Attention! Victoria’s Secret Is No Longer The Sexiest Thing on The Market, Welcome To Roscoe’s Secret

One of my favourite things in the whole world is to drop trou and have a good laugh. By that I mean one of my hobbies is finding outrageously ugly underpants and then laughing while wearing said undergarments.

English: A Holstein heifer on pasture of a dai...

I wanted to include a photo of the underpants in question, but The Great Unwashed isn’t that kind of blog. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A couple of years ago Roscoe got me the mack daddy pair of ugly underpants. They had neon pink piping and a bizarre Holstein cross Dalmatian print. The crowning glory of this hot mess was of course the rhinestone and gold message on the bum “Gorgeous”. Or at least I think it says gorgeous, the font is strange and difficult to read. Gorgeous seems ironic and perfect so I’ve decided that the indecipherable lettering says just that.

So I was getting ready for bed the other night when Roscoe came in. “What ever happened to your “Hey Cow” underwear?” he asked nonchalantly  while pulling on a pyjama shirt as though this was a reasonable question and not one that would land him in huge trouble. “My what?” I asked, bewildered and more than a little angry.

“You know the pink ones, with the cow print that say “Hey Cow” on the back.

It was then that I realized that my husband wasn’t comparing me to a farm animal but he actually thought that someone had created women’s underwear with a message about cattle on them.

So without further adieu, what the lingerie world would look like if Roscoe was at the helm of Victoria’s Secret’s design team.

  • Bright yellow granny panties with the words “WIDE LOAD” in bold, black font
  • A normal looking set of bikini briefs with the exception of a big red flag on the back, because here in Canada, when we transport something too large for our cars we hang red flags off the back.
  • “Beep, Beep, Beep” written in reflective red on the bum of forest green underpants. Comes complete with a button and batteries to add the sound of a truck backing up
  • Saggy grey underpants with swirly cursive on the rear “You can call me elephant”
  • White panties with a multi-coloured sprinkle pattern and the message “Krispy Kremes are the only food group” on the back

An Uncommon Link

U.S. Department of Homeland Security Official ...

You should always tell these people the truth. Except for when your truth takes a half an hour to explain, or your voice sounds like a hysterical chipmunk when you get upset or flustered. Then you should probably condense the truth, or just say “vacation”. Also flop sweating in front of Homeland Security is unacceptable regardless of the purpose of your visit . (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s always important to tell the truth. Except for when you shouldn’t, like when you’re standing at the customs booth wanting to get into a country and the stern customs agent asks “What is the purpose of your visit ma’am?”

Under no circumstance should you be truthful then. You absolutely should not tell the customs agent that you’re going to San Antonio to be a travel nanny for your great aunt’s daughter’s son because the Homeland security employee won’t understand, and even worse he might not let you into the country. Admittedly, it isn’t the customs agent’s fault. At first glance your great aunt’s daughter’s son doesn’t sound like an important person to visit. It sounds suspiciously like “I’m a petit, blonde drug mule hell bent on your country’s destruction.” Because great aunts couldn’t possibly be that important. And great aunt’s daughters couldn’t possibly be that important either, but the thing is, for me they are.

Aunty Betty. I can’t actually do justice in talking about Aunty Betty and the kind of person she is so I’m going to tell a story instead.

Once, when I was eight, my sister Diana, Granddad, Mom and I all piled into Granddad’s van and drove for three years. That’s an exaggeration but only slight, because for an eight and six year old, the drive from Ontario to Manitoba might as well have been three years long.

So we drove, and then we drove some more, and then we stopped to play koosh ball with mom. After that we got back into the car and drove for another month. And finally, finally we pulled up to what seemed to be a very nondescript house. It looked like any other house in that subdivision; medium sized, well maintained with a picturesque garden. But it wasn’t any other house on the block, although Diana and I didn’t know that yet.

