The Illusion of Perfection

Husband and I are married 5 years today.  


Thank you.


It's been a wonderfully smooth ride to get here.  Folks have asked us how we do it, how we stay happy and in love, and we will usually give them one of the following tips:

1. Plan time apart.
2. Dirty laundry, dishes, floors, pets, yards or vehicles are not sufficient reasons to fight if the reasons those things are dirty are because we were busy having fun.
3. Angry Birds is not an appropriate bedroom game.
4. If it's important enough to distract one of us from leaving on time then it's important, end of sentence.
5. Say thank you.
6. Go on a date every day.  Little ones like dogs walks or trips to get fancy coffees.  Basically any excuse to make out in public.
7. Make out in public.
8. Laugh together, never at each other.
9. Play.
10. Farts don't have any volume or odor.  Period.

For Husband, the brightest star in my sky, the cinnamon on my toast, the raisins in my butter tarts.

Stock Report

You will all be happy to note that Husband's iPhone is once again intact.  Let's check the score board:

Microsoft is up $398.99 for an iPhone.  Rogers is up $69.97/month for a plan.  A random electronic parts warehouse in Australia of all places is up $130.00 for 1 glass, 1 glass with LCD screen and 1 screwdriver after the home built one broke.  Home Hardware gained $15.28 for a tube of Light Maple Wood Filler for kitchen table (see note on broken home built screwdriver).


 And Husband, again, has an iPhone.


The first thing he used?  The Whoopee Cushion App.

I attract crazy like mad

My ankles got savaged yesterday while I was running up and down the steps on the bluffs by Goose Spit.  Not by geese.  (Admit it, you and I have always suspected the geese.)  No, on my fourth trip up a tiny bundle of fangs and bacteria shot out of no where and began to digest huge chunks of my runners and flesh.


As a large-breed dog owner, I can tell you that nothing terrifies me more than small dogs.  This one was no exception.  I tried to ignore it  and run on but the little piranha wouldn't let up.  I was forced to finish the final climb at top speed in an effort to out run needle sharp death. 


As I stood on the top stair, my chest heaving, my running shoes slowly being devoured by the Chihuahua from Hell,  I asked myself "What would Buddha do?"  I hoped it would include swearing.

It was then that the owner of this monster stepped out of the bushes and yelled at me to stop chasing her dog, who was old and shouldn't be running.  What sort of person was I to force an old dog to run up so many steps over and over?  Honestly, was I heartless?

I explained to her that the only things I lacked were a pound or so of my living flesh and the willpower to refrain from kicking her dog into the Straight.

She said a rude word.  We didn't part as friends.

Is there some sort of organization behind this or do I just give off a pheromone?  Jeezus.

The worst part of the whole episode is having to admit the little bastard gave me one hell of a workout.  I hope he's there tomorrow.

Ruffling Feathers

I am currently embroiled in a battle which will hopefully culminate in the use of expensive surveillance equipment and (with luck) a deer blind and a potato cannon.

For those who are following along at home you my recall that I recently came across a strange little sign on a park bench, imploring the reader in shaky red marker, "PLEASE DO NOT PUT BIRD SEED ON THE BENCH." 

Normally I wouldn't have thought much of it but it's been a long wet spring with no hope any time soon of dusting off the river tube.  I needed a distraction and, let's be honest, nobody likes to be told not to do something they had absolutely no intention of doing in the first place.  By wedging that carefully inked little square of cardboard between the slats of a simple wooden bench this stranger, this sweet, unknowing, anal stranger, has become my favourite hobby.

Every Saturday there is a new sign on the bench and every Saturday I remove it and replace it with birdseed, which I have started carrying in the back of the Volvo despite JD's observation that Milk Bones would be more useful.

A few weekends ago I think I may have finally begun to chink the armor because the sign was thumb-tacked to the bench and each word had it's own personal underscore. 

This may have been the result of my latest effort: I smeared the words "Place Bird Seed Here" in peanut butter and sprinkled millet over the whole business.  

I won't stop until I am the subject of a tersely worded letter to the editor.  Stay tuned.

Second Class? Excuse me?

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.  Welcome aboard Air Canada Flight 137 to Fhloston Paradise.  We can't explain the funny smell and we're currently trying to find the rest of the landing gear but I recently had a huge fight with my wife and a shot of whisky so I figure we're going to take off anyway. The flight will take 4 hours which will seem like 40.  There will be no beverage service.


For those of you traveling in First Class, the flight attendants will be around shortly with newspapers, hot towels, complimentary puppies and prostitutes.  In the unlikely event of an emergency the Economy Passengers will be jettisoned in order to reduce weight.  If you spot an Economy passenger through the curtain, your tagging guns and cattle prods are located in the credenza beside the pool."

Flying Home

'It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on Earth has ever produced the phrase, ‘as pretty as an airport.' ~ Douglas Adams, Long Dark Teatime of the Soul

I hate airports.

If you aren't being asked to leave, it's not time to go yet

Tonight Husband and I descended on friends of ours while they were camping at a local provincial park.  We were there until midnight and I am happy to tell you that my record of staying until being awkwardly asked to leave by a park authority remains unbroken in two provinces.


There are many things about a campfire on the Canada Day Long Weekend, capitols intended, which are sacred.  Booze, obviously, is one of the most important, followed by copious amounts of wood for the fire.  Food one does not normally consume is also important, things like hot dogs, S'mores and Jiffy Pop, which will all be burned to a crisp and consumed anyway due to the previously mentioned booze.  Guitars are a risk but Husband can do anything and so we were serenaded with endless Greenday until we begged him to stop.  


A dog is essential, if it can perform tricks like 'fetch me a beer' or 'pee on the tent.'  Bocci or any other game of skill and dexterity which can be used as a litmus test for the amount of alcohol consumed is a plus, but not required if you already have a pyramid o'beer cans to help you keep that tally.


The most sacred and extra specialist of them all, though, is that magical time of night when everything everyone says is not only hysterically funny but so funny it needs to be shouted into the stillness of the night that no one at the campfire has noticed, due to the booze, food, fire, dog tricks and guitar.  


And on Canada Day, if you are very lucky and very extremely drunk and disorderly, the Park Weenie will appear from the mist like the Great Pumpkin and threaten to ask you to leave again if you don't shut up and leave the first time.

Don't Take It Personally

The following is a list of things which, despite recent events and opinions to the contrary, I am not required to give a damn about no matter how hard you glare and shake your head in disgust.    

1. Watering my dead grass
2. Leashing my dog in the off-leash dog park
3. The volume of my car radio at the stop light
4. How organic the bread is 
5. Whether the chicken liked living in a cage before it became supper
6. The speed at which I cycle past the Idiot Child
7. The 5 cent return on my Fresca can
8. The dust on the siding of my house
9. Pronouncing it 'SA-wassen'
10. The calorie content of an apple
11. The civil rights of deer
12. Neighbor Man's view of my backyard from his deck

It might be time for me to leave BC...