Undercover Decor

This is a dog dish. I don’t have a dog.

Last week when I was assembling the lasagna and drinking my twisted tea, I was getting frustrated with the amount of clutter and mess going on in our home. The housekeeping at our place is definitely a health and safety concern.

Jack was on his way home from work when I mentioned my current lack of interest in Housewifery.

“You are going to get a surprise when you get home. A hurricane swept through here about an hour ago and the house is in shambles.”

“What? Did it rain there?”

“If tomato sauce is rain, yes it did. It rained red.”

“Huh?”

An example of my wittiness while I’m drunk.

To lighten the subject, I came up with a game (also while half cut).
The name of the game is: “Guess How Long That’s Going to Be There”. Don’t let the length of the name fool you; the premise is simple. When you place something on the counter, table, floor, or otherwise, take a moment to guess how long that object will sit there collecting dust.

When Jack bought his new iPhone I told him not to even bother getting it wrapped up because the box and bag would sit at the kitchen table for a month. I got an eye roll and that was that. When we got home Jack removed his phone to play with it and left the bag at the kitchen table.A month later I was finally able to rock out the “I told you so”. In this case, I’m not so pleased with myself and my obvious home neglect.

You see, it’s not exactly my fault. It’s no one’s fault really. We all fall victim to “Undercover Décor”. At first, something that doesn’t belong somewhere looks out of place, but it’s easy to ignore. As time goes on things start to go unnoticed and eventually, they become part of the décor.

House guests start reaching for compliments on your décor because they know you’re an obsessive-compulsive cleaner and there has got to be a reason why THAT’s, THERE. Maybe it’s a new feng shui-type fad?

“I LOVE your candy bowl, it goes perfectly with your kitchen table!”

“Oh, thank you.”

That’s the dog dish, and that’s not chocolate.

How to Build An Easel

Like a fine wine or the whiskey that shares his name, Jack gets better with age. As his beard grows longer and more fruitful, he adds to his trades and becomes handier. It is tough to fathom how his projects have such positive outcomes when he never plans and only measures half the time. I’m not necessarily talking about quality of workmanship, but he has a hell of an imagination, will get the job done faster than anyone I know, and is not afraid to spend a few more minutes hiding flaws and presenting his masterpiece as though it were professionally crafted.

Our detached garage seems to be stuck in a sink hole and last spring it was floating. To remedy the problem, Jack dug a small ditch last summer and installed eaves troughs on our garage a few weeks ago. Originally the eaves troughs were laid on the ground to catch the water, and a guidepost (that was in his truck from work) was attached to the end of the trough as an extension. Eventually, he installed the system properly, but I bet if I paid the garage a visit I would notice another impressive “McGuiver “ situation.
Jack is a solution man. I have been troubled by the logistics behind showcasing a piece of barn wood wedding artwork that Put-Put gave us for Christmas. I am lucky that Jack was feeling particularly crafty the other day, because not only did he throw together an easel for me, but he successfully solved my seating chart predicament.

How To Build An Easel
by Jack of Most Trades

1.) Cut down a tree with a chain saw.
2.) Cut tree into approximate 6, 3, and 1.5ft lengths. No, don’t measure.
3.) Make a letter “A” with the tree.
4.) Drill screws into wood.
5.) Hide screw holes with an entire roll of jute twine.
6.) Add tripod.
7.) Hold tripod up with more jute twine.
8.) Proudly present easel to your girlfriend as “rustic”.

As much as I joke, I was impressed with Jack’s throw together project this time. See?

(Note: he did not make the sign; he’s not THAT crafty)

Pretty! If you look closely, you can see the eaves trough in the background.

So He Thinks He Can Dance

My Illustrative Rendition of Dance Monster “Jackerlake”

I have created A MONSTER!

At first, Jack wasn’t fond of the idea of having a choreographed dance as our “First Dance” and he has never been very coordinated. See the post “He Don’t Dance” for further details.

A few weeks of creating, practicing, and NEARLY perfecting our routine, and the guy now thinks he’s a professional choreographer for Britney Spears (I’m Britney Spears, I guess).

Last time we practiced our little gem, Jack became all kinds of frustrated (ie.Frankenstein, Hulk, etc).

The following sentences were uttered by an exasperated Jack:

“This is not working the way I’m envisioning it.”
“LISTEN to the music!”
“NO, that is not the right time to turn around.”
“I’m just standing here all awkwardly for you to come back.”
“I’m going to yell out “NOW” when I think you should do that part.”

If this was not humiliating enough to a former dancer, Jack proceeded to order me to sit down and watch him dance my part.

Me: “Can you just dance both of our parts at the same time so I can see how you envision it?”
“Show me that again, I didn’t really get it the first couple of times.”
Jack: “Are you asking me to keep dancing by myself so that you can make fun of me?”
Me: “I wouldn’t do that.”

