Madness, This Way Lies

Let’s all just agree that Pintrest ruins lives, that said, I think I figured out how it started. I’ve never understood the attraction of looking at all the projects that take hours upon hours of time only to look nothing like the photo.

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Start smiling Amanda! The baby on Pintrest LOVED sitting naked in a cold, wet gourd. Image courtesy of Pinterestfail.com

I swore that I would never be that mom who stays up until 2 am, piping icing names onto cupcakes and losing it over misspelling Adelaide because why in the world would someone use five As and a Y in that name?

And I was doing pretty well on that front, until this morning when I found myself running around looking for blue sparkly pants and yellow socks. Because it’s Mini-Tex’s first Halloween. An event I didn’t take too seriously until I showed up a the third Mom and Baby class having forgotten that it was costume day. Ok the last class wasn’t so bad, I actually remembered – Mini Tex was supposed to be a cowboy however in my haste to get out the door I forgot his hat, so he ended up just being a boy again.

After seeing all the babies dressed up as adorable apples, cute chickens and lovable unicorns, I got jealous and decided to buy Mini-Tex an actual costume rather than just throwing riding headwear on him. However it was October 28th and so the shelves were bare. Hence why my son is going as a fish/bird/dinosaur. That’s what moms who wait until the last minute get- an unidentifiable mix of the animal kingdom. Just in case you were wondering, the costume was 90% off and there were two others left, in the event that you too wish to dress your infant as a fish/bird/dinosaur.

No problem, I assured myself, I’ll simply accesorize the heck out of it. This idea would have worked better if Tex and I lived in the big city where I purchased said costume. Instead we’re an hour and a half away and grateful that there’s a Walmart. So away I went this morning to find sparkly pants at the local Walmart.

Either all of the Moms who bought the cute costumes that have a definitive theme bought up the sparkly, blue baby pants, or Walmart doesn’t carry them. Regardless, I had to think of something else, so I decided on red pants. Mini-Tex actually already has red pants at home, but they have a penguin on the bum, and I didn’t need to add to the whole lizard/fish/bird confusion. So I bought new red pants with a plain bottom.

But Mini-Tex’s costume doesn’t have sleeves, it has these capped things that might be wings, or fins, or foreshortened arms so that babies can get a head start on feeling empathy for creatures without full length limbs. Regardless, Mini-Tex would need to wear a shirt underneath the costume and not just because there might be a foot of snow here on all Hallow’s Eve. I decided that a yellow shirt would work best. Only there were no yellow shirts in Mini-Tex’s size. There was, however, a yellow Minion themed shirt two sizes too big. My husband loves “Despicable Me” so this would work for Mini-Tex’s costume and be a beloved article of clothing after. Boom! Done.

Then I had a moment of doubt. It was in this moment when I bought a round trip ticket to the crazy train AND drank the crazy cocktail. What if the shade of yellow didn’t match the costume exactly? How would people know that Mini-Tex was a bird/dinosaur/fish? They might think he was a manatee/dog/banana. So I grabbed another shirt the reflective yellow of construction worker jackets. This is the moment where the crazy balloons were released into the sky signalling that the show had started.

Unwashed, the Unwashed who readily lets her child eat off the floor, who sits idly while another baby sucks on Mini-Tex’s pacifier and then hands it back to her son once the other baby is finished, without wiping it, was gone. Instead she had been replaced by the Mom who is painstakingly trying to insert another A into Adelaide at 2:13 AM. This meant that the costume needed socks because the cutest fish/bird/amphibeans have yellow feet. So Mini-Tex’s blue socks with the paw prints simply would not do.

The only problem was that the yellow socks had Minions on them. Neither fins, nor feet, nor claws have faces on them, so Minion socks will not work for fish/bird/dragons. So I went searching for dye because the store HAD to have white socks which could be coloured to match. Even though our town has a Walmart and we are grateful to have a Walmart, it’s not a big Walmart, meaning it doesn’t carry fabric dye. So I weighed my options; colouring the socks with markers would result in uneven shading, fabric paint would make them too stiff. I wandered up and down the aisles hoping in vain that the fabric dye had been shelved in a strange place and I spotted my savior- concentrated icing colouring! Edible dye in hand, I was off to find white socks.

