The Shakespeare May Be Pushing It Slightly, I Know.

Dear 2009 Bloggies Organizers:

Is it really that important to you to see The Redneck Mommy and me mud-wrestle each other?  You are aware that we've both borne three large babies each and were left slightly, well, squishy after, right?  Do you realize that all you had to do was show up to BlogHer in July with a blow-up pool, a few packages of Jello and a 6-pack, and you could have achieved the same results in a way more you-tubeable way?

Because this shit right here?


Having us both as finalists for Best Canadian Blog?  It's just mean

  • One: She's going to clobber me.

  • Two: I'm not even Canadian

  • Three: There is no three; I just threw it in for dramatic effect.

What's done is done.  In 10 days, all the voting will be over and we can resume our torrid love affair friendship.  Until February 2nd, however, either thou or I or both with himTO SXSW.  That works.

Mr Lay vs Redneck Mommy: To the Pain!

Polls are open from now until 2 Feb. Choose wisely. Or pityingly. Either way, really.

How Much Would You Like To Bet My Laundry Doesn't Actually Get Up And Wash Itself Soon?

I am posting to say I'm not posting.  Because that makes loads of sense.

I just got kind of busy, what with this new thing I have going on the side:

Blog Nosh Magazine Channel Editor

Guess who gets to do something with all those political posts that she's way too afraid to mention here finally?  ME, that's who.  The whole Blog Nosh thing is like, well, it's an online magazine, sure, but my job is to post other people's stuff.  It's a mix of all those great posts people write and not enough people ever get to read.

I don't have any of the posts I've chosen for publication up yet, but I will soon.  They're chillaxin' in the queue.  In the meantime, there's a buttload of awesomeness over there, so go.  Scoot. There's nothing happening here today.  And if you just so happen to know of some really mind blowing political posts, yours or someone else's, totally send me the link, yo.

Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Judged

Raino is in Vancouver this week for work, and after a long series of emails, we decided it would be fabulous fun to get together on Monday night for drinks.  Which meant I got to leave the house for the FIRST TIME IN SIX WEEKS.  Which was awesome.

I busted out the good makeup. curled the split ends back, put some freaking clothes on already, and headed downtown.  We were meeting at a new bar right in the middle of the city, and we were both admittedly a little nervous.  I got there 15 minutes early to save us a table and pace off some jitters, but since we'd agreed to meet outside, and since we didn't exactly know what each other looked like, I just threw my name on the waitlist and took my little 'we'll buzz you when we're ready for you because we're entirely too good to run around calling for people' Tron looking buzzer thing and headed out front.

At about 8, they buzzed me and I went in to explain that my friend hadn't arrived yet, so I'd need to get bumped down the wait list.  The girls behind the host stand graciously offered to seat me anyway, but I reiterated that I didn't know what my friend looked like, that we were just meeting for the first time, so I really needed to be outside.

This is the point where I need to explain that the bar that we agreed to meet at is The New Bar in town.  It's all shiny and aluminum, with a great if not slightly over-thought menu, Justin Timberlake bumping in the stereo, and ALL THE HOT WAITRESSES IN BRITISH COLUMBIA.  Seriously, I think they take your measurements when you interview.  It is the restaurant of the pretty people.  None of them are a day over 25, an inch over 28 in the waist, and they all look stunning in their little black outfits and high heels that they WAIT TABLES IN.

I refer to it as The Cornucopia of Porn Utopia.  It's eye candy for sure, and I don't care what your sexual persuasion is.  Those ladies be smokin'.

So when the cute little hostess in her almost but not quite too short black dress suit smiled understandingly at me and said with a little *wink*, "Oh, a blind date, eh?" well, what could I say?  I could have said, "Oh, no, we're just blog friends and do you know what a blog is, because I write one but it's crap and she writes one, too, but it's not crap, and we read each other's blogs and since she's in town we just figured it wouldn't be right if we didn't meet" or I could have uttered a sheepish, resigned little, "Yeah."

