Knock, Knock, Did Anyone Order a Sexy Politician?

John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, Barrack Obama and in the right light even Calvin Coolidge; our Southern neighbours have had some sexy presidents. What does Canada have? William Lyon Mackenzie King, a man as blustery and bombastic as he was round. The height of our sexy leadership was of course Pierre Trudeau who was bald however he did have a certain appealing charisma about him.

It’s time for Canadians to bring the sexy back, in the form of Justin Trudeau. Much like his famous father Justin brings a certain charm as well as a heady mix of spontaneity combined with power. Terribly attractive and he has a full head of hair to boot.

My countrymen I implore you, it’s time we had a leader that we all want to bang. Although anything is better than Steven Harper who resembles an aged Ken doll. And even Barbie wouldn’t hit that.

Therefore I beg you, ignore this young buck’s absurd comments and policies. My fellow Canadians, I beseech you, turn a blind eye to the next ridiculous stunt he pulls, unless of course it’s taking off his shirt in which case please send me photos.

Justin Trudeau speaks at the University of Wat...

Ideally the photo should look like this. Only with less fabric. (Photo credit: batmoo)

The time has come. We need a sexy leader. For too long we have stood in the attractive shadow of the United States’ leadership. With a potential new good-looking Prime Minister at the helm there is no telling what Canada could do; perhaps we will start by overtaking the States in beauty pageants, then move onto making all National Hockey League teams Canadian. Having a visually appealing person to direct us, the sky becomes the limit.

Men, the next time you stand at the polls I want you to think long and hard while asking yourself the following question before checking the box on your ballot “If I was a girl would I kick him out of bed?”

If the answer is no, check away.

And ladies, remember; if he’s easy on the eyes, he’s good for everything else.

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Giant Butt Bruises

As a fledgling writer it can be difficult to accurately capture the nuance and depth of relationships. My mother has complained bitterly for the past six months that I only write funny things about her whereas the stories I tell about my father are heartfelt tributes.

Thus I took the morning to sweat over a warm, loving post which accurately described the gratitude I felt for my mother. It was hard. That post took significantly longer than most of my other works but at the end I was proud; I had created something authentic and very personal. I was excited to not only share it with my Mom but with others in my writing community.

As with any post that contains someone aside from Roscoe and me, I always obtain permission before putting it up for the internet to read. Despite months of statements and whining to the contrary when my mother heard the post she said “It’s wonderful but you can’t put it on The Great Unwashed.”

Apparently as much as my Mom wanted something heartfelt and lovely written about her she doesn’t want others to see it. So instead I’m going to tell a story about when she fell into bushes and bruised her backside.

Once upon a time when rollerblading was all the rage and frizzy hair was trendy; my family went to Disney World. Diana and I were very fortunate because we had both our maternal grandparents and our uncle with us. This meant that my mother and father had lots of time  to enjoy themselves while my Gran and Granddad took Diana and I on the magic teacups until my grandfather felt like he was going to puke. My father spent this extra time wandering around EPCOT like a normal person. By contrast, my mother chose instead to strap on her rollerblades which she had lugged all the way from Canada to go for a skate around our resort.

This was the early nineties so rollerblading was new and sexy. All the celebrities were doing it, in our home alone there were three “Rollerblade to the Oldies” VHS tapes. However it was still a new sport, especially to our family. Not surprisingly my mother had not yet mastered the finer points of the activity, like braking. Which was fine along most parts of the resort path where there were helpful ferns and innocent tourists to grab a hold of to slow oneself but then my mother got to a hill, specifically a downhill. Picking up speed as she raced along the incline, my young mother started to lose control of her rollerblades. This was how she fell butt first into the Disney landscaping.

Now this story is mortifying enough as is but it gets worse. My Mom spent the rest of the trip showing off the effects of her fall to anyone who would look at her purple and navy blue butt. The bruises were absolutely giant, covering most of her bum and upper thighs, they were the size of a two year old.

NOT my mother. Although she insisted on showing her bruises to anyone with a pair of eyes, my Mom refused to create photographic evidence thus I have no authentic depictions to share. (Photo Credit : slanchreport.com)

NOT my mother. Although she insisted on showing her bruises to anyone with a pair of eyes, my Mom refused to create photographic evidence thus I have no authentic depictions to share. (Photo Credit : slanchreport.com)

I hope everyone enjoyed that story, I had wanted to tell you about what a special person my mother is and the type of mother she is but my Mom didn’t want that. So instead you got giant butt bruises. I love you Mom, you’re welcome.

 

The Alternative Is Dating Gargamel

I’m having a colourful day. Not colourful as in swearing a lot, or even colourful as in the apartment is filled with rainbows but it might as well be.

I got up this morning and painted my nails a bright and alluring red. When Roscoe got up his first words were “What happened to your hands?”

Although it is out of the ordinary for me to paint my nails (and my toes nails too), what he was referring to was the way I chose to decorate them. In theory you’re supposed to use the edges of your nails as a point for where to stop painting but that’s only a guideline. A suggestion really. You could paint all the way up your arms and across your clavicle if you wanted, the only limiting factor there is the size of those darn bottles. Why do they make them so small? It’s like OPI doesn’t want me to have any fun, ever.

Although I hadn’t painted all the way up my arms, I hadn’t quite respected the nail bed boundary idea so it looked like I had spent the morning in an abattoir. “Uaaah” Roscoe recoiled from my gruesome hands.