There were no white socks. Obviously the organized mothers whose babies were dressed as strawberries had bought them all up. There were knee high socks eight sizes too big, but those would go all the way up Mini-Tex’s legs, obscuring the red pant legs giving him just a big red butt so that people would think he was a fish-monkey or a baboon-osaur.

As I stood there trying to figure out when I would have time to dye the socks between now and Monday afternoon, a little voice quietly asked “Are you making this too difficult?” God in heaven, I wish that voice had spoken sooner. I love that voice. It’s the voice that says, “Leave the laundry, no one cares” and “Your tub isn’t that dirty; go read a book”.

So I replaced the knee highs and returned the food colouring back where it belonged and walked out of the store. When I got home, my husband, ever the wonderful man exclaimed “Mini-Tex, look at this wonderful primary coloured outfit your Mom got you! You’ll be like a box of crayons!”

So he’ll be a fish/dinosaur/bird/writing utensil. Now everyone give me candy and tell me how adorable my baby is.

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Tex decided to add a hat at the last moment. So now our son is a fish/bird/dinosaur-cowboy. Or maybe just a fish/bird-cowboy. Tha hat obscures the giant fin/plate on top of the costume so he looks less prehistoric. (Photo Credit – Yours Truly)

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Highway Robbery in the Fiction Section

I was mugged last week. The criminal stole all the books in my backpack and tossed a couple of dollars over his shoulder as he ran off laughing.

Ok, that might not have been exactly how it went, but that’s how it felt. Previously my used book dealer and I had a marvelous relationship; every so often I would stop by his store with a stack of new, popular, fiction books and ask for store credit in exchange. PT* would eagerly look the stack up and down, contemplating the titles and how much he could charge, then quickly spit out an unreasonably high sum of store credit while wearing a guilty expression as though he felt he was cheating me. The number he offered was always overly generous and I would cheerfully reply “Sold!” and push the stack towards PT. Then one of PT’s teeth would fall out of his mouth onto the counter because he hadn’t been able to afford dental coverage in ten years due to his habit of giving out far too much store credit in exchange for new stock.

To say PT’s store was crowded is like stating that “a couple of people live in New York”, the store was stuffed full of bookcases; they lined the walls and the aisles, there were even bookcases in tiny closets. The biography and the gardening section were stored there, the one organizational choice I understood; scandals grow in the dark and make for good biographies but plants don’t. This always puzzled me as I would pull the string to turn off the light over the jolly green flower pictures and close the door to what was likely a broom closet before the store was PT’s shop. At first glance all the bookcases looked shallow, until you realized that PT had stacked the shelves three titles deep, so any true second hand book shopper had to labouriously add to the already tall piles of books in the aisles of the store to search and find a title.

This was where the exciting, dangerous element of shopping at PT’s came in. Books are notoriously heavy and stacking them three rows deep had meant some of the shelves had begun to buckle. Instead of replacing a shelf, PT would haphazardly nail two by fours to the cracking sections of the shelves. So reaching your upper body halfway into the shelves to read the spines of the books at the very back was an exercise in faith and an adventure as you prayed for the shelf to stay up and kept your back low to prevent your clothing and skin from catching on any nails.

I loved PT’s. The bus would drop me just outside his door, after work I would browse the aisles for a couple of minutes, breathing in the heady scent of ink and aging paper while looking for literary gold. Though our relationship benefited me far more than PT, I thought it was a good one. Alas, last fall, PT wearily announced that he would be closing his doors. I was bereft. But not terribly as there was another second hand book store down the street, I had chosen PTs over the other store because it was seventy feet closer to my house. When carrying forty some odd pounds of books to be exchanged in my backpack, that short distance somehow stretched into miles and so I would gratefully drop my heavy pack at PTs doorstep and drag it in over the threshold to be exchanged.

Now of course I take my books to Tyler** my new second hand book dealer, who robs me blind and hands back pennies in exchange for mountains of literature. Though the store is always well organized, and I’ve never come close to having a near death experience in the shelves, I still miss PT’s dearly.

*Names have not been changed because PT is still selling books, and I’d like it if everyone hunted him down and bought out all his stock so he could finally go to the dentist.

**Names of new store owners have not been changed because he should be hunted down but instead of buying his books Tyler should be shaken upside down so that all the change in his pockets that he hasn’t given me for store credit can be collected.

