Have you ever wanted anything so badly you started day dreaming about it? Fantasizing and creating the perfect moment. Hello, my name is Melicious and I an anticipation addict. When something exciting is planned or an important date is in the near future, I can't help myself. I start thinking about all the possibilities that special moment holds. Building up the moment until it becomes the best, most memorable and mind-blowing event of all time.
As you may have guessed, it's not the easiest of addictions. An adrenaline junkie gets his fix by doing something dangerous, careless even. Pyromaniacs light things on fire. Nyphos- like to do it. Little old me? I blow things out of proportion. Re-imagining the possibilities and pushing the boundaries of the probable. Which always leads to disappointment. Try being 7 year old me waiting what felt like 3 years between birthdays. Or a weekend slumber party, which was only days away being built into the world's greatest adventure, it was tough to keep me engaged:$ The plans happening in my head were so much more interesting. I think that my addiction prevented me from enjoying the some really special days of our lives. In waiting and planning and dreaming about the bestest-most-perfect day, I never realized that something special is often unplanned. I build up an occasion to the level that no matter what, I will be disappointed.
When I was growing up there were huge advancements in technology. We went from walk-mans to disc-mans. Dual tape decks to 5 CD changers. And invented surround sound and widescreen TVs. Poppa was keen to stay on the cutting edge. But it means I now expect that of myself. With new apps, devices and upgrades every 3 months; it's getting expensive. I remember growing up and the excruciating wait from movie box office to VHS, which became faster with the DVD and even faster now with MP4s. Anticipation quashed by the next big thing, just as you've learned the ins and outs of the current model. How could I ever be happy if I am always a step behind?
One of the best birthdays I had was a surprise party. I knew my big one-seven was coming up, but everyone was busy. Nobody making plans with me, everyone avoiding all talk of it. I didn't have time to build up the event. I had no idea it was happening. Plus I was too busy concocting a far- fetched story about a lonely girl, stuck between the world of children and the universe of grown ups; left all alone and celebrating my birthday with a lone candle on a lonely cupcake. So, when I walked through the door to a dark house, only to have the lights snapped on and people screaming, I almost wet my pants. Same thing happened when Hubby proposed. He told me he'd be one place, he showed up in another and I was certain that he was a future version of himself come back to the past to warn me of some distant snagged our life had hit, trying to correct the past to perfect the future... Okay, wait, wait, wait, hold the phone and all the horses. I may have just identified another problem: exaggeration imagination.
What I thought was one affliction; I have now identified as many. What's the clinical name for my disease, you ask? How about- Anticipation Imagination exacerbation Marathonitis, for short. That's quite a handle but they say knowing is half the battle. So I'll keep fighting for the best-brightest and most memorable life, and try to keep it closer to reality. Thanks for the online diagnosis Doctor Blog:)
When I was young and my Bro was younger, my family went on a trip to Florida. The typical Canadian escape over March Break to a place filled with other Canadians off for March Break. My Papa being the efficiency expert he is, forced a 3 day drive into a 2 day window. Which would of course be the best way to start our vacation. My father pushing through Michigan and racing through Georgia, and the 3 of us sleeping for almost everything in between. In a race against an unknown timekeeper, challenging him to stay up all night; stopping only for vending machine coffee and rest stop bathroom breaks. When we arrived in Florida he was tired and grumpy. That much I recall. And what could make a grown man even grumpier? How's about Disney, Epcot and Universal with 2 kids complaining about standing in line and too young to really appreciate the value of a family trip...Ya I think that would do it.
One of the reasons my Parents chose Florida, was the free stay at a timeshare resort, 40 mins from all tourist destinations, a great location with quality amenities and guaranteed property amelioration. After the last few years in the US economy, I guess they are happy they declined, even though they sat through (with us) 2 long winded slideshow presentations and 5 different pushy sales tactics in increasingly smaller rooms. Including: Bribing the children, free tickets to local attractions and lots more exciting and incredible offers. But they obviously didn't know: my family doesn't feel guilty for taking the free shit. That's how they trap those other poor buggers*insert thumb point at the rube next to you.