“Don’t worry” I assured him. “They’re dry, this should stay on for a couple hours at least” I said while waggling my gory fingers at him.

In Canada it’s a holiday today so Roscoe was determined to take me out to the movies. However I had a number of chores I wanted to finish up before we left. Primarily I wanted to revitalize a sweater of mine by dying it teal. I was all set up in the bathroom, with my big plastic bucket, my sweater and most importantly the dye which was such a vibrant colour that I wanted to be a part of it. Unfortunately Roscoe caught me right as I was about to plunge my hands into the deep swirling blue, thereby cutting my mischief off at the pass. And preventing yet another violet-bathroom, purple-foot incident. “What are you doing?”

“Dying? My? Shirt?” I answered as innocently as one who is about to dye her forearms deep blue can.

“No. Absolutely not, I’m not going out with a Smurf.”

I hesitated, holding my arms a safe distance above the bucket of dye. “”Well technically I would only be part Smurf, not even an eighth, like a Smurf twice removed.”

Roscoe was not smiling. This is why I get up at five am, so that all of my tomfoolery is complete long before my husband wakes up.  Because it’s harder to argue with things that have already happened. There’s only so much you can do when you awaken, rub your eyes and realize there’s a wild turkey perched on the chest of drawers. “Why is there a bird in the bedroom? And I did not agree to this wallpaper!”

Gargamel and his cat Azrael.

No one wants to hit that. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“It could be worse.”I said, still holding my hands within dipping distance of the dye. “I could look like the Smurf villain and then everyone would be staring at you wondering why you want to date a hunched, balding, old man.”

“Put on some gloves” he commanded before turning on his heel while shaking his head.

I suppose I’m just going to have to settle for bright red nails, hands and feet. I’ll wear my teal sweater tomorrow.

This Post Was Supposed To Be About Me Being Partially Clothed In Church But Really Should Have Been The Awards Post Part Two, However Now It’s A Flow Of Consciousness. There’s a Medal For You At The Bottom If You Read It.

It’s summer, I’m sticking to everything. Including my dining room table. I’m pondering whether I should attempt to patent myself as a new form of glue.

“Human shaped glue; it’s unwieldy, not remotely convenient and also comes off when you pull hard enough. But it does make a satisfying “SHHHHHLOOOOOOP” sound in the process.”

I probably should not go into sales. Or marketing.

There is one week of school left for Canadians; the American children started their summer vacation three weeks ago. Perhaps it’s in my imaginary children’s best interest if we move to America. But only for the first part of the year because the American children go back early in August. Or maybe I have this completely backwards and my family should move to America from August to December and then come back to Canada from January to July. It’s like free child care, only with extra moving costs.

I’m not sure how I’m going to sell that last idea to my husband.

Getting back to the idea of me as an inventor. I have blisters on the bottoms of my toes from wearing high heels for an entire day. My sister told me I should have put preventative band aids on my feet. I wasn’t aware they made band aids for the soles of your toes. A trip to the drug store and a strange look from the sales associate when I inquired about such a product confirmed my suspicions.

I’ve concluded from this experience that I need to create such a device. Not only would it save me from wheeling my way around on a computer chair the day after I dress up in my Badgley Mischkas but I also feel like it would make an excellent conversation starter at dinner parties. “Why hello there, I see you work in sales. Funny that we should meet, I’m the inventor of “Toe Toppers” for people who are very bad at wearing high heels, yet need to on occasion.”

You’ve now reached the end of this blog post. I’m really sorry to have to tell you this but there’s no medal here. The fact that there are two periods in my title probably should have tipped you off. Someone who doesn’t realize that titles should be succinct descriptions of text without periods likely doesn’t have the organizational skills to coordinate handing out medals to those who finish reading said overly punctuated work.

Also I’ve promised for two posts in a row that I was going to write about bar fights. At this point it’s probably safe to conclude that I’m a dishonest jerk. And as long as we’re being truthful here I should state that I’ve never actually been in a bar fight. When my girlfriends and I were in university, we made friends with a young man who was the size of a house. Literally. It would have been a very small house mind you, possibly a cardboard one in Elbonia the fictional land of mud from the Dilbert cartoons but a house nonetheless.

My point was that when you go dancing with a man the size of a house in Elbonia or a large porta-jon anywhere else, you aren’t really bothered by anyone much less the target of an airborne beer bottle.

Mrs. August Belmont; Aug. Belmont; and Mrs. Bu...

Normally WordPress suggests photos to go along with your post however the algorithm broke because it came up with; a pair of high heels, Celine Dion, an antique photo of little known Royals and a map. It’s ok WordPress, sometimes I’m not entirely sure of what to make of the circus in my head either. (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

So I read this to Roscoe and got to that last sentence and he said “Keep reading I’m listening” and I replied “No that’s it, it’s too hot to write anymore and I need to go invent toe bandaids.”

 

 

 

 

 

UPDATE

Roscoe tired of listening to me complain about the blisters on the bottoms of my toes and offered to get me “Toe band aids” if I sat in a chair and closed my eyes. Desperate for relief I sat and waited. This was Roscoe’s solution. That’s sixty thousand dollars worth of doctoring right there. And it’s all mine.

Please enjoy my pedicure, unlike Roscoe’s bandage job, my perfectly polished toe nails help ease my pain.

Please enjoy my pedicure, unlike Roscoe’s bandage job, my perfectly polished toe nails help ease my pain.