Every month I have 3-5 days when I am a crazy full moon-atic. When this not so pleasurable version of me appears to keep Hubby company, he never takes it well. It also takes him 2 days of me being not so nice for him to realize that it has been 28ish days since I was this mean. So, needless to say he is finally getting the rhythm. I also admit that working 14 hour days, most of which are in Hamilton have amplified these symptoms. Yesterday, I wasn't nice at all. I didn't deserve a second thought, let alone a premeditated ambush of love. But that's what I got. He sniper-ed me with a happy marriage and a grenade of smiles. Starting my day at 4:30am has created a split in our sleeping schedules, some nights he works that late. Our weekends are full of all the errands and all the life we can jam into them. We've been busy. Today as I was waiting at work for my work to start again, I got a text.Hubby: I have a surprise for you when you get home:)Melicious: Ginger Beer!Hubby: Better.Melicious: The Comish has moved out?Hubby: Nah, he's staying...Melicious: Dang. You got me that super expensive nightie from SFYS? (SFYS: Secrets from your Sister, Toronto's most amazing lingerie boutique)Hubby: Nope.Melicious: Washed the Sheets?Hubby: Nope. But I'll do that too.Melicious: Oh geez. I racked my brain trying to figure out why this rainy Wednesday was suddenly so special. Two hours later I saw Hubby's Facebook post: "Melicious is going to be surprised when she gets home" Below this statement friends and relatives posted their hypotheses, I was surprised to see what they thought would surprise me. Thank Rod nobody suggested another FanBoy toy! Then text:
Hubby: 2 surprises.:)
Melicious: Oh dear my love.
Hubby: ETA? Wanna make sure things are nice for you.:)
Melicious: Why?
Hubby: There are 3 surprises.
Melicious: That's a bit much.
Hubby: You're worth it.
I sat at work thinking about surprises. I finished work. I rode home from work thinking about surprises. I got off the bus...then I walked home thinking about...that's right, surprises. Turns out I really love surprises. I should say that again. I REALLY love surprises. Climbing the four floors to my condo I thought some more. Turning my key in the lock, opening to smells of my current favourite food: Saag Paneer Roti. Mmmhmm, dinner is served. Hubby turning the corner close on Jilly's heels, both of them wagging with excitement to have me home. I smile. If this was the surprise- I really liked it. And I smiled. But I came into our nearly new apartment and you know what? It was painted. It was painted in one day. I left and came back and it was painted. The cans had been sitting in our den for the last 3 months waiting for their chance to show their true colours and they did. My house was transformed and I didn't even have to help do it:) BEST SURPRISE ever. My vintage inspired bedroom... I mean OUR bedroom is Bibbity Bobbity-Blue and the den is Buttercup yellow and their both done. Two coats, dry, clean and finished. Boy, was surprised. A huge checkmark for the TO DO list and a giant gold star for the best Hubby I've ever had. My 2 other surprises? Clean sheets and 2 books from my Wishlist. SO, as a representative appointed to speak for this Moon-atic; Hubby please remember she'll be back in a month and you've set the bar pretty high. I love you! I love you! I love you. But that's no surprise.
Hubby and I moved into our new place 3 months ago. Our first evening at our new place, we were sitting and watching out our new windows. There was a man in a white, crisp collared shirt with a big lady bulldog. Both Hubby and I remarking how cute the puppa was. Until she pooped and her owner pretended not to see it and then walked away. Needless to say; the Commissioner was not impressed.
Since that first day, the amount of excrement has drastically increased. Hubby is convinced that it all belongs to the bull-dogette, which would actually be very impressive. That stocky lady must eat a lot cuz there is a lot of poop at various stages of decomposition and petrifaction. It's been bothering my Hubby every time he takes our Stinker out. Bothering him every time he looks out our window. And it started to bother me when the Commish wouldn't stop obsessing about it.
Then this past weekend; after 3 months of stewing over pooh. While standing, some might even say lurking on our patio (the deck as I refer to it ironically). Low and behold, the lady bulldog with her owner, wearing the same white collared shirt, let's his big lady do her business in the same outback area. The man looks around taking stock of who is watching-sees no one and walks away from the chocolate swirl his big lady left:( Hubby has had enough, 3 months of starring at poo from our window and obsessing has emboldened him.
"You gonna pick that up?" To which the man looks up and sees the 2 of us watching him from the deck.
"You gonna pick that up?" the Comish asked again.
"Can you see where it went?" the man laughs
"Yeah, it's right there, where your dog pooped."
"Point it out to me."