So there I am in my hot boots and my sensible yet becoming black sweater-shirt thing (what do you call a sweater with short sleeves, anyway?) on a totally hot lesbian blind date in the middle of Porn Utopia and my date is NO WHERE TO BE FOUND.

After about 30 more minutes of pacing outside and getting accosted by a woman who was dead set into crying me out of all the spare change I wasn't carrying, I went inside to ask for a nice, stiff drink.  And they offered to seat me at a table that looked outside.  They're nice little minxes, I'll tell you what.

And I waited.

And waited.

And the hot hostesses kept looking at me.

And so I drank.

And at 9, I threw in the towel.  She wasn't coming, and I'm now a pathetic loser who can't even get a BLIND date, and the hostesses were mumbling in my general direction, so I left.

Turns out, she was doing just about the exact same thing as me at the OTHER The New Bar a few blocks in the other direction.  Though I don't think anyone thought she was a lesbian.  Or maybe they just didn't have the balls to ask.  Bygones.

She eventually figured out she was at the wrong place, and hopped out of the cab at the right place I kid you not within 2 minutes of me hopping into my car to head straight home like a good girl should.

Oops.  While I was busy "driving straight home like a good girl should," she was busy calling my house, talking to The Donor, who gave her my cell phone number, which rang on my kitchen counter right where I'd forgotten to pick it up from, and then talking to him again on my house line, and then giving up, too.

Long story long short, we met up last night.  And she's awesome.  We had a really great time.  Well, I had a really good time and she's probably bleeding from the ears right now, but the hostess from last night was the hostess tonight, too, and she totally believes that we weren't out "experimenting" on a weeknight.

Or so she says, anyway.  It doesn't matter, anyway...she's totally out of my league.

007, With Carseats

I like dating.  Overly.  Dating is, for me, the funnest thing I never really did.  See, I kinda married my second boyfriend and so my "dating" experience can be summed up in four words; train tracks, and Old Chicago.  That's about it.

Being the type of girl who likes to get her kicks where she can, I try to find ways to creatively maneuver around that whole "being married" bit and get myself out there.  My friend Veronica and I have been known to go on a mean date, one involving posh martinis in little Russian cafes at the beginning and hot tubs at the end.  Meow.  Today, I am being all James Bond and going on an international date.  With a married woman.

Hel-lo homewrecker.

A few weeks ago Dove sent me a purse (did you know I have a purse thing?  I have a purse thing) that had some shampoo, some conditioner, some deodorant (which, shock, actually kind of rocks) and 2 movie tickets to see The Women, which opened in theaters on Friday.

Guess where the tickets are only good in?  That's right, AMERICA.  Um, America?  You're, like, *this* much of the world.  Share with the group already.  Puff puff give, you know?

I was totally going to give away the tickets and then I remembered that I live 30 minutes from America, and my friend Latte Mommy lives 5 minutes from America, and we both really loves us some Target, and the Target closest to here is right next to the American Movie Theater closest to here, and yeah...I totally asked her out.  On a date.  Over international boundary lines.

Really, how many people have asked you out on a date that required a passport and, potentially, a cavity search?

Let me rephrase that: Really, how many people have asked you out on a date that required a passport and, potentially, a cavity search by a man in uniform?

Still not right: Really, how many people have asked you out on a date that required a passport and, potentially, a cavity search by a grumpy, caffeinated, uniformed government official?  While sober?

So, at about 2pm, LatteMommy and I will set out on a whirlwind adventure of mystery and intrigue in a foreign country.  There will be dinner.  There will be a movie; a Chick Flick movie, at that.  There will be Starbucks and a there will be a pack of Marlboro's, dammit.  And there will be Target.

TARGET, people.

My Triumphant Return to Thursday Thirteen (or something like that)

My husband accidentally took a week long vacation last week.

He had just pulled a marathon of sorts; 14 days straight, no break. His days are not your typical work days; he works a minimum of 10 hours a day, averages 12, once a week pulls a 14-hour-er. He gets 6 days off a month. We NEVER see him.

