Like It's Nineteen Eighty Nine

So, yeah, I turned 15 on Friday. 

When I was little, the kids at school thought I didn't have birthdays because I didn't celebrate them.  "HOW DO YOU KNOW HOW OLD YOU ARE???" they'd ask in all caps with three question marks after.  It made me crazy when people couldn't understand that the event could still happen, even if the party didn't.  Apparently, this is just a concept that normal, everyday children are incapable of grasping.

Turns out, that whole situation totally works to my advantage now.

When I turned 19, my father threw a surprise party for me.  I still technically wasn't "celebrating" my birthday, but I guess he was sick of waiting.  He had his wife's mother invite me over for dinner and when I got there, I walked in to a full blown first birthday party complete with Winnie the Pooh decorations and a 101 Dalmatians cake.  That was 15 years ago, so according to all those dirty little bastards on the playground, I am 15.

Which actually sounds kind of horrifying, come to think of it.  Maybe I'll just run with 34.

The Donor took me out on Friday and we got our nails did together.  If I can ever give any advice to you in life, it's to marry a man who appreciates a good manicure.  I'm currently digesting all of my fingernails, so I got a pedicure instead. 

I know they're awful.  Shut up.
They say the Royal Toe is a sign of advanced intelligence. Or inbreeding. One of those two, for sure.

Tanis may be hotter, but I post nicer feet pictures.  Not by much, though.

Afterwards, we went out to reallyreally fancy dinner at this place we've had a gift certificate to for almost 2 years now where they make drinks with bruleed bananas as a garnish.  (Which I ordered simply to snap a picture for Zoeyjane; excuse us while we giggle to ourselves.) 

Deliciously ridiculous

Yes, they have teency little flame-throwers behind the bar which they used to ever-so-delicately torch sugar-dipped banana slices.  AS A GARNISH.  Also, the drink umbrellas come with their very own itty bitty cabana boys.  The food was good, really, but not nearly as good as the fact that my oldest son babysat for us so we could go.  And kept everyone in one piece.  We were home by 10, had Monty Python's Holy Grail on by 10:15 and I was unconscious and drooling all over the couch by 10:30.  Which is, oddly enough, exactly how it would have gone if I had actually turned 15.

From One Flake to Another: My Birthday Present to Mr. Lady

Scientists say no two snowflakes are alike.

But can the same be said for two women blogging flakes? This question was put to the test last July in San Francisco when I was suddenly confronted by a rabid, slightly intoxicated blonde who claimed to be my doppelganger.

It took me a second to understand what the hell she was saying because I may have been a.) slightly inebriated myself and b.) mesmerized by this woman’s boobs which were hanging out for everyone to ogle. Clearly, doppelganger or not, this woman and I were meant to be friends.

That boozy booby woman turned out to be Shannon. The infamous Mr. Lady, and now an awesome friend if only because she routinely likes to call and breathe heavy in my ear.

While on the surface Shannon and I may seem similar I assure you, we are as different as a cloudy night to a starry night. I’m here to prove this and at long last clarify just how startlingly similar er, different the two of us really are.

Sure to the casual observer her and I may seem the same. I mean we both have pierced noses and blondehair. We both have tattoos.


Mr. Lady's family tree in gibberish

But unlike Mr. Lady, my tattoos are classy. I'm no garden variety Redneck, yo. I'm the klassee kind.


See? Klassee. Want some boxed wine with that, y'all?

It's not just our tattoos and number of body piercings that set us apart physically. Have you ever met Shannon? The woman resembles a vertically challenged leprechaun while I can almost touch the stars with my bare hands. It's tough talking to a woman who is just tall enough to bury her head in my bosom. I'm always worried she is looking up my nose and counting my boogers.

Then there is the way we dress. I routinely walk around topless with cowboy boots and Mr. Lady has been known to be seen in pink spandex biker shorts with a lime green tube top. This wouldn't be so bad if she didn't insist on wearing grannie panties up to her chin.

To each their own. Who am I to judge? She swears it keeps the beaver fever at bay. I'll take her word for it.

Some may confuse the two of us because we have posted pictures of our naked selves online. To those people, I say "OPEN YOUR DAMN EYES!"




Cuter. (Or so my husband tells me.)

While clearly neither of us have any shame, only one of us is infatuated with Crocs. Ugg.

Moving on. Sorry Google pervs. That's as much nudity as this post contains. Come back next week. I hear Shannon just got a new pair of shoes.