Hubby leaning over the railing points into a dark spot and makes a broad sweeping gesture. The man in the collared shirt laughs it off, bends down to collect it, waves and then says goodnight. Hubby feels great. The pride he feels for sticking up for himself fills the air. Suddenly, there's a voice from below.
"Pick it up!?! What are you the shit police?" Hubby and I were both surprised to hear this. Shit police? No, we've got way bigger fish to fry.
"Dude who gives a shit if I pick up this dog shit?" looking down from our deck, we find our downstairs neighbour: the man in the collared shirt and his dumbass douche friend.
"Look at it out here." Backwards hat drunk friend says while gesturing to the construction holes, temporary fence and general disarray. His rudeness adding to the disaster that is our 'yard'. We are surrounded by mud and I understand that it can seem like a little dog turd is the least of our esthetic landscaping problems.
"Its a dump. You think one piece of shit is gonna make a difference?"
"I don't want to look at your dog's dump. Don't you want to make this dump a little better?" I ask with my heart on my sleeve and my optimism squeaking from my throat.
"Well, I don't even live here why would I even give a shit?" And why should he give a shit if we don't? It is our home; and we need to take pride in it, no matter the current state. Right?
So, what did we achieve? Hubby yelled at the man in the collared shirt who picked up one teeny tiny dog turd, leaving the rest on display. Then the man turns out he's our downstairs neighbour. What are the odds of that? In our 3 building complex there is an average of 20 suites per floor, each building having 8 + storeys. The only person we've yelled at is an unhappy downstairs neighbour with a sloppy lady bulldog and a douche with a big mouth BFF, making us feel bad for being the try-harddo-gooders we are. What are the odds? I guess they're stacked meliciously against us, but don't worry Comish, I am a great partner who's not afraid to call for back-up.
My girlfriend said the best thing about this blog is; it feels like you're on the inside of the jokes. So, being the butt of this inside joke, I thought I would tell you about my pant splitting experience. I split the ass out of my jeans. I mean right out. I split them from helm to bow, from crotch to fly. I tore through those poor jeans as if they'd gone after my family. With one foul slash these jeans stole all the self confidence I had been slowly building. Getting myself to a place of physical acceptance; only to have it, quite literally ripped away from me. While at work- with a group of mostly men, a distinct ripping sound filled the air and a breeze blew through, where no breeze had blown before. One of the few gentlemen on set covertly approached me and whispered in my ear that my pants had split. Lucky me to have worn my conservative, full bum, black cotton briefs. Scurrying off to the washroom like a grade 8 girl who just started her period, I wrapped a shirt around my waist and kept on with my day, though with strong sense of em-bare-ass-ment.
My Hubby didn't get why I was so upset- as I thundered and stormed around, in search of some reason for this happening. So what, maybe these jeans were too expensive? And I really loved them, big deal. They are after all just a pair of pants; but I have trouble letting things go. For example my Penn state jogging pants I bought with babysitting money on a trip to New England. The only thing supporting my statement that these are still pants- is a flimsy (no more elastic) waistband. These joggers are the only thing linking my high school days to my married life- except Facebook. There is a certain comfort to be had, wearing an orange hoodie you've had for 8 years or a tank top that's 5 summers old. Cuddling up in the broken down fabric; with the ripped cuffs and frayed bottoms.
As for obliterating a 3 month old pair of jeans. Do you know what kind of psi pressure goes into splitting them in such a way? Oh- you don't 'cuz it's never happened to you? Well, let me tell you. While thinking about these new jeans I realized they suffered through: 3 Ladies ski weekends in Collingwood, moving, making a horror film in a 'building' where wind is born, 3 comedy shows, the streets of 1860 New York, 2 student films, 4 girl's nights -3 in and 1 out, Jilly's surgery and a friend's new baby. Now, I probably didn't wear those jeans for all that time, but a lot has happened in their short life. So, why mourn their passing? Oh yeah, 'cuz the looked freakin' fabulous and were 100,000,000 times more comfortable than any other pants I've ever had. (That might be a slight exaggeration)
After finally expressing these feelings to Hubby, he told me to get new jeans and get over it. But it's not that easy, replacing your favourite jeans takes time, effort and money. That being said, I bought 3 new pairs. Two of those pairs are way too long. A problem I had worked out with my former new jeans; but I guess long legs outweighs crotchless, at least I know Hubby is more tolerant of rolled cuffs. Okay, so having replaced my favourite jeans with these promising new pairs, I guess it's time I release the crotchless joggers and jeans. But, I can't just throw them out; maybe I'll chop them up and make them into a quilt...with all my extra time. When you've suffered a pant trauma like this, you're likely to have horrific pant splitting flashbacks- which have thrown me into cold sweats- specifically in the butt area and I keep trying to prevent any stretching, bending or leaning- until these new jeans get a little more relaxed, you know for the jean's sake.
