Like most people, I google the shit out of ailments and like most people, I am diagnosed with the worst case scenario.
Why are my fingers numb a few hours after I hit my funny bone?
Answer: You are actively having a stroke. Put on a clean pair of underwear and then proceed to call 911.
In a search for something random like foot fungus (not that I have foot fungus), Google immediately thought that I was searching the number “four” and pulled up a quirky transcript called “The Museum of Four in the Morning“, by Rives. His entire speech revolves around his obsession with 4 a.m.; a time that kept popping up everywhere in history, music, television, movies, and so on. It was interesting at how a simple number, or in this case a time, can appear everywhere.
For me, that number always seems to be 2 a.m
Which is also the exact same time that my asshole dog wakes up to take a stroll and a poop in the backyard.
Look at how annoying he is.
Back in the day, 2 a.m. meant last call at the bars and the long trek to the nearest Pita Pit. My girlfriend always got a pita stuffed with tuna, extra mayo, and pickles. Weird bird. Now 2 a.m means “I’m probably going to die today if I don’t get sleep.”
Illuminated in blinding blue, two in the morning are the three most painful numbers displayed on the clock. I toss and turn or suffocate myself under a pillow as my brain threatens to produce coherent thoughts and sometimes, I can’t deny them because they’re real good ones. I’ve written entire posts at two. Even edited. I’ll impatiently wait until it comes to a reasonable hour where I can crawl out of bed safely without Shawn angrily grumbling something about onions and balls so that I can hurry up and write everything down. The problem with that is that I usually end up falling into a light sleep where thoughts mingle with dreams of washing patio tables and my son hiding under them because a ghost tried to bite his legs when he was sitting on the toilet.
One day he will murder me in my sleep for this
(That’s actually a real dream.)
I never remember those ideas. Ever. No matter how hard I try which is a shame because I’m brilliant at 2 a.m.
The dog barks, I call him an asshole, let him out, watch him sniff every crevice in our yard including his poop, let him in, fumble my way back to bed, look at the clock, it’s 2 a.m., and I count how many hours left until my son wakes up for the day.
Which is four hours from 2 a.m.
How about you? Is there a number that keeps popping up for you?
When I was in grade three, I had the most angriest teacher. I am sure that she was from the era where children feared ruler totting nuns. We were learning cursive and I had such a hard time with it. My aunt, who is also left handed, showed me that it was much easier to write if I turned the page at a 180 degree angle and it worked. My teacher, however, told me that it wasn’t the proper way to do it. She yelled at me and told me that I was being rude because I would elbow Sarah B when I wrote in that “ridiculous fashion”. She straightened my page and slapped my pencil on the desk.
“You’re staying here until you get this right!” she barked.
My palms sweat as I meticulously traced q’s over and over during recess time. It was exhaustingly repetitious. I just couldn’t do it as perfectly as she wanted it to be. I panicked every time I caught a glance of her out the corner of my eye rubbing her wrinkly angry ugly forehead. The clock ticked louder and faster when I saw the kids congregating just outside the entrance. As the bell rang, she snatched my page, “tsk tsk’ed” me and tossed the paper in the trash.
Before the next recess, I begged Sarah to trace them for me when the teacher wasn’t looking.
I handed in my work with a devious smile, and for the first time in a week (which seemed like an eternity as a kid), I was allowed to play outside. This was just one of many mischievous moments that Sarah and I had helped the other out. Just like any child attached to the hip of their best friend, we swore that we would get married, buy houses next to each other, and have lots of children.
The last time I heard, Sarah was a doctor studying to be a cardiovascular surgeon.
Friends come and go but that bag of cookies you plowed through will stick to your ribs forever.
Or something, something like that.
I’ve had a lot of friends in my life thus far but just like a dusty old fart in the wind, some just never lingered in the room.
How do you like that for a quote on a mug?
Each friendship came with great adventures and oh the things I had learned like drinking does not make you a good dancer…
…on top of a bar…
…in platform (it was cool at the time) shoes.
At each turn in my life, break-ups, late night bar puking, that one time I…never mind, graduations, surgeries, marriages, birth, illness, and so on, I can recall that friend(s) who was there sharing that part of my journey as do I remember sharing parts of their journey.
I may never see or hear from Sarah B, Sarah T, Sarah V, or Vanessa, “the rat”, “petch”, “gumby”, GP, Tool Belt, Blood Barf (Lindsay, who on her first day of clinical, saw blood and passed out), etc., and yes, that does make me sad.
Even though our friendships didn’t last, I will never forget the impact that they had.
They opened the doors to new adventures…
…and to new friends.
Betty never said goodbye…and the bitch stole my donut.
It’s 6:01 am. The kid is still (surprisingly) asleep. I have plopped myself here at the kitchen table with a hot cup of shitty coffee to my left. Drinking all things loaded with caffeine is counterintuitive to a person who has a raging case of the bipolar disorder. It can trigger anxiety, blah blah…I choose to ignore that on the list of things that you shouldn’t consume along with not letting your kid listen to Macklemore.