The most memorable parts about this vacation though was the cheap- side of the highway Croc farm that we went to... Not quite a zoo, not a petting farm, it was a strange mix of domestic and exotic animals. With a GIANT concrete crocodile out front, acting as the doorway to this not so foreign land. It's huge teeth rounded down from the probable sharp points they used to be, before people got all worked up over things like that. The crocodile show was every 15 mins, not very exciting though a burly man in blue coveralls did put his head into the mouth of a small crocodile. The croc was the size of a chocolate lab with a longer snout and tail. Though the safari expedition host empathically assured us, it was very dangerous. He was later selling souvenirs in the gift shop.
On our visit to this park, my Papa's mood improved drastically. We were 6 hours from starting back towards home and he was finally smiling. Starring at a screaming monkey. You know the kind with the pink bums, that have clearly been using rough toilet paper. Papa had put a quater into the turn machines filled with food pellets for the caged animals and was holding a handful of those dried out nuggets. And that monkey was reaching as far as he could while still hanging from his rope, screaming for all that food. Papa throws a pellet. Monkey makes a lame attempt at catching, misses, pellet falls to the floor, monkey shrieks, and holds his hand out for another. Papa laughs, throws another pellet. Another lame grab at the air and another missed pellet. More screaming and angry bouncing- monkey begging for another try to catch another pellet. And so it goes, throw, swat, scream, laugh, throw; until my Papa is on his very last pellet. Making eye contact with this high hanging Monkey, Papa says: "It's the last one, you better catch it." With an exaggerated lob my Papa sends that last pellet high into the air, Monkey extends his hand like God to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, catches it triumphantly lobs it into his mouth, blows a raspberry then sveltely slides down the rope to collect the handful he's missed. Starring at this, it dawns on me, even at that young age. That monkey has tricked my Papa out of his handful of pellets. Pretending the whole time that he was trying desperately to catch those pieces, knowing he could, but if he did, that was the end of the game. That monkey was smarter than all those timeshare sales people put together.
On our way back out the crocs mouth the safari expedition host tells me to pick any souvenirs I want for a dollar. I choose a tiny message in a bottle filled with sand: Beachfront Property. Then clutching it closely, I climb back into the Winstar, saying goodbye to Florida and Papa aims us Norh, towards home. We made it back in 1.75 days, a record for even my driven Papa. But what's the point of a record if you don't keep trying to break it.
Interesting side note. While researching this blog, I learned that southern Florida is the only place Alligators and Crocodiles live side by side. This little Monkey says: who's teaching who?
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.
This having a full time job thing is really cutting into quite a few of my preferred activities. Like hanging out, hanging out with friends, hanging out with my dog, you know important things. What having a full time job is great for is spreading the news. You know that news really does spread, New York, NEEEW Yooork. Sorry, tangent*refocusing hand. The problem is; I am not used to knowing what's happening in the world. I mean hearing it all. Floods and fires and shootings oh my. That's not even to say that whole southern cannibalism thing or foot in the mail business.
It can't be a coincidence that the world is going a bit crazy this year can it? That the four horsemen of the apocalypse are starting to saddle up and ride around our over populated world the way the Mayans predicted? Do you remember partying like it was 1999? Thinking that computers were going to implode and/or take over the world because they had never changed over a century. Well, that was one hell of a weird time too. People buying water, batteries, generators and stockpiling basements; as if it would really help. What did we think was really going to happen...oh right, we didn't know. That was the problem.
Now, let's talk Toronto this past week. There was a shooting in the Eaton's Centre with 8 injured and 1 dead. Rumour has it; it was gang related. And not to seem insensitive but that relieves me, I am slightly less horrified than I would be if it were a run of the mill psychopath who merely wanted to murder some mall shoppers. I feel awful for the injured parties. I also feel bad for the people who work at the mall, as it's been closed for investigation until further notice. Most of those part time employees don't have insurance to cover the lost wages.
The Union super flood? Let's break that down for a sec. It rained so hard and so fast that our Toronto transit couldn't keep the 3 lowest subways from flooding. They were closed the better part of the day. A system that people rely on to get them around the city, what's supposed to be the Better Way flooded like the lower decks of the Titanic. People running for their lives, again...Anybody else see a problem here? Oh, and what goes hand in glove with flood? Fire; that's what. The Ontario forest fires to be exact. The rain was needed to quench that; but Ontario's largest city got it instead. I heard estimates of rain as high as 60 cm...which I think is impossibly high, but my meteorology is a bit rusty.