PS- An interesting side note to this inside joke: Having told the story a few times, as is my custom, when something funny happens, the general reaction is surprise that it was my pants, and not my shirt- having an obviously high psi up there and two ever-present reasons why I don't wear button down shirts, I guess I was lucky after all.
Dear Opportunity, So very much has happened since we had our chance meeting at Starbucks when I wasn't wearing any makeup and hadn't washed my hair. It was so nice to see you, looking like you just stepped off a runway with matching accessories. Where to begin? Well, we moved. As I tenderly wrap my Marilyn sweater into a hug and nestle her into my new closet on a new wooden hanger, I thought of my Little King, and laughed. Four long years in 400sq ft, this is so much better. I am still figuring out where my life belongs in this place. Where to sleep? Or nap- both being very important and separate resting periods. Where to snuggle? Where Lucy curls up. My hubby thinking I am crazy trying to find places for things. I've never had to worry where things went. They only had one place to go: there. Where's the faucet position for optimal hand washing temp. Turning lights on and off for the first time, and guessing what Hubby is doing in the other room by the sounds. It's amazing. Using the new washer and dryer. Them, I love- cutting my laundry time in half by 3 days. Throwing out unpaired socks. Cause they won't find themselves and move over. Realizing that unsupervised Jilly will nest inside warm, clean laundry. Oh, then there's Jilly one week after vaginal reconstruction surgery and feeling much snappier. Being stubborn as usual and pulling me toward the dog park. Weird thing though she's still running into walls with her giant plastic cone, which I honestly thought by now she would've learned how to navigate. The impact may actually be making her dumber. A worrisome thought when you just spent $3,000 on surgery. But insurance paid for that, well most of it. But not the taxes, never the taxes. *insert fist shake Our new house isn't all washing machines and dog surgeries though. Don't forget the flood, the mail standoff, the mis-wired door buzzer and the constant upgrades, it's a disaster. The slow return of the neighbours, coming home to their dry but damaged stuff. It's an antique collectors nightmare! Irreplaceable heirlooms. Wood that's now more prone to cracking, splitting and splintering. One neighbour explaining why she thought she didn't need insurance; "Cuz nothing she owned was valuable"...Except when it all gets ruined at once and needs to be replaced. That's what insurance is for...Oh yeah, and of course, the last booming machine sucking up humidity into a giant plastic garbage tub is right outside my door. So, I decided to take advantage of the noise and put in a load of laundry. It's amazing how a sound can change when it's answering to your sock and towel whims and not the building manager's, who is scared everyone is gonna sue. It's a fantastic time of inconvenient building posts and no base boards. Otherwise, It's been a wicked month. I have a slightly regular job. Slightly meaning- 2-3 times a week. Commercials on the side, and this. I have watched my Likes grow and my web traffic increase to a steady flow. I created my first guest blog for Misfits & Mascara! Now, I have you. Your my new favourite and when you don't comment I get lonely. But as I say- I want you, to want to want me, but I don't want to ask.Love and Likes.Melicious
 The Tinker in her fancy Tiara It's nighttime, day of Jilly's surgery- she can't walk because of all the stitches in her bum. When she's standing there is a dopey sway...I think she's as comfortable as she can be, but my poor sleepy puppy smells like surgery and dehydrated dog breath. Her pain pills (of which there are a solid stream of 4 different types to be given throughout the day) need to be taken every 6-8 hours so I have set an alarm for 4:30 am... beep beep beep... I wake to find a glazed eyed puppy staring at me from the inside of her shiny new plastic cone...but that sound... what is that sound? It's a rushing, swooshing and dripping sound. It's not coming from her. I can also hear my neighbours faintly in the hallway... their voices getting closer then drifting away, but the water is getting louder... is that possible?
Yes. Yes, it is. It is very possible. A pipe has burst on the 7th floor and is rushing down the stairwell, through the hallway and into the 4th floor condos...This is happening people. A sad neighbour girl sitting in a puddle, wrapped in a blanket, watching her husband pacing and raving about the ruined mattress and upgraded hardwood floors. Firemen (side note: Calendar firemen don't work the 4 am shift) bustling around, tracing the water to the source, triggering the fire alarm and yelling to each other, all their sentences seem to end with "Mac". Add to that maintenance men in soggy steel toe boots, walking on squishy hallway carpet, ripping up brand new and totally ruined flooring, in the newly moved in neighbouring units, sand blasting and grinding the freshly painted walls and ripping out unused appliances. Also- building security knocking on doors, asking if everyone is alright inside- (which I would have thought was a fireman's job) and asking if there was damage. It's a drippy and depressing 5 ring circus and we're trying to sleep in here! It was a very traumatic day! I mean c'mon!
