standards...

Cords

I took my Hubby shopping for shirts, and he invariably picked out some cords along with the shirts to try on.  Whatever.  It's a once-a-year outing to get him out of the golf shirts and shorts for 5 minutes.

He goes in the dressing room to try all this stuff on, and out he comes with a huge smile his face, wearing these gray cords.  He turns so I can inspect his derriere, and everything looks like it fits just fine.  He comments that they are "low-rise" as he turns.

Then I realized the reason for his smirk, as his glance moved down to his crotch - where things seemed to have been re-organized.  No pun intended.

"AHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" I roared laughing, while he continued to chuckle.

"Well, Dirk Diggler..." I said. "If you want to be a porn star and be on display, you might as well get 'em."

I think he actually considered it.  Only problem was he would never be able to sit.

And one wrong zip up...

I can't even fathom.

Noodles, Part Deux

Once my sister thought she'd put her bunny out in his cage outside for some fresh air, in the dog run with Noodles (her Gremlin dog)  - still separated for the bunny's safety, but close to one another.  After a few minutes, she could no longer hear Noodles barking, so she went out to check on the beasts.  As he'd tried many times before, Noodles managed to get the bunny out of his cage and had humped it almost to death.  

I think she should have named the dog Charlie Sheen.

The bunny seems fine, but he doesn't hop the same.  I suggested some therapy sessions, but was met with an icy glare from Noodles - still unknown if the glare was meant for me or my sister, who was sitting 3 feet away.  Huh.

So, then my hubby, the kids and I went out to my sister's for my niece's birthday party.  Noodles was up to his usual tricks of trying to hump the newbies.   At one point he was running around, beyond excited at the new prospects, and trying to decide who would be first...

My 6 year old son is very thin - I actually question whether or not he in fact has calves - and Noodles took a liking.  W was standing in the living room, and Noodles started humping my son's leg.   W laughed and laughed, while the rest of us giggled, and shooed Noodles away.

Noodles tried a few more leg humps, but then W unknowingly bent down to grab something he'd dropped,  Noodles came flying out from nowhere, and jumped on W's back, in mid-hump!  We all burst out laughing, while the innocent W screamed between giggles:

"He won't stop hugging me!!!!!!  He keeps hugging me!!!!!!"

Yeah, that's it.   FAWK.

Noodles

My sister decided she wanted to get a dog.  Instead, she got the 7 lb Gremlin in the picture.  Apparently, it's a cat-like dog, which begs the question of why you'd want one.  She already has two cats, a bunny and a partridge in a pear tree.   (Okay, the partridge is an exaggeration.)

Anyway, aside from looking like his eyes were going to pop out at any moment - the dog actually is known for having eye issues - he's a little homely.  Now, not eye diseases, but rather they're known for walking into things and damaging their eyes.  And that is in addition to never really knowing if the thing is looking at you or 3 feet on either side of you.  And to top it off, she and my niece gave the thing the masculine name of "Noodles."

Imagine calling that thing to come in for the night.  "Here, Noodles!"  Agh.

Since she got him when he was a puppy, he wasn't fixed. You'd think such a small dog would be timid about his sexuality, but he was NOT.  She got him fixed in the hopes that he'd stop humping everything in sight.  But it did not.

I have personally seen Noodles hump a toy monkey, a chair, a bunny, a pillow, a chew toy, several people, and a sad attempt at humping a balloon.  All the while looking at me.   Or the person next to me, I was never really sure.

Water Retention

I decided to try that newish diet, "The Dukan Diet" and if you know it, you know it involves eating a lot of protein.  A co-worker and I were chatting about it one day, and I committed to giving it a whirl.

I started the following Monday (the first day was the easiest), and by Wednesday, the scales said I was down 3.5 lbs. Jackpot!

I stopped in the door way of an office where the aforementioned co-worker was working on something with another co-worker.  She looks up, without pause and says:

"Did you pee a lot today?"

There is silence for a moment, then the second co-worker bursts out laughing, as did I.

"What?"

She continues to dig herself in.

"Well, your face looks thinner, and when I am retaining fluid, my face looks bigger."

Um.  Thanks?

The second co-worker is busting her guts out laughing now, wondering what the hell is going on.

"Oh, no, you know.... since you started your diet....  all protein...."

I handed her a shovel.  Since she was digging anyway.

I guess her point was that I lost the whole 3.5 lbs off my face.