Technology Showdown:The Great Unwashed Versus The Underpaid Youth of Technology Stores

I went computer shopping yesterday. This went worse than when I go regular shopping, a process that generally ends with me lying face-down on the mall floor, groaning. So you can imagine how a visit to no less than three techie stores went.

The first one was a complete write off because I burst into tears when I found a model of computer I liked.

Underpaid and Underage Best Buy Employee– “How can I help you Ma’am?”

The Great Unwashed holding a  grey netbook gingerly in her hands whispers “It’s not”. Her lip begins to quiver so that the last word is only faintly audible, “blue” and promptly starts to cry.

Underpaid and Underage Best Buy Employee who is now also  uncomfortable “Can I get a manager here?”

Next I headed to an independent electronics store.

Hopeful Techie Guy “What are you looking for today?”

The Great Unwashed quietly lays her head down on a shelf in between two computers and says nothing because it’s technology so she has no idea what she’s looking for.

Driving away from the store I realized that continuing to burst into grief stricken tears for my old netbook and spontaneously going limp and mute was never going to end with a new computer. So I put on my game face. And walked into Future Shop with a swagger that said to the world “I know the difference between a monitor and a hard drive 50% of the time.” Clearly this show of confidence was far too convincing because it resulted in the following conversation.

Future Shop Employee “This is an internet only computer.”

The Great Unwashed “So it gets internet. That’s a good thing, I think.”

Future Shop Employee “No, it’s only online.”

The Great Unwashed “The internet is always online.”

Future Shop Employee “Internet only means it only accesses the internet.”

The Great Unwashed “Does that mean you don’t need a phone line to get the internet with this computer?”

Future Shop Employee “No, this computer only has the internet.”

The Great Unwashed “Everyone has the internet.”

Future Shop Employee “I don’t think you understand.”

The Great Unwashed “That’s only because you aren’t making sense.”

This won’t come as a surprise to anyone but my shopping trip was unsuccessful, and I have yet to acquire a new computer.

At Least One Part of Me Is Ready To Bungee Jump

Last November, while making breakfast, I thought about how sturdy my bras were and how long they had lasted. It is vital to never think these sorts of thoughts as it invites trouble because the fates are all “Clearly you have it too good if you’re thinking about the durability of undergarments”.

Not surprisingly, when I went upstairs to get dressed that day, the underwire in one of my bras snapped in half while I was putting it on, leaving me with three brassieres that fit well and one that fit poorly.

After two months of doggedly convincing myself that doing laundry more often was fun, I gave in and decided to go shopping. Walking into the store, a clerk immediately descended, informing me of all the great sales going on.

The Great Unwashed– “I don’t care for sales, I’m just looking for a pair of knocker holders.”

Formerly perky but now confused Salesclerk– “Whaaaat?”

The Great Unwashed – “A bra, I need a bra.”

Back to being perky Salesperson “Well we have all kinds of bras and most of them are on sale!”

The Great Unwashed who is not amused by this- “Mostly I’d like one that fits. It doesn’t need to be on sale.”

Salesperson who may be part pit-bull based on the intensity of her determination to promote sales “What make of bra did you buy from us?” Gesturing to a wall “All of these styles are on sale!”

The Great Unwashed – “It was one you made six years ago.”

Salesperson looks deterred for a moment “Oh. We won’t have that.”

Queue me trying on about eight different bras, all of which are covered in bows, lace and nonsense.

~Approximately twenty minutes later~

The chipper tone of the Salesgirl’s voice cuts through the curtain “How’s it going in there?”

The Great Unwashed “Poorly”

The Salesgirl is momentarily dejected “Oh”

The young woman had found me a bra that fit. The problem was it was a cup size larger than what I had been wearing which was strange because I weighed the same. Clearly another cruel trick of the fates who caught me thinking “Isn’t it nice that none of my body parts have randomly changed size.”

However this unexplained jump converted my rack from something that needed to be supported into an untamed beast. Or at least that’s what I can discern from the difference in the bras’ structures. The larger size had a thicker band which was held together with no less than three hooks lest my “Multitude of sins”, as my grandmother once put it, get any ideas of escaping and undo not one but two of the hook and eyes from sheer force of will.

The band itself was reinforced in more places than the historic bridge by our house. The straps were the width of my thumb and composed of the same material used in trampolines. It was as though my boobs were being strapped in for a rollercoaster that the rest of my body wasn’t going on.