As for the CDC releasing a statement to the effect that: Hey everybody, it's not a Zombie outbreak. It seems strange that we were worried it was. I will expand on this further, you better believe that we'll talk Zombie Infestation plan soon. But for now let's just glean. Okay, so of all the monsters in the whole wide range of monsters; humans are by far the scariest. Especially humans with a cannibalistic disease that can't be tested for or tracked. That's scary. People eating people, and more and more often. It's just a matter of time before human meat becomes the ultimate in eating locally:$
Alright, alright. Maybe I've seen one too many end of days movie; but it's typically the guy with the conspiracy theory that cracks the code (or dies first). So, maybe I should pick up a coulpe cases of water, some batteries, a shot gun and a good pair of running shoes. Or maybe I should loosen my tin foil hat and take a deep breath. Then again, it never hurts to be prepared.
Weekends suddenly make sense to me. I have been living day to day. Jumping from gig to gig for the past 5 years. Without a steady job- other than this... So, the weekend never meant that much to me. It was just 2 more days of the week that I could be working or waiting for the work to call or sweating that it had been 3 days since I worked, etc ad nauseum. But when you're booked into a steady Mon to Friday work week; the weekend is two days off. Back to back, days where I am my own boss. Not worried about when my next job is coming. It's coming Monday. Those 2 days are allocated to my whim. And with this my first Free Weekend I learned the following things in no particular order.
1. The Horseshoe Tavern is Toronto's best music venue- especially if the band has a fiddle
2. Bone marrow, horse meat and cow tongue taste amazing if the chef knows how to do it right
3. Free beer is the best beer
4. A DJ playing to an empty room doesn't take requests
5. My bike needs a softer seat
6. A rare book doesn't have to be old but it helps
7. Law schools are designed to inspire greatness in their students
8. Sundays are designed for Mommas
9. My Puppa loves me more when I smell like bacon poutine
10. Scotland has born some pretty wicked people
11. Lucy doesn't want to play the game "look I’m a pirate and she's a parrot" while standing out on my shoulder
12. Bye, bye Birdie is wicked- this I already knew but it’s important to be reminded
13. Baby Belle won't play herself and I need to practice
14. Coffee in Paris is cheaper at the bar than at a table
15. New shoes make me feel great and guilty
16. A change of facial and body cream are a gateway to better cheeks; which means better smiling
17. Sunshiney weather brings out my freckles
18. My bike basket is not an acceptable handbag
19. Most people yelling in the streets aren't talking to me
20. Queen St though busier is better than Dundas for now
21. Having reliable people around means you breath better
22. Having a slogan on your shirt; allows people to stare at your chesticles
23. Being dressed up and looking good with someone you love is better than being in comfys alone
24. Having a BFF who is pretty helps to see the beautiful things around you
25. A spring breeze is best when blowing through the new spring leaves
26. I will never stop loving Jelly shoes
27. Rose water smells amazing on me
28. Whenever you get something you actually need. When you get home you'll find you needed 2 of them
29. Freddie Mercury still rocks
30. Stopping to smell the flowers sometimes means actually stopping to smell the flowers
31. Painting your toenails navy; encourages one to hum the Village People
I know, I know these aren’t shocking and amazing revelations, but it sounds to me like I had a pretty informative weekend. I just wish that I was taking a weekend from this- and getting paid again Today :) Ah the dream! Happy Monday to all you daily grinders, and Happy non-specific day of any generic work week to all you freelancers.
On my last trip home, 3/4 my parentals mentioned Jilly looked fat. But what this neurotic girl heard was: We said your dog looks fat, but what I really want to say is YOU, Melicious are a fat. A fatty fatty fat pants and even those are too tight. Since the wedding I have gained weight. But I can't stop eating. I mean it, I sit and think about food. If I am not spitting words out, I am shoving food in. This blog is sorta like talking but I've taught myself to type one handed... For many reasons*insert nervous collar pull. The worst part? My loving Hubby and my brand new saddle bags remind me- I'm not 20 anymore. Which in and of itself is a problem, I've just gotten a handle on being 29 and it's my first year of being 30! Roddammit. What do they say? A year late and a holler short? Alright nobody says that.