I'll take that.

Wax

A friend of mine started getting bikini waxes recently.  I've gone before many times, but it was just to trim the hedges.  I tried going "all the way" but it hurt like jeezly hell.  No man is worth that much pain.

So, my friend went for her second wax and we were chatting about the whole experience.  It's actually a very strange thing, lying there - panties optional - while another woman rips your pubes out from their roots.  No drugs, mood lighting or dirty talk to loosen you up either.

We were chatting about the positions you have to get in to get it all off, and giggling, when suddenly the conversation took a strange turn.  She had opted to take it ALL off.

"So," says my friend, "she was waxing, and I didn't have panties on.  I didn't bother.  And you know, it's hard to get it ALL, so she handed me a stick to hold things to the side..."

WHAT?

"You know," she continues, "so you don't touch anything."

WHAT?

"You don't do that?" she says innocently.

Now, I don't know how many of you have had bikini waxes - or Brazilians, as this one was - but there are no sticks to for you to hold.  The esthetician looks after that.

I'm shocked.  "Like, effin' CHOP STICKS???"

We both burst out laughing, and I was reminded of a Friends episode when Chandler went to Joey's tailor where he was molested while getting sized for a pair of pants.  Joey had only ever gone to this particular tailor and thought the whole process was on the up and up.  Not so, as it turns out.

"Okay," says me, "that is NOT what is supposed to happen!!"  We laughed and I swore not to tell anyone.

...


Fast forward a few weeks, and we were taking about an acquaintance who had started an esthetic business - waxing, mainly - and we were laughing because I asked if the acquaintance was Asian (and therefore may have offered chop stick therapy).  A male friend was half listening, and looking grossed out.  He was not aware of the background story.

So, I said, "Oh, now, don't be like that.  Waxing happens!  Men don't care how about the things women go through to be beautiful for you men, you just like the end result."

Pause.

"It's kinda like you don't really want to know how sausages are made."

Horrible, but effective analogy.   ;)

Kids

So, my husband and I wanted to go out on the same evening - not together.  I forget now what he had going on, but I had plans to meet some friends for supper.  So I fed the 5 and 3 year-olds and left them for the hour and a half in the care of my 16 year-old son.  (He hadn't babysat the little kids alone because my 3 year old daughter was only recently potty trained, and he was not a diaper-changer.  Which, to be honest, I didn't blame him - how weird would it be to be a teen-aged boy changing your baby sister's arse?  So, I didn't push it, but ever since she was in big-girl panties, I figured, he could help out.)

Off I went for my 1.5 hour outing for supper.  About an hour in, my cell rang.  It was my eldest.

"Mom."  Honestly, it was a statement, not a question,  "Keeley pooped."

"OH MY GOD, " says me, "In her panties???"

"No," was the reply, "in the toilet."  Then the point of this phone call was ????  Jesus, teenagers are baked.

"So, why are you calling?"

"Well...."  he paused for quite a bit.  "She is insisting that I wipe her bum."

Suddenly the scene came to me.  My daughter, when requesting a butt-wipe, would bend at the waist and touch her toes waiting for her servant to clean her up.  I let out a little giggle.

"Well, then, this is not a reason to call me.  FIGURE IT OUT."  And I hung up.  I left the restaurant shortly thereafter.

When I arrived home, I was met with the usual "MOMMY!!!!!" from my 3 year-old.  She was so happy to see me.  I looked at my teen-aged son and asked him point blank if her butt was dirty because I KNEW he would not wipe her arse.

"No...."  his voice trailed off.

My 5 year old son pipes up, "I did it, and I was paid seven dollars!!"

"WHAT?" says me.

"Yep," he says proudly, "and next time it'll be TEN!"

My teen-aged son continued to stand there, looking at me blankly.  "And I'll pay it," he said.

Mice

One of my best friends was having a "mouse" issue.  She had noticed droppings around her house, and when one ran across her nightstand and knocked over a glass of water, she freaked.  She spent hours trying to figure out where these beasts were getting in.  (Now, FREAKED is likely an understatement.  My guess would be that neighbors in a 10 km radius heard her screams.)

Then she resorted to poison, but it didn't seem to do the job.  Fed up, she called an exterminator.  She was at work when he stopped out to her house, so after he finished up, he called her at work.