My bra looks like this. Only with more supports obviously.

My bra looks like this. Only with more supports.

I bought the bra. Finding other alternatives would have required visiting more than one store which would have violated my “Shopping is akin to being bludgeoned to death by shrill mongooses armed with only pinecones or whatever passes as a pinecone in Eurasia and Africa” rule. This sounds like a ridiculous code to live by but it serves as a reminder of how awful shopping is and that it must be avoided at all costs. Even if this means wearing something almost as large and restrictive as my mother’s wet suit.

The bra I bought looks exactly like this, but with more straps. **

The bra I bought looks exactly like this, but with straps. ** (Photo Credit : tyr.com)

** This is not my mother. It’s a snapshot of Richie Cunningham who is a professional triathlete. I elected not to put up a photo of my mother in her wetsuit because people look almost identical in wetsuits and caps, varying only in size and height. It’s very probable if I saw this man in a race heading towards his bike, I would shout out “Mom!” and start cheering for him. The only tip off that Richie Cunningham is not my mother would be the lack of “Gah! GAH!” sounds that my mother makes while trying to grab hold of the zipper pull to take off her wetsuit.

Oprah Wants You To Eat Jesus

It’s the time of darkness and frozen water here in Canada town which means that along with wearing two pairs of pyjama pants around the house to keep warm, it is also the time that Oprah releases her list of favourite things.

I’ve spoken before about how much I want Oprah to love me. And in the same way that girls follow their boyfriends to motocross races and pretend to enjoy the sound of roaring engines and the smell of testosterone flying about, the surest way to make someone love you is by pretending to enjoy what they are interested in. Hence why every November I rush out to the stores and ooh and ahh over Oprah’s favourite things; I want her to love me. Even loving me a little would do.

Thus in the name of making Oprah love me, I shall share some of the more special items on her list so that you too may love them and hopefully in some sort of strange karmic equation this will result in the media titan adoring me just a little.

Even if you aren’t Christian, everyone needs to go out and buy the Oprah approved nativity scene. Because it’s made of chocolate and everyone loves chocolate. Every part of these adorable figurines is edible from the tiny horse’s mane to the newborn babe himself. There’s nothing better than shouting out “Who wants to eat Jesus?” at a family gathering.

Oprah wants everyone to wear muumuus to bed. This isn’t a new concept, for years Lee Valley has been hocking dresses for men to sleep in during the winter. These wide robes are just like the Lee Valley version only they have spandex. And as everyone knows spandex makes the world go round. Quite literally, since spandex’s incorporation into most women’s clothing, obesity rates have skyrocketed. Everyone needs to buy this and then think about how much Oprah should love me while wearing it.

The muumuus look just like this but are eighty percent more sexy. Which is kind of like multiplying zero by eighty. (Photo Credit : ebay.ca)

The muumuus look just like this but are eighty percent more sexy. Which is kind of like multiplying zero by eighty. (Photo Credit : ebay.ca)

One of Oprah’s fondest desires is for everyone to be skinny. Every month she gives out tips on how to be a healthier you. Thus I can only conclude that her recommendation that to buy flesh coloured nail polish is a part of this quest. Perhaps it makes your fingers look longer and more slender if your nails are the same colour as your skin? I haven’t a clue. Whatever the reason, you need to go out and purchase some matching flesh tone nail polish immediately. You can wear it while you type up an email to Oprah about how she should love me.

Since I don’t use body wash or soap for that matter, you my Unwashed public, will need to purchase and use this next Oprah recommended item on my behalf. Based on the price alone, this product must smell like heaven crossed with a baby in a peach grove. While you are walking around smelling stupendous you can think about how awesome it would be to watch me be interviewed by Oprah. I know, you’d love it as much as I would.

Of course no Favourite Things List would be complete without an excessively superfluous item which you should buy just because it’s extravagant. May I suggest that all of my readers buy the bright orange three hundred dollar jewelry box that Oprah likes? You can give it to everyone on your list, even the men; all those compartments would be perfect for fishing lures.

Here’s a Can of WD 40 From Your Secret Santa

I was at work the other day and saw a bag of Epsom salts on a coworker’s desk. There was a small tag on the package that read “From Your Secret Santa”. Seeing as this particular coworker was pregnant and could benefit from relaxing in a tub full of warm but not too warm water- this was an excellent gift.