I have never been a slim person. When I got super stressed out last year planning a wedding to my Hubby (who else) I lost weight all year. It fell off, mostly too quickly, mostly because I wasn't eating anything but fingernails and biting my lip. Oh and booze, every weekend there was a party, for me or Hubby or both. I wasn't planning on losing all that weight. I just didn't think to slot eating into my schedule. Oh boy, did I get compliments. I still had pale untoned arms, but the untone had a much smaller sense of motion. Now, I am more like a flapping pterodactyl, but they're extinct right? Perhaps I am the missing link. Let's not even bring up the bottom half. Okay, in the spirit of journalistic transparency. It's big, it's a big problem. A big, wide, spreading butt with no joke. It's like the Monster Cheese. As we know I exaggerate, which literally means misrepresent as being bigger; convenient but not entirely untrue. The biggest problem isn't just that I've been eating. It's that I also eat the wrong things. Take Mae West snack cakes for example. A golden cake with white icing (icing: a fancy word for sugar paste) wrapped in a sweet chocolate embrace. Mae West is a trampy grown up version of little Debbie, taunting me from the box in her pin up pose, laughing at me. And her cakes hurt my teeth but I love them. So I eat them, in packs of 8 over a week and 2 days... But I feel guilty. I feel guilty and that b*%$h Mae just keeps smiling at me wearing a skimpy outfit. If there is one thing that the film industry has taught me it's that advertising and reality are often worlds apart- Mae West has never eaten one of her disgustingly delicious cakes. Surviving on a strict diet of cotton balls, two finger sandwiches and self loathing. Also, she might have a slight advantage being a cartoon.
PS this may have also caused this On the edge of my seat, hanging by a thread
This past weekend was a beautiful and picturesque one. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and I was convinced that no matter what, we were gonna have a great time. So, I coerced my fabulous Hubby to take a leisurely stroll along Lakeshore with a plan for drinks at Sunnyside Pavilion and an ice cream if he was good. What I forgot was, I am married to the Commissioner of the Universal police force- a unique and tactical group of people who govern the general public without election or qualifications. His jurisdiction is an impressive one, covering all forms of media and most of southern Ontario.
Being the Commissioner's wife is a lot of pressure- just ask McMillan and his wife-hijinks! But Rock Hudson is a well paid-highly trained-climbed through the ranks- police officer. My Hubby is a freelance, sorta strategic nay-sayer with a knack for the grumps.
On this particular day his mandate was 'Road wise, Street smarts'. It all began when I crossed the street- to a suddenly crowded corner. And we were pinned behind, between and among tourists with cameras and backpacks, street kids with jingling dreadlocks and a tiny woman who wanted to pick-up my poor shy Stinkeroo. I will admit, he was not wrong to be uncomfortable. My next mistake was leading the Commissioner to the shared walk & bike path. With a posted speed of 20k/h and a mental speedometer registering high speeds, the Commissioner was on the lookout for infractions. We have a long running joke about reckless drivers and the wish to have a sack of marbles to ding their vehicle on the way by. But sadly neither the Commissioner or I have the guts to do it. And quite frankly- it's a much higher stake to hit a bicyclist with a glass sphere launched at them as punishment for breaking the suggested bike path speed limit.
Don't get me wrong, tough Hubby is one of my favourite Hubbys, followed closely by chef Hubby and 'you're so pretty, I have stars in my eyes' Hubby. But the Commissioner is hard on me. Especially on a beautiful day when the family is out walking together, and your heart feels like singing and the grass is soft and green, I wish the Commissioner would take a day off. But he doesn't, Hubby is married to his job- which wouldn't be so bad if his benefits were better and the vacation time was paid. Well, at least one of us got ice cream:)
Is there anything better than your first love? The feeling of holding hands and dreaming about getting married and Valentine's day chocolate hearts? Well, my first love did not start out well. It wasn't romantic, it was actually quite frustetating (a word my kindergaten through grade 3 boyfriend used, mistakenly). Let me take you back, way back to my first day of school.
As a clumsy girl, my Momma always worried about putting me in a dress. But this was the first day of school, surely she could trust me to stay clean for one day? Couldn't she? In my cream coloured dress with the brown polka dots, the high collar with the bows, the tight wrists with billowy sleeves, I was truly a Princess. I remember getting the knees of my cream leotards grass stained the first recess. I tripped (surprise) over my own feet while twirling, a commonly Melicious practise in skirts and dresses to this day.