During the half hour conversation, he explained how he thought the critters were getting in, and that he thought there could possibly be a nest in the attic.  As anyone would, she began to get upset.  As the discussion continued, he explained that he thought traps would not work and were not humane - plus she would have to look after the "disposal".  She told him of trying to put poison out, but he didn't like that idea either, because she had two kids, a cat and a dog in the house who could accidentally get hurt.  Plus it would take a while for the poison to work, so they mice would likely eat it and make it back into her walls before they died, leaving an incredible stench while they decomposed.  In the summer.  None of this sounded encouraging.

Then he offered up an "environmentally-friendly" solution to deal with the pests:  garter snakes.  He claimed they'd find the nest, eat the mice, and then leave the house and go out into the fields around their country home once there were no mice left to feed on.

He continued then - while she was silent in horror - to explain how he'd already left several snakes in her home, and to not be alarmed when she went home and her attic access was opened.  Dumbfounded, she began to turn hysterical, screaming at the guy for going ahead and leaving live snakes in her house without her permission.  She hung up and immediately called her husband to relay the conversation, and he seemed equally pissed.

As is her nature, she could not leave her husband to deal with the situation, being that he was much more diplomatic than she.  She wanted to this guy to know how upset she was, and she knew her hubby would not relay her complete displeasure.  So, she called the Pest Control guy back, told him how upset she was (screamed and yelled), but he acted like he didn't know what she was talking about.

Now, this friend and I work together as well.  I was at lunch when this whole thing occurred.  When I returned from lunch and was walking by her desk, she was scarlet red, tears streaming down, and livid.  She told me the story and I of course, started roaring laughing.  She was not amused.

"You do realize this is a joke," I said.  "And I'll bet it's your husband up to no good!"

Turns out, her hubby had gotten one of his co-workers - who clearly is an awesome actor - to call her and play a joke on her.  Her hubby NEVER expected his buddy to go so far, OR for his wife to actually call the Pest Control guy back directly and tell him off.  In an effort to smooth things over, her hubby had to call the Pest Control guy to explain the joke, but it was lost on him after having a lunatic customer scream at him for leaving snakes in her home.

Worst of it was her hubby had purchased a fake rubber snake to plant at home to keep the farce going, but luckily for him, he decided against pushing her over the edge she was already teetering on.

Several years later, they were having another pest issue (beetles of some sort) and had to call the Pest Control guy again.  She tried her best to make on that she was a new customer, but when he met her at the house, he clearly recognized her.  She tried pretending she was sane, but even by her own admission, it was a stretch.

Wet T-Shirt Contest

One of my best friends was having a rough time.  She'd noticed a lump on her breast and was all worked up.  She was supposed to have a biopsy, but instead asked to have the lump removed altogether.  Her mom had had breast cancer - along with a double mastectomy a number of years prior - so that was weighing on her mind.

The lump was removed, and it was NOT cancer, so she was very relieved.

However, in the course of removing the lump, the doctor had removed a lot of tissue, so the her once D-sized boob was reduced to a B.  She compensated by cinching up her brastrap on the D side so she would even out.

You really couldn't tell the difference to look at her, but her hubby noticed the difference.  And felt the need to comment:

"You know if you entered a wet t-shirt contest, you'd win first AND third!"

Wipeout

As usual, when preggers, I was worried about tripping, falling down or passing out.  So, when I was preggers with my daughter, I resolved not to go too far without someone with me, in case I fell.  One of my best friends works with me, so one day I asked her to accompany me up to Subway so I could grab lunch.

En route, I again stressed to her that I fall/trip and that she was along to assist me if that were to happen.   We were almost to Subway, and were crossing the street. There were quite a few people crossing, so we walked out around the crowd and made our way directly to the sidewalk.

Just one problem - as I was lifting my foot over the curb, it caught, and I started to go down in slow-motion.  My friend just stood next to me, WATCHING, and doing nothing.  (I still contend she took a step back so as not to associate herself with any embarrassment that might ensue.)  There I was, on my ass, she looked down at me and said:

"Deborah! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING??"

"Um, I fell.  Thanks for your help."

The whole way back to work, she claimed that she didn't really believe me when I said I am clumsy when preggers and because I was falling in slow-motion, she assumed I had control of myself.

Blah, blah, blah.

She could be a politician, the way she deflects.

Check-up

One of my best friends has gas issues.  I could tell you a thousand stories, but she has only authorized this one to date.  Trust me, there are better ones.