Our lack of shame and love of nudity brought with it children. Mr. Lady and I both have daughters. But if our daughters are reflections on who we are, then it is OBVIOUS we are very different people.


Mr. Lady's sweet and adorable daughter.


The fruit of my looms. She is charming. I swear.

There are other more subtle differences between Mr. Lady and myself. She is an American living on Canadian soil, while I am 100 percent, born and bred pure Canuck. I know what it means when someone offers me poutine, a beaver tail, and a shot of screech along with a serviette. Shannon has to bust out the ole Yank to Canadian dictionary or call me.

Of course, I routinely wear a toque so that explains a lot.

Since I'm outing all of our differences, I feel it is only fair to out a little known fact about Shannon. Did you all know she is obsessed with a certain body part? It's no secret to those who know me that I too have a fondness for a specific region of the human body, but let's just say Shannon and I see beauty in the human body in an entirely different way.


Ya. Shannon has a foot fetish. Specifically toes. To each their own.


I myself, prefer a firm er..cutlet.

Of course there are other differences. We both may have married hot blonde men but our husbands couldn't be any more different. The Donor is a walking advertisement for GQ magazine. My husband? He's a walking advertisement for um, John Deere tractor.

Mr. Lady lives in the suburbs and spends her evenings with a cup of tea in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other. You can often find her at her bedroom window trying to peer into her neighbours homes.

I live out in the middle of the wilderness, with nothing but a few moose and the odd bear to keep me company. You'll find me tossing back a brewsky and cleaning mah rifle at night. The rifle helps keep them pesky coyotes away.

There is one more difference between Shannon and myself that I think you should all know about.

Shannon is older than me. And aging fast. Sure she spends half of her family's income on miracle anti-aging creams, but she can't escape her genetics. We all know what she is going to look like when she hits old age.


Black leather. Brings out her inner beauty.

Don't feel bad my friend. Not everyone is destined to look like I will when I finally catch up to you in age.


It's the Canadian beer. It keeps a body young.

So Shannon, while we may appear to be one another's doppelganger, I hope this post taught you something. (Besides the fact you should be more careful about who you let have access to your blog.)

It is true. Every flake is different.

Happy Birthday today, my sweet, aging pretend Canadian friend. I'm so glad I found you.

Not just because you make me look good either.


I'm Bringing Culottes Back

I've been trying to decide if I should do American Idol recap posts or not this season.  After a long, internal debate with myself that wasn't nearly as naughty as it sounds, I came to the conclusion that I do indeed enjoy watching trainwrecks and so American Idol Season Eight and me are on like Donkey Kong.

Last night's recap is up at MamaPop, and I'll be bringing down the collective IQ with recaps for the whole rest of the season.

Thanks, But I've Donated My Uterus To Science Fiction

A little more than a week ago, I had a few teeth ripped out of my face.

The thing is that when I was 18, I had xrays done and those xrays indicated that I had, and I quote, "plenty of room for those things to come on out on their own!"  So I let them.  If a dentist ever tells you that, duct tape them to their examination chair and run for it.  It's a trap.   They're in it with the pain killer companies building landing strips for gay martians, I swear to god*.

My gums had plentyof room for those teeth.  My jaw had other ideas.  My bologna has a first name, it's oh-my-god-that-hurts.  I had the two on the right side removed one by one, both fully erupted, both when it became an emergency, both with nothing but local anesthetics, which isn't fun for you or your dentist or your kids in the waiting room who you have drive home and take care of after they've drilled and jack-hammered and raped and pillaged and left you with nothing more than a dry socket and a bottle of motrin.

You'll thank me later aside: Clove Oil.  Best thing in the galaxy for tooth pain.  Babies, idiots who let their wisdom teeth come out on their own, anyone.  You can buy it anywhere like this.

None of this has anything to do with this post.  Maybe I should start over.

A little more than a week ago, I had a few teeth ripped out of my face.  A little more than three decades ago, I was born with two holes in my heart.  What these two things have in common with each other is amoxicillin.

Because I have these errant holes laying around in my heart, I have to eat a bazillion grams of amox before a dentist can even breath on me to prevent endocarditis, which is a fancy word for Death By Dentist.  The American Heart Association has recently said that some of us don't need to "premed" anymore because the big, scary, evil antibiotics are going to kill us.  I had a lively chat with my dentist about this very subject and when he said that I was going to build up a resistance to antibiotics I said I hadn't yet built up a resistance to death and until he had two holes in his heart, he could refrain from judging my choices.

I got the prescription.  I took it.

This is where I get to my point.