And if you’ve been following the blog for some time now, you know it is out of character for me to not be making fun of Jack. But, I truly did not understand what he was wanting from me. Each time he showed me different timing and was confident he was doing it the exact same every time, and that it was the way it should be performed.

Jack: “WHY AREN’T YOU GETTING THIS?”
Settle down, Mr. Timberlake. Let’s take it from the top.

15 Signs I’m Drunk

Lasagna Interrupted

1. I just got a whole hell of a lot wittier.
2. I started baking or cooking, but it didn’t get done.
3. I forget what I was going to say now.
4. People think I’m funny. I think I’m funny.
5. I called my sister, my mom, my fiancé, and my best friend in an hour time span.
6. I lost my phone in the laundry pile.
7. Two twisted teas have mysteriously disappeared.
8. In my mind I can drive, but I won’t.
9. Someone is spilling their drink on me. Oh wait, that’s me.
10. I’m a millionaire!! Shots for everyone!!
11. I am amazing at pool and every other game that requires hand eye coordination (those in which I fail at whilst sober).
12. Did I mention I was on the latest episodes of American Idol AND So You Think You Can Dance?
13. I. JUST. CAN’T.STOP.LAUGHING.
14. How many is that?
15. Let’s take a picture!

Plants > Pets

Me. When I still liked cats.

I liked cats A LOT when I was a kid; specifically, kittens. I was looking through old photos the other day when I came across the one of me in the blue dress at age 2 and a half. At first glance, other than the crimped hair and frilly barrettes, everything looked fairly normal and up to par. Upon further examination, I noticed a scratch on my forearm.

Barn kittens are fluffy and cute, but can be semi-wild by the time they come into physical contact with humans. As a 2 and a half year old girl, kittens are fluffy and cute and are meant to be picked up and held until they claw their way out of the minimum security prison. Let’s just say I’ve got sick battle scars.

I think my loving and losing tens of barn kittens to wildlife, harsh winters or truck accidents (I know, Dad) resulted in my overcompensation as an adult. I don’t know if it is that I don’t like them, or that their lightning fast reflexes or nine lives frighten me. Over the years my fear of cats has expanded to dogs.

Before we go on, I don’t want you to make me out to be heartless. I don’t hate animals. I won’t kick your dog. I just don’t develop insane attachments to other peoples’ pets. Don’t worry, I won’t like your human kid either. I wouldn’t take it personally.

Let’s put it this way . . .

Have you developed a relationship with my car? What about my flourishing basil plant? I love them both, to an extent. But, you! Don’t like my car because it’s rusty and dirty and you couldn’t give less of a shoot about someone else’s plant. So please, don’t be offended if I don’t stop to pet your dog. Besides, how do I know he won’t bite, or worse: develop one-sided puppy love for me.

Nixon is a mini weiner dog. He might be more useful at a birthday party or a circus as the entertainment than as my friend’s pet. I don’t like him and I never have. Animals have a sixth sense and can almost read your mind. They know when you’re not a “dog person” and will do their best to leave you in peace. Nixon was born without the sixth sense. Each time I see him, even if it’s months or years from the time he last laid his eyes on me, he will remember me. He will bark, jump up, and crawl all over me with excitement. He’s like a Spanish lover I just can’t shake.

I’m not into you buddy, leave me alone.

The good news is: it appears I’m not at risk of becoming crazy cat lady. I’ll stick with my plants.

Wedding Numbers

How to Give a Piggy Back Ride

I wrote this the other day because I KNEW I would be too hungover to function this week.Thanks, pre-stagette Lady Leisure. . . 

Over the past two years of being engaged, wedding shit has ruled (ruined) my life.

I now belong to 20 Wedding-related Facebook Groups; one of which I proudly Administrate.

I have crafted approximately 100 tissue paper flowers, 40 invitations, 30 guest favours, 15 silk flower arrangements, one popcorn bar, a thank you banner, and a partridge in a pear tree. We’ve got a barn wood bar and archway, mason jar chandelier, 17 tree slices, 6 table runners, and one fake wedding cake constructed by the hands of my annoyed loved ones. My friends and family can barely tolerate me at this point. I feel the same way about myself.

I decided on my perfect dress about a year and a half ago. This decision became reality when my Dad tagged along one day and cried at the first dress I tried on. (And I have proof. I have in my possession a photo of me in THE dress looking in the mirror at my Dad bawling in the background).

Okay tears, you win. Obviously this is the dress I’m getting. 

If he were present, the guy would have undoubtedly cried when I tried on the princess ballerina-ball gown-from-hell that made me look and walk (and feel) like a white fluffy minion. Thankfully, I attended that appointment by myself. No matter how convincingly my store consultant “ooh’d” and “aww’d” over how the unicorn sparkles brought out my eyes and explained how “Every girl deserves to feel like a princess on her wedding day,” I was not fooled.