After the birth of her second child, my friend presented herself to the OBGYN for her 6 week check-up.  As she laid on the little table in the exam room - waiting for the doctor in her johnny shirt, feet in stirrups - she noticed a strange rumbling in her belly.  She tried to move and adjust to relieve the mounting pressure, but the gas bubble wasn't budging.  At that moment, the doctor entered the exam room, and they exchanged pleasantries.  My friend started praying silently that she could get through the next 5 minutes until the doctor was done and could get the hell out.

Now what I'm about to tell you is true, it's not a scene from the next "Bridesmaids." 

The doctor readies to "have a look" and my friend can hold on no longer.  She thought to herself, "Deborah would never let this happen to her!" and out slips a loud, stinky discharge of bodily gas right in the doctor's face.

Yep.

I asked her what went in those awkward moments following that fart - what can one really say after such an episode?  She says she didn't laugh, and the doctor just ignored that it had happened at all.

Oh, to have been a fly on the wall. 

'Course I'd be dead now from the stench. 

Or laughter. 

Or both.

Daughters

We were sitting at Wendy's, having our usual elegant supper before groceries, when I started realized how big our little kids were getting.  Our son is almost 6, and our daughter just turned 3.

"Dear, K(the girl) seems so little.  But she's older than W (the boy) was when we brought her home from the hospital.  Hard to believe he was so little."

The 5 year old son is listening in - because he's a hawk - and claims he remembers me going to the hospital to have his little sister.  He would have been 2 and a half.

"But you didn't see me, W.  The hospital didn't let kids in, you had to wait until I came home."

"I know," he says, "I remember you coming home."

"You remember me coming home after she was born?"  I'm not 100% in disbelief, 'cause this kid has an incredible memory.

"Yes," he claims.

"Oh."  I'm baffled.  "So," I continued, "You know the day you were born is your birthday?"

"You mean K's birthday is the day she was born?"

Now, all during this exchange, K is gobbling up her fries and gravy (gross!), seemingly not paying attention.  But she was.

"Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!  I'm not BORING!!!!!!!!"

Huh?

"W said I'm boring, I'm NOT boring!!!!"

We start to giggle, which just infuriated her more.

"He didn't say boring, he said you were BORN."

"NO!!!!!!!  I'm NOT BORING!!!!  Stop saying that W!!"

People were starting to stare at us, so we gave up, and told W to stop saying K is boring.  He agreed, like a good man, because, well, he didn't say it in the first place.

Stinky Foot

A friend of mine fell while doing laundry and broke her foot.  She got a cast put on it, and continued to take daily showers, covering the cast with plastic and taping it up tight to keep it from getting wet.  After almost a week, her husband commented on the smell emanating from her footal area.   She knew it was starting to get stinky, but had an appointment the following day to have the cast looked at, so she ignored his incessant gagging.

The next day, she presented herself at the hospital.  The doctor (or whoever it was) could smell what was now a full-on stench and removed the cast.  Water from the daily showers had made their way into the cast, and the skin on the bottom of her foot was white and moist.  The only alternative was to leave the cast off and let her foot air out, and use an inflatable cast from then on so she could shower without causing gangrene.

When I heard about this, I felt the need to send along a supportive text:

"Hey:  Something stinky is wafting in from Cardigan.  Thank fuck you didn't break your bird!"

See?  It can always be worse...

The Carcass

My sister and I - along with my 10 year-old-niece and 14year-old-son - were en route to visit my aunt who was in the hospital in Halifax.

Let me take a quick step back.  My sister does not eat meat of any kind, and hasn't since she was about 11.  On occasion she will eat chicken breast, as long as it has no bone or skin.  She also has a makeshift animal rescue going on at her house - two cats, a bunny and a Japanese Chin (it's supposed to be a dog, but I have my doubts).  And her house sits in the midst of a cattle field, so she's accustomed to the cow jamboree that goes on every morning at 5:00 when they wake up and announce that they have done so.

But I digress... 

So, we're on the highway, well outside Truro, the ride is long and boring, so the kids are encouraging my sister to speed up and pass other vehicles on the highway.  This goes on for a while, when we see an odd shaped car on the horizon.

"Speed up!" the kids roar from the back seat, and my sister obliges.