So Granddad’s van pulled into the driveway and out tumbled Diana and I like clowns from a small car, so eager were we to be free of our seatbelts. And we knocked on the door and it opened, and out came Aunty Betty and her husband.

Some people hae auditory hallucinations of their cell phone ringing, after listening to a funny story I can hear Aunty Betty’s laugh ringing through my ears. My Great Aunt’s laugh is the sound of appreciation coming from her very core, she throws her head back and it’s powerful. The sound is glorious and I know that Diana loves it too because why else would she have plied our dear Great Aunt with so many blueberry coolers at Granddad’s seventieth fete?

And then Aunty Betty spoke. Her words overflowed with kindness, you longed to hear her address you as “Luvie” and most often your keen listening was rewarded. She showed children the same level of respect as grownups. Truth be told she shows everyone that same amount of respect. But I’ll touch on where I learned the value of offering basic human rights in another story. And best of all was what she talked about; vegetarians, music, Autism, mod, everything under the sun that Diana and I had never heard of but wanted to learn more about.

After that we sat down to dinner and met Carter’s Mommy, but she wasn’t Carter’s Mommy then. She wasn’t anyone’s mommy then, so she went by Jessica*. Diana and I would probably have spent the entire meal just fascinated with Jessica, listening to her melodious voice and her laugh which sounded a lot like Aunty Betty’s if it hadn’t been for George**.

George was Aunty Betty’s oldest son and as soon as he sat down at the dinner table my and Diana’s eyes were glued on him and stayed there the entire meal.

Erica nose piercings

George had a normal nose ring. I imagine Diana and my little heads would have exploded from shock if he showed up with a septum piercing.(Photo credit: nebarnix)

A nose ring. A. Nose. Ring. A nose ring! Without looking at the other sister’s face we read each other other’s minds as our eyes tried to digest the concept of this small piece of metal. He seemed so friendly but then he had gone and shoved a silver circle through one of his perfectly good nostrils! Piercing your ears before fourteen was verboten in our house, so our young brains could not have fathomed something so foreign or strange as a nose ring.

After the meal Jessica brought out her guitar and together she and George sang so Diana and I could dance our hearts out. The four of us stayed in Aunty Betty’s home with her family for a week before heading back to Ontario.

On our last night there my eight year old heart was broken. How could I leave a place where everyone was kind and there were so many people to sing and talk with? I cried for so long that my mother eventually carried me from the bed where Diana was trying to sleep into the living room where the adults were talking. Comforted by the flow of familiar voices over me I nodded off.

I probably wouldn’t have been so tearful had I known that we would return again and again to visit Aunty Betty and her mother, my Great Grandma Kay. Or that they in turn would fly to my province to visit me. And that I would spend a whole week of my adolescence traipsing about after Aunty Betty while she talked to me about the world.

Unfortunately those things are hard to explain and nearly impossible to convey in less than sixty seconds to border guards. Even more difficult to comprehend is that in my list of favourite places in the whole world that the Kanaapali beach in Maui falls behind sitting in my Great Aunt’s kitchen. So returning home from the states my arms noodle-y from carrying Carter back and forth from the pool, I replied with a succinct “Visiting family” in response being asked the purpose of my visit.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of both Jessica and her son Carter. It’s bad enough that I insist on sending oversized t shirts with monsters on them in the mail that Carter then wears around like a tiny muumuu.

**George is the only member of my family who hasn’t had my blog forced upon him like pasta at an Italian picnic so I don’t feel right putting his real name up on my site.


Internet Search Engines- A How To Guide

My lack of technological prowess is something that is poked fun at by my family and friends, particularly my habit of saying “The Googles”.


Image representing Google as depicted in Crunc...

One of “The Googles”. According to Roscoe, you’re not supposed to type a message complete with a greeting and your name into the search bar. Image via CrunchBase

The Google search engine I use is vastly different from the one Roscoe uses. When Roscoe uses The Googles, he discovers the exact piece of information he is searching for. By contrast when I use The Googles, I’m lucky if I can find anything actually related to my topic. Thus I’ve reached the conclusion that there is clearly more than one Google, consequently the name must be pluralized.