Shut up. Unicorns don’t even exist. 

Lucky dress number 50 is the one my Daddy chose and I’m curious to know if maybe he forced the tears to end my dangerous obsession. I am only estimating when I say I test drove 50 dresses; I always downplay this one because people raise their eyebrows when I tell them it was more like 75. I shopped till I dropped at ten to twelve bridal shops across the province. It was an addiction; I am a recovering dress shopping addict.

I like the dress. It’s pretty and brings out my figure and shit. Would I ever want to shop that aggressively for wedding gowns again? I’d go tomorrow, next week, when I’m too old to walk, even when my daughter gets married.

Shh, darling, Mom wants to try just ONE more on, THEN it will be your turn.

I apologize in advance to my future daughter who will be unfortunate enough to receive my genes. She’s got some grandiose wedding numbers to “try” to shatter. On second thought, I apologize to my future daughter’s future husband. And my future husband.

Jack, I’m sorry for my OCD (past, present, and future). 

Tailgate This

This isn’t a tailgate party!

I pulled “a Jack” last night. He’s a traffic bully and he tailgates people so they get out of the fast lane so that he can pass. But if someone is tailgating him on the highway, WATCH OUT! Extreme road rage is one thing that isn’t a deal breaker about Jack, but could be if I were a little less evil myself.

Someone was riding my ass after Zumba class and her lights were reflecting off my windshield from behind. I could see nothing and do nothing. I tried the ol’ tapping the brakes trick.

Brake lights don’t scare you? Hmm.

So I waited until I turned on to another road, threw my flashers on, and pulled over by the mailboxes. Once the tailgater passed me I accelerated so quickly behind that a-hole, the triple threat happened: squealing tires, flying gravel, and traction control engagement. Of course I couldn’t keep up with “Tailgater A-hole” so I gave them one last flash of my brights before they disappeared over the hill. You would think this would make me feel better, but I stewed about it the rest of the 5 min trip home and the first thing that came out of my mouth when I got there was this sad story.
And you wanna know what Jack said to make it all better?

“SEE?! Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Yeah . . It does.

Ps. Jack wanted me to call this post, “If You’re Gonna Ride My Ass, At Least Pull My Hair.”

Myyy Prince.

Share the Salmonella Love

Share the Salmonella Love

In our prime, my sister and I shared some interesting party memories. Other than visiting the Petro beside the bar for some inebriated Pizza Pops, not too many things remain in my memory. By the way, slow clap to whoever thought of putting a microwave in a gas station (beside a liquor establishment).

One of our friends recently had a child, and he is the proudest Dad in the world! It got me thinking about this gentleman’s younger years and how much life changes when we finally decide to take the leap (ie. marriage, children, etc.)

One evening after our pizza pop-eating ritual, my sister and I witnessed one of this gentleman’s finer moments. This story is not the best nor the most crude story about “Proud Dad”, but just one of the times I happened to be present and sober enough to report the details many years later.

Boys are mean to each other. If this weren’t the case, I wouldn’t have laughed near as much growing up. Please do not confuse this with me thinking bullying is funny or right, because I do not. Innocent digs and practical jokes amongst friends is the kind of “mean” I fully support.

This particular evening, one of Proud Dad’s buddies was pouring a drink and was searching for ice in the freezer. An exclamation point and light bulb lit up simultaneously over this guy’s head when he revealed a frozen, raw chicken breast instead of ice cubes.

My thought at that moment was, “OHH NO, who’s getting Salmonella tonight?”

The answer to that question quickly became apparent as the guy removed the chicken breast from its protective barrier and placed it on Proud Dad (who was passed out on the couch). Incoherently, Proud Dad yelled at “Put-Put” (my sister) to stop being such a female dog. We tried to stifle our laughs to no avail, while the novelty of the quickly thawing chicken breast soon wore off. After placing the chicken breast in a more inappropriate area on the passed out gentleman’s body, Proud Dad’s buddy had another idea.

“Why don’t we put the chicken on the fan . . . then turn it on (and try hitting Proud Dad)?”

This part impresses me because it means someone not only paid attention in Physics class, but was able to take the learnings and apply them to a real life situation. This is also where my memory gets a little foggy. I am not sure if the fan trick actually worked, but I do recall several attempts; each time raw chicken juice spattering across the living room.

Share the Salmonella love.

As I prepare for my Stagette (Bachelorette Party) this weekend, I am relieved this type of behaviour is far in the past. However, if I come down with a bout of “foodborne illness” the day after the festivities, we know “Put-Put” is to blame.