As we get closer, and my sister changes lanes to pass, we begin to realize that there is something amiss with this car.  Still confused, the kids and I start squinting to see what is going on.  Closer and closer we get until we realize that the car had a dead deer carcass strapped to the trunk!  We start roaring and pointing (because we're totally grossed out), as my sister realizes what we're looking at. She stomps on the gas, and as we pass (in what seemed like slow-motion - we were in a Yaris going uphill...), the roaring in the car ceases as we are silent in disbelieve.

The carcass is strapped to the trunk, facing our car, with blood teeming down the side of the vehicle, his front hoofs crossed before they were tied together.  Dead eyes watch us pass.  All the while, my sister is screaming, "OH MY GOD!  OH MY GOD!  OH MY GOD!  OH MY GOD!  OH MY EFFIN' GOD!"

Then silence.  That continues for another few minutes after we have passed.

I felt I had to say something.

"Can you believe that guy tied a deer to the truck of his Toytota Corolla?  Who the eff takes a COROLLA into the woods hunting???"

Sisters

To say my sister and I not get along when we were kids is an understatement.  She tried to set fire to my hair with a lighter when she was 3 (she still claims I'm making this up),  I locked her out of the house on numerous occasions.... you see how this is going.

So, by the time I was 18 and she was 15, we barely spoke.  One summer afternoon, she was sitting outside on our deck, slathering vegetable oil on herself to get a tan.  Yes, we actually did that in the 80's.

(Quick side note:  my sister is fair-skinned and blond.  She does not tan, she burns and peels.  Over and over.  That's it.  NEVER any tanning, despite her desire to tan.  This is one of those situations where parents err in telling their kids they can be whatever they want.)

I had just bought the most recent edition of Cosmo magazine and thought I'd have some fun.  Dad hadn't cut the grass yet, or rather dandelions, so 90% of the back yard was covered in yellow weeds.

So there she was, sitting on the deck, marinating in veggie oil, surrounded by dandelions.  How could I resist???

Out I went, with the Cosmo under my arm.

"You know," I said as bitchily (is that a word?) as I could.  "I don't know why you bother.  You're not going to tan with veggie oil."

"Fuck off."  The expected response.

"I just read in my Cosmo that fair-skinned people can only tan if they use natural stuff, like dandelions, Dumbass.  Good luck with the veggie oil!"

"Kiss it, would ya!  Go away!!"

Away I went.

Inside the house, I peeked out the kitchen window.  After a few minutes, she got up and casually walked down the couple of steps to the yard.  She started plucking the weeds, and rubbing them on her skin.

JACKPOT!!!

She came in the house a little later, and my mother almost killed me.  But it was worth it.  Her elbows and knees were stained for a week.

The heat, my God, the HEAT!

Since the fateful first time I fainted in July 1981 when Prince Charles and Princess Diana visited PEI and my choir sang for them on the lawn of Fanningbank (the lieutenant governor's home), I have issues with passing out in heat.  It's continued throughout my life, and I generally can sense when it's going to happen. Now, I don't pass out for a long period, it's often just a few moments.  But it's very unnerving, especially if I am alone.

So, when I was pregnant in 2005 - THE hottest gd summer in recent memory - I was very careful not to put myself in situations where I might over-heat.  One August day, I wanted to get my enormous self out of the office at lunch, and thought a little ride in my air-conditioned van would do the trick.  As I was driving around, I thought of a couple of things I needed at Walmart.  Taking advantage of the pregger-parking, I was mere steps from the front entrance.  I parked, moved quickly into the over-air-conditioned comfort of Walmart and went about my business.  As I was leaving, I was a little hungry and decided to grab a one fajita meal from McDonald's.

As I got to the exit, I looked to make sure the van was only a few steps away, and there it was.  I scanned the crowd coming and going, there seemed to be no barrier between me and my chariot.  So I inhaled deeply - one last breath of cold air - and away I went.

I made it to the back of the van before the heat hit me, and made a dive for the driver's door.  But it was too late.  In between my van and the van next to me, I went down.  I'm sure it was 40 degrees in the shade.  And there is no shade in a Walmart parking lot.

Picture it:  an eleventeen-month preggers woman, beached between two vans.  It's not like it's an easy proposition for me to just bend at the waist and get up.  Add to that the fact that my knee and elbow were bleeding profusely, and to get up, I had to put my weight on that knee and my hand.  I grasped at the door handle and pulled myself up.  Only then did I notice that the fries from my fajita meal had spilled out onto the pavement.  Oh, the humanity!!