You know the saying when it rains, it pours... We're lucky that when it rained here- Hubby, Bean and I had the good luck of wearing our rain slickers. We were the only unit on our floor that was unscathed, as of yet- though they have been very clear that seepage is a real danger. Other than the 4 am hubub and ballyhoo and the early morning intensive labour we're alright. The Stinker with her sound amplifying cone has been a trooper and continues resting comfortably, though it's clearly drug induced. And as far as perfect timing goes- Jilly hates getting her feet wet, so she would want to be carried down the spongy hall surgery or not. Sometimes things just work out...:$
PS: 4B- that sucks about your mattress, but is there anything better than a new mattress?
Four score and seven beer ago, my onefather (and 3 friends) brought forth on this condo a new population. At least I think that's how it goes, I am paraphrasing from Kindergarten Cop. In my new and pretty condo, people gather and lounge. Like big cats in sunspots. They like to drink beer and soda pop. It is a fun place to be and people finally wanna come over to play. Hubby and I have always been homebodies who wanted to entertain but we've never had the space... Now we have space to spare. A foursome is easily accommodated for a movie, a twosome for a snuggle and a larger group spreads out and leans against walls, leaking into the den, where most of the Man-geek magic happens.
I have always wanted to be the condo the neighbours walk by thinking; "Aww, that sounds like fun." My old neighbours used to have that kind of party (every Thursday, Friday and Saturday with a sleep over brunch on Sunday, which is a bit much) and all I wanted was to be invited to one. All this longing, knowing that once the day of the party arrives I would stress about having nothing to wear that would show how fun I am*insert jazz hands. Only to decide on the same thing I wore in the last set of Facebook photos of a party I was at. When I do get to the party, usually the first guest, I start helping out, bowling snacks or chilling beer. I make myself busy to hide the fact that I'm a bit nervous to be there. When other guests arrive, appropriately late (which is a weird thing, right? I mean if you wanted people there for 7:30, why not just say that? Don't call it for 7:00, knowing people won't arrive for a half hour, 'cause I'll arrive at 7:00, it's rude to be late) I am tossed from the kitchen and into the fray of people: some I might know, some will be strangers. This should be exciting right? It is the most terrifiying situation, Zombie apocalypse not withstanding. If they are comedy people the night demands one-up-manship and witty banter- which means I have to be on my toes! And though I am not competitive, I don't like to loose. If the group is 9-5ers they are easily off put by an overly eager me trying to connect with them on some topic, pumping them for mutual interests, anything that we could jive about for a standard party interval. And if the guests are family, oh dear, I am the black sheep, and I believe that as my family they are mandated to love me, and they do, but that doesn't mean they don't think I'm outta my everloving mind.*insert sad jazz hands
I think I might be trying too hard. I just want people to like me, I mean I want people to want to like me. I don't want to ask people to like me, I want them to do it on their own. Is that so strange? I mean it seems to me that I am a good person, with good intentions and I am doing good things... Well, mostly good things, I J-walk and break minor bi-laws on occasion, damn the man. I think if you invited me to your party you would have fun. I am the world's cheapest party entertainer... special mid-week rates apply:)
It has been a week since the move. A glorious, spacious, tiring and amazing week. This week was filled with the unrecognized pang of separation anxiety. In my 5 years of being with Hubby, I have never been more than a room away from him. Now, when I am talking to him from the Bedroom (oh, just listen to that newly added word to my vocabulary) he doesn't hear me. Or at least says he doesn't. Our new place rocks for the following reasons:
1. A couch- this 6.5 foot raft floating in our living room has been slept and snuggled on by all 4 members of this family without squabbling. We now have our favourite seats, another new experience. Also this couch actually works, when sitting on it you want to spill your guts (therapy style) which is perfect for blogging.
2. Closet(s)- There is a giant closet in our Bedroom (there's that word again:)) and in the hall a 2nd closet, wait, condos can have more than one closet? Yes! yes they can. And I have 2. Finally the segration of indoor and outdoor clothes, Mr. Rogers would be proud.
3. The epic hallway. I mean, right now it's jammed with things that need to go down to the storage unit, but it's still there a long hallway that muffles the sound of our washer and dryer.