Sorry, Sister

Sometimes nuns are in disguise

In November of last year I had been working with Jack of Most Trades for about a month. He hired me on for some office safety responsibilities and we got to hang out like best buds almost every hour of every day. Cool, huh? We are still working together and although it has been close, we haven’t filed for pre-divorce . . .yet.

Jack and I are the first to admit we don’t “fit in” with the main floor crowd at the shop. Maybe it’s our fault, maybe it’s theirs. To strengthen the downstairs employees’ case against us (Jack specifically), one day Jack needed a hole punch and he didn’t have one, so he body checked a locked door to retrieve someone else’s. When questioned about the incident, he told me he just really needed the hole punch. To this day, there are little round pieces of paper scattered on the stairs leading to our office – a reminder of Jack’s grand theft hole punch “WTF moment”.

But there is more to the story, of course. Jack is a patient man when it comes to my obsessive cleaning and random crying fits; when he gets to work he transforms into a militant hot mess. He will lose his shit on a weekly basis. Where he rarely yells at me at home, he completely makes up for at the office.
He always scream -asks me all these hard questions like:

“WHY DO YOU GET HURT ALL THE TIME?”

“WHY ARE YOU CRYING (AGAIN)?” and

“WHO THE F CARES?”

In the construction industry swearing is acceptable. You can even call someone an “F’n A-hole” and they won’t be offended. I don’t like it when Jack scream questions me with swears. And I don’t think I’m alone.

Back to November . . .

I was having a conversation about Windows 8 with a lady from the aforementioned main floor crowd, when Jack walked in.

MF Lady: “We were just talking about you.”

Jack (jokingly): “Why, what the f#cked I do?”

While speaking with the main floor lady, I had noticed a mild mannered, grey haired lady sitting on the couch in the waiting room. After Jack threw out the F bomb, I instantly felt very awkward and motioned my eyes from him to the lady sitting in the waiting room. She wasn’t just any little old lady. . .

MF Lady: “There’s a sister behind you.”

Jack: “So there is.” Turning to the nun sitting on the couch he said apologetically, “I’m very sorry about that”.

Jack quickly turned on his heel and mentioned something about “going to go pray”.

You see, Jack was raised a good Catholic boy and had he known a nun was sitting behind him, he would have never peppered us with profanity.

Jack is a good man; hole punches are hard to come by, and sisters just don’t dress like they used to.

He Don’t Dance

Prehistoric Bird in Flight
Dancing is hard when you have wings.

Jack is installing flooring in our office today. He tells me it has slowly migrated to one side as he works his way across the room. His plan? Cut little pieces to fill the holes at the wall and then hopefully cover it up with baseboards.

Believe it or not, I call this a win. He’s still Jack of Most Trades to me.

Something I will admit Jack hasn’t mastered: the art of dance. He is learning to partner dance quite successfully; he spins and lifts me like a pro (look out wedding dance), but when it comes to the solo it’s sort of awkward watching him.

Just so I don’t get in trouble here, I should also state I had the idea for this post a few weeks back and Jack’s dancing skills have improved immensely.

Let’s take a trip back to January, shall we?

As some of you may know, I lived and breathed dance from the time I was 4 years old until I graduated high school, and have regained an obsession of dance through weekly Zumba classes over the past year. I know a little bit about dance steps and would say I would be able to teach them to ALMOST anyone. I also believe my dance skill evaluation abilities to be true and accurate.

The description that best fits Jack’s “moves” would boil down to: “Prehistoric Bird in Flight”.

One evening I was pleasantly surprised to hear of Jack’s openness to trying a few dance moves, so I seized the opportunity. My mistake.

We began with a basic 3-step move named the “chasse”, literally meaning “to chase”. When it was finally clear to me Jack was not a natural born dancer, I decided to mess with him a little. We followed the chasse with the pique and the jete, two steps that if attempted by an uncoordinated man, could appear bird-like.

Remember: a good wife always sets her husband up to entertain herself. If I truly respected him, I would have taken a video and uploaded it to YouTube so all my Laughers could bask in the glory. I did not do this. But if you’re curious about the dance steps, look up the words in the French-English Dictionary or the Ballet Glossary to aid in your imaginative journey.

Oddly enough, Jack had already perfected the plié by the time we reached that part of our lesson. I chalked it up to beginners luck and moved on (even though I was tempted to teach him the grande plié, for the mere fact that I haven’t seen him rip the crotch out of his wranglers in a few weeks). By this time the pain in my core was agonizing from laughing uncontrollably, and we ended the lesson on a positive note.

Jack undergoes a certain amount of harassment from me (clearly), but one of the things I love about him is he never gives up. He understands dancing at our wedding is important to me, and he would do anything to make me smile. Even if this means his tough guy reputation is shattered.

Jack may be a pterodactyl, but he’s mine, and in one month I’ll rightly be referred to as Mrs. Pterodactyl.