A Weekend of Bears and Fish; Valleys and Mini Ponies; Friends and Awesome Kids

This past weekend was one of the last long weekends of the summer that Bear and I will get to spend together. For the past six months I've been trying to use my banked holidays by taking a four day weekend every two weeks. This way I am off work when he is and we can spend eight days a month together instead of four. In a few weeks I will be in a black out period though, and I won't be able to take any more time off until mid September.

Having a man partner who works out of town isn't always bad. I have more time to write. And when he is away I can live more luxuriously by pooping with the door open-- live like a real princess.

But I do miss him when he's gone. I miss our driving songs, and calling each other derogatory names, and sharing snuggles, and conversation, and ideas, and laughter. I miss the way Snort momentarily forgets how to rape meow because he is there to distract her with upside down bum hugs. And when I tell him that a wasp is inhabiting the inside of the patio door, he sits outside with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and waits until the wasp comes back, and when it does, he glares at it and murders it, like pphhfftt, whatever. Then he seals the holes in the door, and he's all like, "what?", and I am all like, "where have you been all my life?"

Last Friday we got the call that Bear's vintage F-150 was fixed, so I spent most of the weekend sitting barefoot beside him as we drove around Central Alberta. I sang along to the radio in a munchkin voice. I squealed when I saw a miniature pony. I ate copious amounts of drive-through lard. No, I didn't feel bad about it. Yes, I sort of do now.

On Monday morning we headed to Sylvan Lake to meet Bear's friend, Doug, for an early morning fish off of the wharf.

Not Worf.

W-H-A-R-F.

Doug is in my top three favorite friends of Bear's. He is up there with Bear's foreman, a stellar man who is preoccupied with the notion of Bear and I procreating and is known for getting on the radio at Bear's work and asking him if he's thinking about babies.

Every man's worst nightmare.

But not quite as extreme as the last time I saw him, which was around this time, when he walked up to me with a huge smile on his face and said, "so I hear you two are having a baby." I looked over at Bear, whose face and body writhed in man-horror and, perplexed, he blurted, "OH MY GOD, MAN!?". I let him down gently and told him that no baby was cooking in the oven. "Babies are a good thing," he reminded us in his gruff, matter-of-fact man voice, ". . . a good thing."

And then there is Bear's cook, AKA "Mom", who regularly sends me bags of goodies. BAGS. Obviously she knows the way to win an undomesticated girl's heart. And obviously she feels that my love handles need to be bigger. A lot bigger.

Bless her heart, sweet woman.

Sylvan Lake is a little resort town that is about ten minutes West of Red Deer. Bear and I aren't huge fans of Sylvan, mostly because it is crawling with party-happy douche bags during the summer season and it takes away from any sort of feelings of serenity normally attributed to being at the lake. But at 6:00 am on a Monday morning, it was dead. And cold, may I add. Which, of course, I overlooked, and, once again, wore inappropriate footwear. An hour into it, Bear passed me his hoodie. Two hours in he offered his socks. "You're sure you don't want my socks?! You're SURE?"

"F!cking city girls," he muttered under his breath. "F!cking. . . city. . .  girls. . . "

Doug brought his eldest son with him. That kid is the shit. Meaning I love him. Not a bone of attitude in his body, except when he's being beaked by Bear and he tells Bear to shut up. And that's the kind of attitude that every kid needs to properly navigate through life. That's a life skill.

Later on, Doug's wife dropped off the younger two before heading to work. The middle boy is about eight or nine years old and has a quick wit that I really admire in a child. Like when he referred to  something being contaminated and commented that it was contaminated because it "saw his brother's face." Sibling love. Nothing is better. Especially when it's done well.

The youngest of the three is a petite, six year old girl with long, apricot hair and a sunshine giggle and a determination that she will sure as hell do anything and everything her older brothers do. "I can do it myself! I CAN DO IT MYSELF!" She doesn't hesitate to wind up her fist and punch Bear in the torso as hard as her little body can muster, either. Then she does her sunshine giggle. Again, life skills.

Apricot Sunshine refers to Bear as "Bob". "Bob" refers to her as "George".

"Bob."

"Bob!"

"Look what I got, Bob."

"Bob! Look what I got!"

"BOB?!"

"BOB!!!"

"Yessss, George?"

The last time we went fishing with them, she showed "Bob" some rocks she had found.

"If you rub them together long enough, you'll get a diamond."