For example, this past week our knives were getting alarmingly dull, making any task from chopping a carrot to slicing meat difficult and unrewarding. Hence like any self respecting member of my generation, I went to the internet for help. I entered my query into the Google search bar as thus “Dear The Googles, cutting with our knives is becoming super tough, please help me find someone to sharpen them, thanks! Love The Great Unwashed”


Prison Break: The Conspiracy

Although they are ruggedly handsome, somehow I doubt that either of these men can instruct me on the finer point of using a whetstone. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Googles found me a Prison Break Wikiquote link and a knife sharpener from the United Kingdom. Although people in prison likely know how to use knives, quoting a television show about penitentiaries was not going to mince onions. The second link would have had me paying an arm and a leg in shipping and resulted in Roscoe and I eating rice-a-roni for months while we waited for our knives to come back to us.


I explained my Google and knife sharpening woes to Roscoe, at which point he used The Googles to find a local knife sharpener, thus confirming my suspicion that there is more than one Google. Although I imagine I could learn to use Roscoe’s Google*, I feel like having a faster, better Google would require endless updating.   Downloading new versions of software is something that I don’t even bother to do for necessary programs on my computer, let alone a search engine that I really only use to find out what flavor of air Tori Spelling eats. Were it not for Roscoe’s intervention I’d probably still be using MS-DOS, so I think I’m going to be stuck using my Googles for a long time.




*The words “Roscoe’s Google” sound vaguely dirty to me and I’m half expecting one of my aunts to put a comment below “Hey! Do you mind? This is a family blog!”


Waking Up With Robin Williams

Good Morning, Vietnam

This is of course every man’s dream; waking up next to a sweaty, bellowing comedian. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At 6:30 PM on Friday I was nearly face down in my dinner. “I’m going to bed at eight” I murmured to Roscoe. “That’s fine but you are not allowed to get up at 4 AM” he replied. While most people get into a cycle of staying up late and sleeping in later on weekends, my bad habit is going to sleep earlier and getting up before the crack of dawn. This wouldn’t be a problem were it not for my behaviour in the morning. Unfortunately for Roscoe I’m one of those people who bolts upright in bed, punching the air and bellowing “Hello World. Let’s go!”


For Roscoe’s sake I try to keep a lid on it and not immediately start jumping around like a three year old hopped up on sugar, I give it about two hours. However two hours later when you’ve gotten up at four o’clock in the morning is still six o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. Hence why Roscoe prefers to move my grand entrance back one hour.


Our morning routine begins as such, after the magical two hours have passed, I throw open the door to the bedroom and with all of the subtlety of Robin Williams in “Good Morning Vietnam” say “GOOOOOOOOOD Morrrrrrrrrning Roscoooooooe”. Then I launch myself into the air and onto the bed. Sometimes Roscoe is inadvertently head butted by my exuberance at this point. However he doesn’t have a moment to regroup and think “Did my wife really just head butt me in the nose?” because I’m already shooting statements and questions at him rapid fire. “It’s morning! I’m awake. Watch me do downward dog. Do you see how my heels touch the ground? Isn’t that great? I think we should have eggs for breakfast. Can I make you a coffee? We need to go on a walk.”


This is invariably followed by Roscoe uttering very nicely but through gritted teeth “I just. Need. A minute.” I’ll then bounce out of the room, the doorway practically vibrating with the energy I’m giving off and make my way into the kitchen which is located directly behind the bedroom. “AAAAAAAAeeeeeggggs. I love eggs.” I’ll sing, or some other similar song while Roscoe groans into his pillow.


He’ll give up the pretense of getting any more rest after about five minutes of me warbling and crashing pots and pans in the next room but I think he needs those extra moments of quasi slumber. One can understand why he rejoices when I sleep in past seven though.