I have the patio door wide open to invite cool summer morning breezes. I wish that Shawn would enjoy the fresh air as much as I do. You see, Shawn never had air conditioning when he lived at home. I bet that he had boob sweat when he was just 24 months old. I shouldn’t poke fun. We had air conditioning but my dad never turned it on. He’d parade around in nothing but short shorts which is practically being naked. I have no idea how he could stuff a wallet in them when he’d take us for a slushie.
He’s the reason why convenience stores posted those “No shirt. No shoes. No service.” signs.
When Shawn and I moved in together, we put the air on in the winter just because we were adults and could do whatever we wanted. Like that one time when I played volleyball in the basement and took the ceiling down. It was awesome until Shawn had to fix it which meant buying tools that we didn’t have. Wasn’t that a wakeup call when you moved out of your parents house? You know the realization that you had to buy your own toilet paper and cups to drink out of. I’m pretty sure that was the reason why we were alcoholics until my wedding shower. We drank all the things in bottles because screw the man and conforming to drinking out of cups.
Seven months, for seven months we have been living like a moles in our basement. “The kitchen renovations would take a few months,” he said.
It also doubles as Play-Doh central
“It’ll be a fun experience,” he said, until we all started hating one another after a month of living and eating in the same place. We were going batty. I’m not even lying when I say that I had panic attacks every time I went downstairs. It smelled like food and murder.
Because toilet paper in the basement mother effers…I’m going to smother my mom in this
After many renovation mishaps like the one time the cabinet guy put up the wrong cabinets and when we almost got a divorce over paint colours and that one time I fell in love with the pretty tile guy but that didn’t have any effects on the job at hand, we are almost there. Shawn said “I hooked up the frid—” and I said, “Move out of my way”.
You have never seen a person with a back so bad that wind could split her in two move an entire kitchen upstairs in a matter of a few days.
I don’t care that we don’t have bar stools or mouldings or backsplashes or living room furniture. I made Shawn buy us a kitchen table and here I will live out the rest of my days with the patio door wide open so I can breathe real air.
The sun is kissing the tops of the trees in my yard.
“Oh,” she shook her finger at me, “you must be Canadian huh?”
“How did you know?”
“I asked, how did you know?”
“It’s the eh. You Canadians say ‘eh’ when you talk huh?”
“Oh I thought that you were going to say that my awesome was showing.”
I am very proud to be Canadian; land of flowing maple syrup, milk in bags, beautifully crafted igloos, and cops who ride ponies. Our pride can be found on patches sewn on backpacks, bumper stickers, bottles of beer, tattoos of maple leafs, and on Jerseys of hockey teams who win gold medals.
On July 1st, Canadians with glowing hearts, celebrate the true north strong and free. We call it Canada Is-More-Awesome-Than-Any-Other-Country Day.
The “Is More Awesome Than Any Other Country” is silent because we don’t like to brag.
We celebrated pre-Canada Day parades (because someone forgot the memo to make July 1st land on a weekend day and not on a weekday).
And the season’s last South Canadians Timbits game.
And a road trip to the cottage and an obscene amount of fireworks.
As you can tell by the spectators faces, the fireworks were epic
After that busy day, it was nice to be able to unwind. That might be difficult when you have kids hopped up on sugar and fun, so for July, Netflix has added a little Canadiana for the kids. All of the shows this month were either filmed in Canada, take place in Canada, or were created here.
However you celebrate Canada Day, it is best spent with the ones you love.
The Awesome Ones.
Disclosure: I am a member of the Netflix #StreamTeam and received a one-year subscription to Netflix and a Roku media streaming device in return for posting Netflix updates and reviews, however, all opinions are my own.
When Shawn asked me what I had wanted for Christmas, I told him that all I wanted was one date every month. That meant no child, not to the grocery store, not to look at paint chips, etc. It meant me and him, grossing out the promiscuous youth with our public displays of affection.
Affection meaning licking Shawn’s dessert plate and not thinking twice about herpes.
Life gets busy when you take on one of life’s biggest challenges…
…keeping garden plants alive…
…I mean having children.
People told me that our relationship would change; that our universe would revolve around a needy human who can’t pee in the toilet. I thought that they were lying but I stand corrected. It didn’t change it in a bad way. It just changed our priorities like sleep trumps all things naked related.
What happened to the days when we…that one afternoon…that time we…parking….balcony…ahem BBQ’ed wieners?
I see all of you parents nodding your heads in agreement.
How do you keep the sauce under the sheets?
Have you ever considered a video? As in being the stars in your own video like in the new movie Sex Tape featuring Cameron Diaz and Jason Segel?
Could you imagine that?
Tonight, Shawn is taking me out on a date. We won’t be making videos, or babies because we are allergic to them, but we will be enjoying each other like we did before child…
…and then we will be in bed by 10pm.
We are a naughty couple.
So how do you spice it up?
SONY Pictures is providing a Sex Tape gift basket containing: Sex Dice, Girl’s Booty Shorts, and Guy’s Boxers, as well as mini posters, to one lucky winner.
CANADIANS ONLY (however residents in Quebec are not eligible)
For more information on Sex Tape that will be released on July 18th, check out their website http://www.sonypictures.com/movies/sextape/