People asked me later if anyone stopped to help me - I'm still unsure if anyone would have - but no one noticed me between the vehicles.  Assholes.

So there I sat, in my air-conditioned van for what seemed like forever, crying because I was so upset - there were pieces of pavement in my knee (and it was gross), I didn't want to go back to work, and my fries were gone.  I pulled myself together, decided to go home to call my director and take the afternoon off.  So I put the van in reverse.

As anyone in that situation would, I broke into a fit of hysterics as I ran over my effin' fries.

The String

My eldest and I were on our own before I got married, so to keep an eye on him, I developed a few habits, one of which was that - like many moms - I left the door open when I went to the bathroom so I could hear if he was getting into anything.

One day, just as I sat down to pee, I heard a faint, terrified voice from beside me.

"Mommy..... why is there a string in your bum?"

"Um, that's not a sting,"  I said wondering what possible explanation would appease him.  I had used "I don't know" before and was worried it might not work the second time around.

"Mommy, what is it?"

"Um, it's toilet paper."

"No, it's not," he said.

"Yes, it is, " I exclaimed, and shooed him out of the bathroom, all the while he was looking very suspicious.

Great.  No wonder so men are so screwed up, and claim it's because of their mothers.  Not like I did it on purpose, but damn!

The Office Poop, Part Deux

For whatever reason, the office poop remains a difficult office topic.  Case in point:

I refuse to use anything but the handicap washroom at work, for several reasons.

Reason #1:

There is a co-worker that seemed to always be in the loo when I was, which, to be honest, I tried to avoid at all costs.   This one day, I went in, checked the shoes in Stall 1, felt confident that it was not the undesirable co-worker, and went into Stall 2 (there are only 2 stalls).  As I'm hovering there (I never sit in public restrooms) and began to piddle, I hear from the other side of the metal divider.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle..... pffffffffffft.... tinkle, tinkle.

Now, I don't know about you, but have you ever considered the situation you are in when you pee with your naked arse 12 inches from another, divided only by a metal half-wall?  Add in the fact that I find it impossible to stop mid-stream - NOT a good scene.

So there I am, squatting over the toilet, breathing in co-worker fart, praying to be done and make my escape.  Then it hits me:  What if we both come out of our stalls at the same time?  Fawk.  I manage to be done first, wash my hands quickly, and exit before she even finishes up her business.

Reason # 2

I make the mistake again of misjudging the shoes and enter to pee.  No noise is coming from the other stall, so I hover to begin my pee.  Mid-way through, I hear, "Huaaaahahhhhhh."  It wasn't really loud or anything, but it could not be mistaken for anything but someone straining out a poop.

Reason #3:

The same co-worker was in the loo, and left as I was entering.  Confident that she would not need to go again in the short period it would take me to pee, I decided to risk it.  As I enter the stall and begin my hovering ritual, I notice what I initially think is a leaf on the tile.  Leaning in a little closer, I realize that no, no, it is not a leaf, but rather a small dabble of SHIT that someone has left there on the floor for the next occupant.  SHIT.  Do you understand how gross that is?  I mean, had she turned around to admire her work, and another little tidbit snuck out?  Efff.

I wipe, wash my hands and exit immediately, swearing off the office toilets.  Well, except for the handicap one.  At least I'm in there alone.

New Love

On of my best friends and co-workers had just started dating her now-husband.  They were in the "honeymoon" stage, and doing it at every chance they got.

One day at lunch, she wasn't back at her usual time.  By almost an hour late, the phone rang at my desk.

"Hello," she whispered breathlessly.  "I'm running a little late."

"Are you home, doing it?" I laughed.

She whispered, "Well, my clothes fell off."

"What?" says me.

Still whispering, but louder and more pronounced to be sure I would hear, "My clothes fell off!"

"WHAT?" I say very loudly, knowing she'll follow suit.  I immediately pressed 'speakerphone' and turned the volume up - and awaited the response I knew would be coming.

"MY CLOOOTTTHHHEEEESSSSS  FELLLLLLL OFFFFFFFF!"

Realizing she had just made this announcement to the whole section we worked in, she hissed, "You bitch, you had me on speakerphone!"

Yes, yes, I did.

The Cemetery

My mother passed away when I was 19.  My younger sister and I would go every year thereafter to plant flowers at her grave.