Friendship and Shameful Confessions


As you can see, short shorts are versatile. They can go from the beach, to the bank, to your grandmother’s 80th birthday party.There’s no need to change when the world is one inch of fabric away from seeing your butt cheeks.(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Once upon a time when I still thought that short shorts were appropriate attire for every occasion, I knew a girl called Beck. She and I had a lot in common; we both were working in a foreign country, we both loved to read and I recently discovered that we both enjoy writing.

Beck writes on a blog called “The Friendly Film Fan”. You should go check her out, if only because she survived a trip to the Everglades with me and Roscoe and nary an alligator attempted to eat her. Unlike Roscoe, who nearly embodied the nursery rhyme “Alligator Pie” (By Dennis Lee).

Becks recently wrote a review on the movie “The Host”, for those of you who are above the age of thirteen or who possess good taste in literature, “The Host” is a movie based on the book written by Stephanie Meyers of Twilight fame.

Now you may judge me all you like, but I loved Twilight. I read the whole series. I actually stayed up all night reading “Breaking Dawn”. Roscoe walked in on me at six in the morning bleary eyed with wild hair still deep in the pages. “What did you do?” he cried knowing that there would be hell to pay for me staying not one, not two but nine whole hours past my bedtime. “UHnnnehEEEurrrrn” I replied at which point I gave up and went to bed, only to return to the book six hours later, only slightly rested.

Polski: Drosophila melanogaster

My degree is in Genetics. This is a Drosophila melanogaster, it is not worth losing sleep over.  Unlike sexy vampires and werewolves, you should probably wait up beside your window just incase they exist and appear to whisk you away. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In university I made the Dean’s list every year. I never pulled an all nighter, not once, I never even came close. It’s more than a little bit amusing to me that my first all nighter was in the name of teenage vampire love, not something so pious as education.

For the record, Beck now goes by Becca, and we both went back to our respective countries. Also I no longer wear short shorts everywhere following an awkward job interview. Rule of thumb for the fashion challenged- the bottom half of your outfit should be larger than the interviewer’s necktie. In my defense I was wearing a very long shirt that day.

A Lesson In Parenting

In my industry, as a rule you don’t call children pains in the ass otherwise they’ll grow up to be pains in the ass. It’s a self fulfilling prophecy. This theory extends beyond raising children though. For example, you probably shouldn’t do something funny and then say to the writer sitting next to you “Oh no- you’re going to write about this” because it’s entirely possible that we hadn’t considered doing such a thing until you suggested it.


That was my really long winded way of saying “Thanks for the idea Mom!”


Anyway, so I was home last weekend and I wanted to spend some time shopping with my sister. Unfortunately Diana’s goal for the day was to watch as many eighties, Whoopi Goldberg films as possible. Having just spent three hours on a bus to get home I wasn’t keen on sitting any longer, which was how I ended up in the grocery store parking lot with my mother.


The grocery store was extremely busy that day consequently the parking lot was quite full. My mother insists on parking in “drive through” spots. Something I can completely understand as the driver of a sixteen year old truck which turns over infrequently and stops even less frequently. Therefore I’m fairly understanding that one needs to be picky about things like parking spots. However my Mom insisted on a drive through parking spot facing East. She had justification for this however it’s funnier just to tease her.


English: Reliant Robin in car parking space at...

It’s a parking spot, but it’s not a “drive through” space. Drive past it. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


I digress, so the first East facing drive through spot we pass is deemed unfit because on one side a car has parked too close to the line and there are two abandoned shopping carts straddling the line on the other side. So around the parking lot we go. And around. And around. The store was very busy that day.


Hence we return to this very same spot. Only by this point my mother is tired of driving around the parking lot. “I’m going to pull in here” she says.  And as I’m watching the car on my side get so close that I could roll down the window and breathe on it, I notice that the driver’s side mirror is about to hit one of the shopping carts. “Hold on, I’m going to get out and move them” I say quickly. “It’s fine” replies my Mom as the driver’s side mirror hits the shopping cart and sends it rolling into an unsuspecting Honda two spots over.