The moment hammered home to me why I am not buying gifts for any of my or Roscoe’s family this year. While an extremely thoughtful coworker thought to purchase this woman Epsom salts as a Secret Santa. I would have purchased salt. Just salt. Because it’s a requirement for most recipes and it makes everything taste better, ergo in my eyes a box of salt is not only a perfectly acceptable but practical gift.

Other things which I deem to be perfectly reasonable gifts are; windshield washer fluid- because this is Canada and it is winter after all. As well as toilet paper because everyone uses it. Personally I recommend the last item as a potential gift for everyone on your list because if a friend seems upset over this gift it’s perfectly reasonable to assume that they have questionable hygiene habits. Thus you probably shouldn’t be friends with them anymore and this gift giving act has saved you the trouble of an awkward friendship terminating discussion.

After receiving a fire extinguisher and three bags of milk for his birthday two years ago Roscoe took over the responsibility of buying gifts for his and my family. He also tells me explicitly what to purchase for him. Personally I feel this is a little unfair especially after I thoughtfully presented him with thirty 100W incandescent light bulbs for our last anniversary. They met the cheesy “You light up my life” criteria while being functional. I mean really, who doesn’t like light?

Regardless I’ve lost gift giving privileges and am prohibited from joining in on such practices at work due to Roscoe’s fear that I’ll be sacked immediately for giving what are truly awesome and sensible gifts.

A residential smoke detector is the most famil...

This is a great present too because everyone is supposed to have one in their basement but doesn’t. I’d include partially charged batteries to make their holiday more exciting when the “Low Battery” beeps goes off in the dead of night. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Puzzle Shopping

So this post is a little late. I wrote it on Canada’s birthday weekend. That’s right all my international readers, you missed Canada’s birthday. But it’s ok. I don’t know your birthday so I certainly don’t expect you to know mine or my country’s for that matter. Although I do expect you to know about my toe bandaids. They’re amazing and protect the soles of your toes from forming blisters in any type of footwear. These bandaids are so awesome that it doesn’t even matter that I haven’t invented them yet.

 

Roscoe bought me a puzzle for the long weekend.

A bit of information for my non-Canadian friends; around here we take the birth of our nation very seriously, we discount beer, pack kegs onto trucks and then ship our populous to cottages. The ultimate birthday party. Except I wasn’t invited. Roscoe had important doctor studying to do and wanted me out of his hair, hence he bought me the best puzzle in the whole world.

Nederlands: Cupcake Versiering

Not these exact cupcakes but pretty close. More than once I stopped myself from licking the pieces.(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It featured thirty-nine multicoloured cupcakes. I finished it Monday night just as Roscoe was putting the finishing touches on a set of notes so heavy and cumbersome that they almost match my truck’s snow tires in size and weight.

Buying the world’s best puzzle doesn’t sound like an incredible feat, but it is. Only those who have purchased truly bad puzzles can understand. And tragically, unlike melons, the girls at the checkout won’t tell you when you’ve got a bad one.

 

Buying a Moldy Melon at the Grocery Store

Cashier at the Grocery Store – “Uh Ma’am?”

The Great Unwashed in a high-pitched, slightly panicked voice – “That will wipe right off! Honest.”

Slightly amused but really just tired Cashier at the Grocery Store- “Huh?”

The Great Unwashed who is visibly relieved at this point-“Never mind.”

Cashier at the Grocery Store- “Do you want to go grab another melon? This one is covered in mold.” Holds up a really, really moldy cantaloupe.

The Great Unwashed recoils- “Uuuoollagh, yes.”

 

That’s what happens at the grocery store.

This is what DOESN’T happen at the puzzle store.

Cashier at the Puzzle Store-“Uh Ma’am”

The Great Unwashed – “That food colouring from the slushie will come right out after eight washes. I swear. And it was an accident.”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store looking slightly quizzical – “Pardon me?”

The Great Unwashed- “I mean how can I help you?”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store now very confused and a little suspicious- “This puzzle you’ve chosen was poorly cut. Not only will the pieces stick together when you are trying to separate them but they will also stick together in ways that they shouldn’t so you will think you’ve solved it but have two giant handfuls of green and blue seagrass left over.”