I picked up the prescription and the pharmacist says, "You know that's going to interfere with your birth control, right?"  And I said, "Thank you, but I'm really a man."  Then I read the little pamphlet that comes with it about the 18 thousand ways it's probably going to kill me and of course, in big yellow highlighted letters, it cautioned, "Antibiotics might decrease the effectiveness of birth control pills."  And I told that pamphlet, "Thanks for the heads up, but I'm celibate."  And then I got to the dentist and the receptionist asked, "Did you premed" and I said that I had and she asks, "You know that will interfere with your birth control?" and I said, "Are you hitting on me?"

I have never had anyone inquire so much about my birth control.  Which actually explains a lot about where I am in life right now.

Anyway, I was called back to the Chair Of Doom and the dentist looked over my xrays, stuck the iv thingy in my arm, took a call from his wife in which I could hear her screaming at him and see him blushing from embarrassment, and as he injected whatever that totally awesome stuff that knocks you out is into my iv line, he shoved my chart in my face and pointed at the word, "PREMED."  I nodded.  I think I may have said, "snarfblastaschmurna" which of course means, "Dude, I so totally took it" and as the world began to grow dark and cozy, he pointed and the line below and with a quizzical look on his face, he violently shook that chart in front of my completely stoned eyes.


Here's the thing.  I don't take birth control, and you'd have to do a hell of a lot more than hand me a bottle or come at my head with sharp instruments to get me to tell you what I do use.  (Like by me shots.)  This, however, is not really my issue.

This is.

Either this is a really, really cruel joke, or these people are idiots.  Have they never pulled a wisdom tooth wrapped around a nerve before?  Are they unaware that the one and only thing I will most certainly not be doing for several days, if not a week, will be it?  I was sexier 5 minutes post-partum than I was until about a day ago. 

They may as well have sent me home with a paper bag for my head, a ruffie, bottle of KY and a note for the Donor that read, "Enjoy the silence, yo!"  because, really.  The smell?  Dear god.  The pain?  Sweet Baby Jesus.  The swelling?

2 days post-op

Yeah.  But thanks for the warning.

*Please, someone get that.

The Pi

Saturday morning, March 14th, 2of3 came into my room at 7 am and said, "Mom, it's seven!"

I said humnaschmurna blageldorf.

He came back at 8 am and said, "Mawwwm, it's EIGHT."

I said okaerg.

At 8:30 I shook The Donor awake and we headed downstairs. The kids were all on the couch watching cartoons and three bowls of Lucky Charms were decomposing like Johann Pachelbel on the kitchen table.

So began my son's ninth year. He opened his gifts, and by "opened" I mean "looked behind our backs" because really, I suck at even thinking about wrapping things.

Which totally explains why I have a nine year old. Bygones.

We sat on the couch and read the pages in his baby book were I'd scribbled out the story of his exodus*. I showed him which bones of his caught on which bones of mine making an otherwise run-of-the-mill labour last two motherfucking glorious days. I billed him for the previous year, like I always do, and he promised to pay me in Reese's Pieces one day, like he always does.


I was disappointed that it was raining, so he couldn't go out to ride his new skateboard. He thought it was totallywickedawesome that he was allowed to ride it in the house just this once. He thought the tie he chose for dinner that he'd clearly outgrown a year ago looked 'mature', I thought it looked like a great opportunity to explain the joys of 'business casual'. He loved how his hair looked with the half jar of pomode he'd gooped into it, I thought he looked like Hitler after a rumble with The Jets.

So it goes with the boy born on the day of Relativity.


He had his very own steak at the restaurant that night, and no one even tried to cut it for him. He got the big knife and the huge dessert and the happy birthday song by the staff at the restaurant where they Do Not Sing happy birthday for anyone. He got to sit in the front seat with dad and choose the radio station and tonight as we tucked him in, he got double jumped with tickles and a million kisses.

So ended the first day of my son's ninth year.

No matter how old he gets, how mature he grows, he's still that baby boy I met nine years ago. When I saw his little face for the first time,  I knew him, like I'd always known him, like he was an old friend.   He looked like a lizard, but that's totally beside the point.  I knew he's walk the paths I did, only with more grace.  I knew he'd pick up where I left off and soar.  He's a mirror of me, all of his grandeur, and every one of his flaws.  He's what I'd hoped I could be and more.  Because he's him, and I'm pretty damn glad I got a piece of him.


*God, there are just so many Red Sea/parting thereof jokes to be made there, but I'm betting I'll be in enough trouble for defiling my poor son's birthday post as it is. You, however, can feel free to have at it.