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.

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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