The first day of school is rough. You are for the very first time alone, knowing no one, and I was in french immersion. I don't even speak the language in this lonely, foreign land. Sitting in alphabetical order, a system I have yet to learn, I haven't even learned the alphabet for crying out loud. I get seated next to HIM. Ewww a Boy. The closest girls are 2 desks away. I can't send out an SOS, and even if I did nobody here could read it! I am trapped on this island with these strangers who smell weird and I am not supposed to talk to strangers.
On our first day we are each given; a giant pencil, an eraser, 5 crayons and a pair of round nose scissors. HIM, the Ewww Boy is starring at me, spinning his new scissors around his fingers. He smiles, then pinches my billowed sleeve in his tiny kindergarten fingers and using his brand new scissors; cuts my Princess dress, the dress my Momma told me to be EXTRA careful with. "I am going to be in so much trouble!" I wail... Madam Coocarootza (I spell phonetically, because I can't spell it any other way) sensing trouble, swoops in. She collects me and takes me to the principal's office, the secretary comforts me in her arms as I am sobbing and begging for my Momma. I stay there until I feel better, which is way longer than it should have been.
When I get home that day; my Momma is waiting for me at the bus stop. Getting off the bus, I can feel a deep sense of dread overcome me. I promised to be good and keep this dress clean. She sees my grass-stained knees...Momma raises an eyebrow, I spill the beans. I mean, It's just beans everywhere! Beans and tears and apologies. I apologize the whole way home, a sobbing, sniffling wreck. Now, I am not this upset because my Momma is a mean lady or because she's actually mad, I am this sad because my Princess dress is ruined, and I didn't even have any fun doing it! HIM ruined it.
Walking through the front door, our home phone is ringing. It's HIM's mother. She heard from the school what had happened. Making an apologetic gesture; she offers to replace the cut dress. My Momma being the proud woman she is, gracefully refuses, explaining it's a simple repair. I can hear Him's mother through the phone. She's so very sorry, HIM has never done anything like this before; he must really like your daughter. It never crossed my Kindergaten mind that someone could ruin something I love because they liked me. The next day and everyday there after (until HIM moved far, far away) we were inseparable. Plus it was pretty neato to have my grade school boyfriend sit right next to me, even if it was a while before I could trust him with scissors.
This blog is brought to you by the letters L-O-V-and-E
Extra! Extra! I have a lip zit. I have a sore and inflamed eruption on my upper lip- right on cupids bow. The top part of my lip is swollen; Angelina Jolie swollen, for crying out loud. I work in a beauty oriented business and every time I speak, all I am reminded of is this unsightly puss bump growing by the minute. What a disaster.
This lip zit is all I can think about. Being my skin obsessed-self, I want so badly to pop it. I stare at it in every reflective surface. I want to squeeze the daylights/dickens out of it. But I won't- squeezing will set me back 3 weeks of repair time, I don't have that kind of time to waste. When I got home the night I felt it creeping in, I tried everything to rid myself of this unsightly 2nd head. Hot compress, stretching, prodding it, exfoliation, nothing worked. Damnber suggested a pin- which makes me think of rampent infection and badly done at home ear piercing. I have yet -in all my pimple experience- to find a simple, no mess GIANT zit cure. I've tried a medicated wash, which burned my eyes and left my skin palmolive clean; great for hands, not face. For a while I tried toothpaste, which dried out the core, but also peeled off 5 layers of the surrounding skin. In a new wave I thought perhaps a spring water spritzer might help- refreshing, but ultimately useless.
Pimples are something that personality can apparently out-shine and over-shadow (puns intended). The worst/best part is that my co-workers are pretending they can't see it. In my mind, they've had a secret pre-work meeting to discuss and laugh at my herpes looking mouth wound, you know, get it out of their system. All those I've asked about it's magnitude reply with: "I didn't even notice it actually." Well, that's kind, but I noticed it. I will also probably notice yours, when you get one... That being said, I will now be more supportive of people who have huge and very ugly but temporary mars on their typically fine faces. It's not a mountain, it's a mole...well it's a zit actually, but it's not that bad...If you can stop starring at it.
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.
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