The Great Unwashed- “Oh! Thank you so much.”  Runs to put the poorly cut puzzle back and returns with a different puzzle with brighter colours that is slightly more expensive.

Cashier at the Puzzle Store- “Uh Ma’am?”

The Great Unwashed- “Those Jolly Ranchers were there the whole time- Scout’s honor!”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store- “What?”

The Great Unwashed- “Has anyone told you that you are a valued part of our community today?”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store blinks with a questioning look- “Ma’am you look like the kind of woman who is a GIANT pain in the butt. This puzzle, although fun looking is too easy for you. My guess is that you’ll finish it in under six hours and then I have no idea what you are going to get up to. Think one thousand pieces not five hundred.”

The Great Unwashed-“ Why I AM a giant pain in the butt! My husband tells me so every day!” Grabs the entertaining looking puzzle and heads back towards the shelves. “Duly noted, thank you!”

 

That has never happened to me. Ever. I bring home the worst puzzles and then I either give up from frustration or finish them and cause Roscoe to give up work from the frustration of having me in his hair. However this weekend was the exception. Roscoe bought a colourful, one thousand piece, well cut, difficult, cupcake puzzle. The only thing he heard intermittently all three days was

“I love this puzzle!!!!”

And I did. But now it’s finished, which means the crumby hot air balloon puzzle with washed out colours and pieces that stick all together in ways they shouldn’t, will cover our dining room table.

Someone really ought to invent a puzzle connoisseur or a store where people can go to purchase high end, challenging puzzles in the same manner that you’d buy the contents for fruit salad. Perhaps I shall invent that product rather than continuing with my toe bandaid idea.

Also to all those who sent get well cards- Thank you, I’m feeling much better now. My toe sole blisters have nearly healed.

As well, you might be able to understand from this post why Roscoe has gone around to the food courts in our area and handed out flyers with my face on them with the words “Do Not Sell To This Woman” typed underneath. He accuses me of being a messy eater. I counter that he’s narrow minded and I am merely using the world as my plate. Regardless I’ve noticed an increase in the number of stores in the city which have “No Food At Anytime” signs.

Travesty Tuesdays- Crazy Feline Felonies

 

Dear Readers,

The next three posts will be about cats. Please note this is not a blog about cats, mostly because I don’t have any. It would violate the agreement that we have with our landlord, where we commit highway robbery each time we pay rent and they ask us not to have pets.

This group of three West Indian manatees (Tric...

Endangered species or slowest assassins of the sea? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Also cats are not my favourite animal. If pressed I would say my favourite animal is the manatee. But that’s only if I’m not in the water with manatees. If I was I’d be shouting “Why in goodness name do you want to know my favourite animal? Can’t you see these manatees are going to kill me by swimming over me and not realizing I’m trapped underneath them?” It’s one of my greatest nightmares- death by an inert group of manatees.

That being said, for someone who is not an avid lover of cats I’ve spent approximately eighty percent of my life living with them and ten percent of my life cleaning their litter boxes. The disproportionate amount of litter box cleaning that I’ve done may explain my lack of unabashed love for the creatures.

My sister and mom on the other hand spend their life amassing cats and loving cats. They also enjoy taking photos of them and looking at photos of cats. It is my understanding that this is standard for all cat lovers.

Without further adieu, my most recent communication to my dear sister.

 

Diana,

I thought I should contact you first before the organization does.

Your Crazy Cat Lady membership is being revoked. I wrote a post about our recently deceased cat. Needing a photo to go along with the post I turned to your Facebook page. Not only did I fail to find a photo of said cat, but my search failed to turn up any cat pictures at all on your Facebook profile.

As you are supposedly “the cat lover” in the family I found this oddly suspicious. Further inquiry turned up a photo of a daschund that was once tagged “Diana’s best friend”. More searching turned up a comment you made of “OMG cutest thing alive” in response to a photo of a Golden Doodle puppy.

By this point I was quite alarmed and questioning who my sister really was, it was in that state that I telephoned the Crazy Cat Ladies organization.

They’ll be by at some point this week to confiscate both your cat tree and your floppy crocheted hat.

I think it goes without saying that you’re not to buy cat nip or any other feline related paraphernalia for a year.

Much love, I’m sorry I had to turn you in.

The Great Unwashed

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

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.