4. Washer and dryer... Thank Rod. Is there more I can say? A washer with enough capacity to hold 2 hoodies, 2 pairs of jeans, 3 pairs of socks and my overflowing gratitude. Phew, what was 6 loads of 3 hours is now 1 load of 20 mins!!! I am getting my life back. Sweet, sweet Freedom. The dryer is quiet and has the sucking power of a tropical storm, dehairing my clothes and restoring a blanket to the grey it started as, instead of the puppy colour it had become.
5. New wedding gifts: last year hubby and I got married, but since we were in such a teeny tiny space, none of our gifts would fit. And I was not going to let those new, shiny presents touch the disaster we came from. But now... oh now, my dishes match and stack easily, my pans don't shed teflon into dinner and I don't make a mess bigger by using a dish towel. It's amazer-beams. Having nice things actually makes you nicer to them. This is the first time I've ever felt that. And I am so grateful.
6. Anti-slam cupboards and drawers. For 2 clutzy folks. That's self explanatory.
7. Picking new places for things to go. I have been living away from home for almost 11 years *insert age revelation cringe, but this is the first time I felt like I was building a home. It's a strange feeling to know that I get to pick how this place looks and feels, and what people see and what's hidden. I can't believe how fun this game is.
8. My new dance yourself skinny dance floor- with surround sound, refreshment bar and no noise complaints, yet. Having more than a bedroom means I can put my music on and dance, wait, not dance- DANCE!!!! We are 3 months into this year and the 2012 Dance-yourself-Skinny mix is coming along nicely. You will be alerted when that album drops.
9. My puppa barked here for the first time. Doesn't sound like a big thing or even a good thing and though it scared me and hubby, it is great. That means that my co-dependent puppa-roo is starting to feel like this is a home she needs to protect. Which means that even though she was scared and confused, she is settling in.
10. Miss Lucy has perched herself peacefully on everything at least once. She is confident to roam around without Jilly the beast chasing her back into the bathtub. Personalities have space to grow here and she's stretched out in every sun spot or curled up in your seat, because it's still warm.
11, 12, 13 & 14. This is my home. It didn't take long. That's my favourite thing. People can feel it when they walk in, it smells like home, it has all the conveniences of home. It welcomes you, because we're so happy. It has already become a favourite gathering place for friends. A home.
As for my worries about the things I'd miss, my list of new things I love is way bigger. I can still see the CN tower every walk with Jilly, I brew my own Douche bag drink 5 out of 7 days a week. But now there is a jumping pad, fountain and astroturf playground for grown ups and then there is the fun and though it's not cool to call it fabulous, it is fabulous Queen street atmosphere. I am happy here. And every married man knows, happy wife, happy life- at least that's what they say. I like to think happy life-happy life, but I guess that's not as snappy:)
We moved Saturday, I had the flu of course. I haven't been sick all year, but my immune system chooses now to go on vacation. So I am not in the best shape to begin with, and the worst shape to be moving. Thank Rod, I am only moving a teeny tiny one room condo. We'll not so much moving, as pointing my moving staff where to go. With 2 emergency stops and a 20 min power pass out between loading shifts I managed to hold my shit together- literally. But my new home has welcomed me.
In my former neighbourhood wearing my lulus on a Sunday dog walk was totally acceptable, especially after a drinking holiday like St. Paddy's, but not here. I am not sure if Fashion week is still on, but my new hood is ready for a Grid style on the street article anytime. That puts a lot of peer pressure on a poor, sick and newly moved tenant, who’s having trouble finding all her clothes. This area is: Thin and trendy only. Which also means I have to bitch slap the gym. The Jones' are way ahead, and though I am not competitive, I don't like to lose.
As for Kitty/Puppy... well, they may need a serious whispering. These poor beasts have only known life cooped up with Hubby and I in one room. OH the stress of walls, doors and limited visibility. Can you imagine having to guess what your mother was doing one room over? I mean, she could be playing with your toys or eating your food, the possibilities are endless and you have to know, heaven forbid you sleep your typical 20 hours a day while they could be chowing down on steak (Jilly forgets we don't eat meat), dropping morsels onto the floor to be eaten by some other animal that could be in here... There's just too much room for error. *insert dramatic gasp So, as I move from room to room I have an unmatched pair of furry anklets, with tiny clicking nails following me, very helpful while carrying boxes. As I blog now, which might be the longest I've been stationary, I am pinned by a snoring Puppa and a happily purring Lucy who expects me to type on-handed while stroking her. I am happy that they are spending more time together in this bigger space than they did in my teeny King. Like a pair of feuding sisters binding together against adversity.
With that I am off touting my Flu-thin body in my haute couture prêt-à-porter garment to catwalk my Doggie. I'll show these Jones' who's keeping up. Though these stilettos might get mud covered, but that's a blog for another day.
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