Shopping cart

Think of the havoc that could be wreaked with this cart! (Photo credit: /dave/null)


It was at that point that we both burst out laughing. (No damage was done to the innocent by standing vehicle.) Then my Mom starts laughing harder and says “Oh no! You’re going to blog about this.”


So thanks for the idea Mom. Let this be a lesson to everyone; don’t put ideas in your children’s heads, or maybe it’s park facing North. Either way I must say I do love going grocery shopping with my Mom.


Travesty Tuesdays- What May Very Well Be Our Last Date Night In Public

This Travesty Tuesday isn’t so much a correspondence as a conversation. It occurred on Roscoe and my last date night. He claims that I’m grounded and not allowed to speak to normal people for two weeks. Especially not flustered young women with unwanted tilapia. Something about my new catchphrase being wildly inappropriate.

This post will make infinitely more sense and be much funnier if you’ve read “Protect Your Pecker: Pause Before Pill Popping”

Date– Last Thursday

Scene– Roscoe and I are out for a date at a local food place. Our server is new, however Roscoe and I are patient and don’t mind waiting or asking politely for things like cutlery. The two of us are happily chatting away, enjoying the lengthy European style dinner that our server’s inexperience has afforded us. The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the food.

Various cutlery

Wildly over-rated. The under two crowd doesn’t even use them. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

~Our server carefully places pizza in front of me and fish in front of Roscoe~

Nervous Server– cheerfully, with a note of satisfaction over not dropping the food “There you go!”

Queue the Great Unwashed looking at Roscoe to see whether he’s going to say anything. It appears he isn’t.

The Great Unwashed – in an encouraging tone “Thank you! These do look wonderful, sadly they aren’t what we ordered. I wanted the pork and he ordered a hamburger”

Nervous, now Flustered Server– “Oh! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, let me get those plates.”

~Flustered, blushing server reaches for the plates~

The Great Unwashed– in a reassuring tone “Don’t worry, it’s fine, no one lanced the peen.”

Nervous, now Bewildered Server– “What? I mean pardon?”

Roscoe to the Great Unwashed – “You HAVE to stop saying that. “

Roscoe to the Bewildered Server holding the ownerless plates in a mortified and apologetic tone – “I’m sorry, she means everything is fine.”

Personally I think it’s an overreaction, I mean no harm no foul, no peens were lanced. Regardless it appears as though for the next month our date nights will be Netflix movies on the couch.

*For those of you looking at your calendars, yes it is Friday. However I thought Wednesday was Tuesday and then our house was broken into by spirits from the great beyond on Wednesday night. Have no fear, they took nothing,

however they did leave the lid off the peanut butter. I can’t really blame them, who doesn’t love peanut butter?

Nocturnal Apparitions

So I had a “Travesty Tuesday” post all written and ready to go with the intention of posting it this week then I realized last night that it was Wednesday. If four day weeks back to back separated by a four day weekend don’t throw your sense of time and day for a loop, I don’t know what does. However I was heading out to a friend’s and decided to post it when I got back along with a note about my thinking it was only Tuesday.

But then our house got broken into. By ghosts. So instead of posting hilarity for my readers, I spent fifteen minutes crouched in my bathroom because it’s the only room in the house with a lock, on the phone with my parents waiting for Gordy* to come over.

Gordy has been a close friend for nearly a decade and thus is well versed in the Great Unwashed hierarchy of fears. After hearing that the door to the upstairs was wide open without my having touched it, he rushed right over.

Queue the two of us searching the entire house. Now if Roscoe and I lived in a normal apartment this wouldn’t have taken long. Regrettably we don’t. We live in a two story apartment in an 85 year old house that has always had a doctor’s office on the lower floor. We have more walk in closets than most people have fingers and toes.