Several years ago, I was pregnant with my second child, and was a little front-heavy.  Okay, I was never a little ANYTHING when I was preggers.  Actually, I was prone to passing out, tripping, falling... my balance was completely screwed up, and I warned everybody about it.

So there we are, knelt at the grave, digging furiously to make a neat spot to plant some flowers.  I was in the zone and did not notice that I was slowly leaning forward.  Finally, at my last dig, it happened:  I fell forward - in slow motion - an narrowly missed knocking myself out on my mother's headstone, but instead landed on my arse.  My sister and I started laughing (what other option is there, really?), hooting in the cemetery.  Probably the best laugh those folks had gotten years.

It was only made worse by the two of us imagining the events had I ACTUALLY hit my head and required medical attention.  The ambulance depot was right across the street and with my luck, would have witnessed the entire thing.  "Yes, 911?  Ahem.  Er....   Hello, could you please come collect my pregnant sister over at the Roman Catholic Cemetery?  She knocked herself out on our mother's headstone...."

Jesus.

The Office Poop

Everybody does it.  Some do it every day, some more, some less.  Poop.  Why are we so shy about it?

One of my best friends has issues with going to take a poop, especially at work.  For many years, her grandmother lived within a block of work, so every day my friend would toddle off at 10:30 am or so to "visit" her Nan - which basically consisted of her leaving a stinky, steaming gift in the bathroom, a quick hello, and back to work.  This went on for YEARS.

Now, I had offered some advice (for my own amusement, mostly), and even purchased her a book entitled, "Everybody Poops" but it was to no avail.  She refused to do a number 2 at work.  I suggested that someday she try the handicapped bathroom on the second floor, because nobody ever used that bathroom, it was single stall, and she'd have the place to herself.  The only time anyone ventured up to the second floor was if there was a client of the bank on the first floor asked for a public washroom.  Most clients couldn't be bothered to go upstairs, so it got little use.

Months later, desperate and worried she'd not make it to Nan's, my friend gave in, and entered the suggested bathroom to do her business.  She was not 100% comfortable, but managed to drop some kids off at the pool.  As she was about to finish, she heard a knock at the door.  Panicked - but dying to get out of the stench she had created - she tried to think up an escape plan.  (And of course, part of her was convinced I'd been watching and waited until I knew she was good an comfortable before I started knocking.  Sadly, it was not me.  I wish it had been.)

Realizing there were no options (as the knocks continued) she opened the door quickly, stepped out and leaned against the door to close it, blocking entry.  An elderly gentleman stood there, looking perplexed.

"Excuse me," says the man, clearly wanting her to move the hell out of the way.  "I'd like to use the restroom."

Shit.  Not this one, buddy.

"I'm sorry," says my friend, "I'll have to take you upstairs."

So she hauled this old guy up to the 3rd floor, takes him into the secure area of the office to the staff washroom, and waits for him to finish his business.  Then, as she's leading him back to the exit, he leans in and says, "Thanks for thinking of my nose."

She still refuses poop at work, claiming, "She'd rather die first." I really think she means it.

Gary

Everybody knows somebody with a lawn gnome. Sometimes it's even you.

Several years ago, my uncle gave my sister a lawn gnome.  He's a little eccentric, and thought she'd like it.  She did not.  She finds gnomes creep and weird, they way they just stare....  So she puts it on the top shelf in her pantry, to avoid his gaze, in case the uncle ever returned asking where the gnome might be.

Not long afterwards, my aunt was ill and was hospitalized in Halifax.  She wasn't able to get out over Christmas, so some friends took her shopping for my sister and I while they were there visiting.  On their return home, I got a phone call to "come get the Christmas gifts she'd bought" from her friend.  So over I go, loaded up everything (it was all wrapped), and noticed an oddly-shaped bag.  "What's that?" says me.  "It's a garden gnome for your sister, she loves them."   Pause.  "MY sister?" Apparently my aunt had noticed the gnome perched on the pantry shelf and thought to herself:  "Ah, she collects gnomes!"

As soon as I got on the road with the gaggle of gifts, I called my sister, laughing my guts out.  "Guess what you're effin getting for Christmas?" I squealed.  "A garden gnome, and not just ANY garden gnome.... this on has a solar panel so it will light up ALL NIGHT!!"   My sister was not even remotely amused.  "Shit.  Why did she buy me that??"  "Apparently you LOVE them.  HHAAAHAAHAAHAAAA!!!"