Since he worked a months' worth of hours in two weeks, he took a few days off. And then we celebrated Canada Day. The day before Canada Day, he only had to go in for 5 hours. Voila! One whole week off.

I can't remember the last time he had a whole week off. I was, honestly, afraid I might be forced to ram the heel of a green glitter plastic Princess high heel into his temple by the end of the week. We just never spend that much one-on-one time, you know?

I am happy to report, all the dress-up shoes are intact, and aside from a few muscles being sore due to overuse (you go right ahead and run with that one) no one is worse for the wear. In fact, I find myself wishing he had a normal-ish schedule. He left for work yesterday, and I missed him. Weird, I know.

There is a point, I promise. We did a lot of stuff over that week. I took a butt-load of pictures, and I have no clue where to start in showing them all to you. I am way behind in the internet loop, I haven't had to cook dinner once for 7 days straight, and I feel the pressing need to keep the laundry up to date all of a sudden. Pictures, for once in my life, are a the bottom of my priority list.

(I am pretty sure I was stolen and replaced with an exact replica. A pretty decently laid replica. Just sayin'.)

Anyhoo, I think I'll ease into some highlights of the past few weeks with these lovely shots of my pretend celebrity girlfriend, who I got to spend a ragin' day with a few weeks ago. Remember how the Dragonboat races came to Vancouver a few weeks back? Yeah, we spent the whole day downtown, crutches be damned.

Dragonboat Races
I'm cute. I'm almost a teen. I'm obnoxious.

We wandered around, ate some corn on the cob, watched a few races, had our picture taken with pop culture icons.

Almost creepy.
No, it's not lost and no, we can't keep it.

We got facepaints, because facepaints are the coolest.

TattoosYeah, that\'s them in a nutshell.
If that isn't the definitive picture of my sons, I don't know what is.

And right there next to the facepaint tent, lo and behold, one of the Dragonboat teams. But not just any old team.

LA Dragons
They were the only American team to make the top 8.

Recognize anyone? Look closely. Oh, it also helps if you occasionally read this guy's blog. Right there, 2nd row, 3rd in from the right, that would be Auntie Mei. As in, Fury's Auntie Mei, of BusyDad fame. Who is awesome. We stalked her up propa, shook hands, nibbled on my adorable baby, and then let her get back to racing.

Then we let the 2 little ones play on the playground, while 1of3 refined his mad Emo Teenager skilz.

Broken Feet can suck it.
I love this picture. Yes, I delight in my children's misery.

We hung out until that poor boy's foot couldn't take it anymore, and then headed home. Before we did, we thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of the amazing culinary delights from around the world that Vancouver is so infamous for offering.

A man of the WorldAt least I gave him milk.
Discriminating tastes, that's us.

And then we hoped on the SkyTrain and headed home, where my daughter who had been a perfect f'ing angel al day decided that right then was a fine time to exfoliate her sun-drentched skin with Blue Rasberry Bonnie Bell lipgloss. I didn't even know she was doing it until I noticed a woman a few seats down staring at her, gaging a little.

Like a spa treatment, only less awesome.
It was way more horrifying than it looks.

Then i was forced to take the obligatory self-portrait, since Mr Rude Cactus is always telling me I'm not narcissistic enough, so here is it, brother.

I smelled really bad right about then.
This really terrible Bud's for you.

Are you still here? Yeah, I barely am, too. Anyway, next day, downtown, coffeeshop, me and Auntie Mei and 3of3. We met, we wooed, we made exchange of cheesy camera phone pictures.

Future Auntie-In-Law-MeiGoofey, pho sho.Yeah, it\'s cute.  I\'ll admit it.

And that was it. We said goodbye, she hopped on a plane home, and I am happy to have made a new friend. We had a great time, for sure. Which was good, because right after this, Hell Week Little League Championship Week started.

But that's a whole other story....

See the other Thursday Thirteen's here.