Luckily our search turned up no intruders. Therefore the only logical conclusion is that my house was broken into by ghosts. This does happen occasionally, most often when Roscoe isn’t home, the last time that he was on call there was a poltergeist in the fridge.

That was a really long way of explaining why the Travesty Tuesday will now be on Friday.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who are willing to drive over to my house in the middle of the night to search for the phantom of the doctor. Mostly because if his name got out everyone would be calling him and then he’d be run off his feet with women who thought they had a spook in their toaster.

The First In the Lengthy List Of Things That I’m Terrified Of or Near Death By Haunting

I nearly died the other night. This may be a slight exaggeration. But only slight. Roscoe is currently living an hour and a half away from home as a part of his job. He’s been put up in a spacious apartment, fully equipped with a kitchen and washer dryer facilities. These would be fabulous amenities were Roscoe to actually use them. As it is I periodically send him with actual dinners and the rest of the time he appears to eat cereal next to a growing mountain of dress shirts.

This fabulous apartment is situated above the town’s post office in a building that may or may not be eight hundred years old. That’s a high estimate but not really. One of the buildings down the street is advertised as having been a hotel since 1895, so it’s at least 118 years old if not older. The giant house cum post office slash all purpose building for the community that Roscoe is staying in looks to be a little younger but only a little less haunted than the hotel.

The first night Roscoe stayed there, he called and told me how much I would love the gigantic staircase leading up to the apartment because at five feet wide, it possessed a kind of grandeur I can’t resist.

Prior to last Thursday I had stayed one other night with Roscoe. He was correct, I did love the staircase. I pictured myself wearing a ballgown walking slowly up the aged steps, the dark thick paneling at my feet gleaming and reflecting the image of my imaginary stiletto heels. At the top I slowly walked around the large banister post, appreciating its solid artistry.

Roscoe is very conscientious, so when staying in housing provided by his job he tries not to use too much water or electricity, not wanting to be a burden on the community that has very kindly put him up. So the next night that I came to stay, Roscoe turned on the lights to let me  ascend the staircase but as soon as I reached the top he flicked the switch, leaving me in total darkness in a foreign, spooky house.

The view from the poltergeist's loft, while plotting my demise.

The view from the poltergeist’s loft, while plotting my demise.

“EEEEEEEE” I clutched the solid oak banister, the only thing in a world of darkness, strange noises and the sound of my husband’s feet moving up the darkened steps. “I’m here. I’m here.” Roscoe reached the top of the staircase patting my hand briefly then leading me across the pitch black landing to the door of the apartment. All around the sounds of the house echoed through the hundred year old bathrooms that also opened onto the landing. Shadows descended from the staircase which led to the next floor of the house.

Above us I heard a distinct thump. The noise moved through the house, bouncing off the tiles in the bathrooms and back to my ears distorting the alarming sound even more. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” I grabbed for any part of Roscoe to squeeze and cling to before I was spirited away by angry two hundred year old ghosts who were pissed that a blonde who loved ball gowns was invading their space. “You’re fine. Almost there.” Roscoe opened the door to the darkened apartment.

Recalling the light switch located across from the doorway, I lunged into the apartment slamming my shin into the chair that the residents of the community had so thoughtfully put there so guests could remove their shoes while sitting. “Damn it ghosts!” I cursed.

Seeing how shaken up I was Roscoe promised that next time he would wait until we were inside the lit apartment to turn off the downstairs and hallway light. But it didn’t matter, the ghosts knew I was there and more importantly I knew they were there, I felt them. All that night and the next I listened to them play the radiator xylophone and wrestle one another on the third floor. I knew what they were fighting about “I get to devour her head!” thud. “No, I do!”

Me, after being slain by 200 year old, blonde-hating spirits.

Me, after being slain by 200 year old, blonde-hating spirits.

Today the toilet flooded in the Roscoe’s temporary apartment. He’s blaming the old pipes, but I know better. The ghosts want me to know that they’re still here, they’re just biding their time.