Months went by, and the story of this dastardly gnome grew.   To the point where my sister's friend named him Gary, and started to refer to him like he was a real inhabitant of my sisters house.  Since my sister was single, it made perfect sense.  People started calling to ask if Gary was home.  He was invited on outings, and in March of that next year, he went bowling and out to eat for my sister's birthday.  We all thought it was hilarious, my sister pretended to be embarrassed, but deep, deep, deep down, she enjoyed Gary.

Then in the Spring of 2011, "Gnomeo and Juliet" (animated in 3D) was released, and Gary expressed an interest in going in his own quiet way.  So, my sister and I, my niece and my 5 year old son made plans.  Then my sister overhears my niece tell her friend about how "Auntie wants to take Armondo to the movies."  My sister was baffled so asked who "Armondo" was.  "Mom.  I said OUR LAWN GNOME."  Shit, we laughed, and thereafter Gary had a last name.  Gary Armondo.  (For future reference, it helps when you talk about an inanimate object if they have a last name.)

Gary did go to the movies, wore his 3D glasses, and enjoyed a kid's pack - at least we think he did.  He's really making strides to get out more and at this point he has more friends on FB than I do.

Facebook.  Interesting to say the least.  Gary joined, and began making comments on life, his surrounds, etc, but shockingly was NOT the first garden gnome to have a profile on FB.  Not even close.  And apparently they've all worked at Travelocity.

Of course.

The Beginning

The best place to start is the beginning:

I was born in the 70's - May - and was, by my father's accounts, the ugliest baby he'd ever seen.  I am not sure how many babies he'd seen at that point, but it was by no stretch a compliment.  My mother was overdue, apparently I was supposed to arrive in April, but I held on.  Despite being so late, I was not a big baby - 8 lbs or so.  My parents were both chain smokers (it was the 70's and it was the non-smoker who got odd looks) so the fact that I was that big astounds me.  Anyway, my father was pacing in the waiting room (fathers did that back then) awaiting his first child - something my sister and I still debate - while my mother and my godmother Stella (a nurse and whom I adore) were waiting me out, smoking in the delivery room to relax.  Yes, you read that right, I can't make this shit up.  Jehovah. 

Eventually I showed up but was:  a) purple, b) dry and shriveled up like I'd been in an extra long, hot bath, and c) not breathing.  So the doctor did what he had to do and away I went.  Dad claims to this day that he wanted to return me because I was in such rough shape. 

So that's how I came to be.  Ugly, shriveled, in a puff of Player's cigarette smoke with an IV in my head.  Good times.

Silence

Several years ago, I worked in a pretty small unit, led by a man who liked to get everyone to go out on Friday nights together.  I, of course, being in my twenties, loved it.  One particular Friday, I opted to take the afternoon off, go get a facial, pedicure, waxing, etc., and skip the Friday social.  General rule of thumb was that those invited who did not show up were pestered via telephone calls.  And it got worse as the night went on, because well, we were getting loaded and thought it was pretty funny.

At 5:30, there or abouts, I got the call.

"Deborah, where are you?" he says.  I can hear the rest of the group in the background at the bar, waiting with bated breath for what he might say next.

"I'm at home."

"Are you you coming out with us?"

"No, I don't think I will."

Silence.

"Are you that dog-ugly that you had to take the entire afternoon off to get a facial?" At this point I can hear the others stifling giggles in the background.  Fawk.

"No, actually, it wasn't like that."

"What do you mean?"  he asks. (I can actually hear him smirking at this point.)

"I looked so good when I got home, I decided to stay here and touch myself."

Silence.

Silence.

Perfect.

"WHAT?"

"Robbie," I said softly.  "Nobody screams my name like I do."

I still lay claim to being one of the only people ever to leave that man speechless.

Kids

When my eldest son was 4, he got in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom.  Inevitably, he located the box of tampons.  Out he comes, with a fistful, and demands to know "what these are for?"

My mind raced, while I tried to imagine an answer that would satisfy him without terrorizing him.  One of many incidents I had to maintain that balance, I would say.  So, in the growing silence, I came up with answer.

"They're for girls."

"But what are they for?"  he asks.

"They're for girls."  I'm starting to sweat now.

"But what are they for?"  he insists.

"They're for girls."  Shit.

"But what are they FOR?"  he hisses.

So I say what any responsible mother would say.

"Um.  I don't know." 

"Okay," says my son, and off he goes.

Jesus.