"NOOO! That's not true," she said and sprayed her sunshine giggle all over the place. She wandered away, rubbing the two rocks together, and came back a few minutes later looking discouraged.

"Show me the right way to do it, Bob!"

"Bear showed her the appropriate technique. "It'll take awhile, he assured her, "so be patient."

She took the rocks from his hands and rubbed them together as she walked away, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth in great concentration.

Her dad sighed. "I am so ashamed right now."

The Month of May

The month of May was full of birthday celebrations in my clan (or mourning, depending on how you look at it), and the mutual giving of gifts made it feel a bit like Christmas.

Bear's birthday was on the 16th, but we had planned to celebrate our birthdays the following weekend since he was away at work on my birthday. I was going to get him a cake for his actual birthday, regardless of our plans, but when I suggested stopping in to pick one up he detested. Then he detested some more. And then some more. Then a little more. Since I am a man at heart, I took him literally instead of decoding his detest as Yes! A cake! OMG! A CAKE! And please Please PLEASE make me home-made coupons offering free foot rubs and luxury bubble baths with no interruptions. PLEASE! So I ended up getting into trouble, just like the trouble I'll be in if he ever reads that line about the coupons. Then I felt bad. So I put on my shoes and grabbed my car keys. He detested again but at this point I had learned my lesson so I left the house and bought him a cake.

He didn't think it was quite as funny as the dude working the till at Dairy Queen.

My mama gave me the completed quilt she's been sewing for me. It has quickly become a must-have accessory when lounging on the couch.

I also sleep with it when Bear is home because it is the only blanket that doesn't parachute off of the bed when he turns on his Nitrous injected man-fan. On the other hand, the duvet comforter that he sleeps with hovers about the bed and flaps in the "wind" so violently that I need to wear ear plugs. Seriously. I guess I don't need to state the obvious by telling you that every time he turns it on I whisper the words fuck my life.

Since I was alone on my actual birthday and spent the night working, this bouquet of flowers and bottle of wine from my favourite MILF, Laura, was a rad surprise and really meant a lot to me.

Bear's mama sent me a birthday card with a post-card of her and Bear's home town of Bathurst, New Brunswick inside of it.

The cat-related gifts give me the distinct impression that these people think I have a thing for cats.

I don't get it.

Bear viewed the bouquet of flowers that Laura gave me as a man challenge, so he went out and got me a high-class, deluxe bouquet. Unfortunately I didn't grab a photo before it started to wilt.

I hope you ladies are paying attention, because there is a very valuable lesson to be learned here.

Lastly, Bear surprised me with a white gold ring with my birth stone in it.

GUSH.

Thanks to everyone for the cards, gifts, texts, and online birthday wishes. It was greatly appreciated.

Spring time: the time of year when women suddenly feel chubby

Spring time has arrived. Well, sort of. In Alberta, Canada, spring simply means that sometimes we can see the grass through the snow. And with the arrival of our sub-par spring season, I have found myself modelling my summer clothes and posing in front of the mirror like an asshole.

The experience has been disappointing.

I don't think I've gained any weight in comparison to where my weight was last year, but every spring I shed my winter clothes and pull on something revealing and cross my fingers that I will suddenly look like a super model. At minimum fit into my vintage, tiger print halter top that I wore in 2004 when I worked out at the gym for two hours every day. And every year I gasp. My. God. When did I stop having tight lower abs? When did I develop chub around my armpits? Ohhh, so these are love handles.

I don't mind having a little extra curvaceousness to my figure. Sex is more fun. Okay, minus the endurance factor. I always did like boobies, too. Just ask my mom, who probably spent most of the 80's wondering if her Lil' Lojo was really a lil' lesbian. However, there are certain parts of my body where I would greatly appreciate a little more definition.

The fact that I have not whole heartedly updated my wardrobe definitely contributes to the awkwardness I feel about my curves. I have not even mourned my 2004-2005 wardrobe, let alone let go of it. I am trying though, and can proudly say that I have three garbage bags awaiting a trip to the local women's shelter. But the problem runs deeper than that, as I still have not totally given up the freedom I once had to wear pretty much whatever style of clothing I wanted. For example, I recently bought a skin-hugging red tube top from a thrift store. It kind of fits. Sort of. I bought it on the premise that maybe it would go with a certain pair of pants I bought not so long ago. It doesn't, at least not to the point where I feel like I am rockin' it. So I am now holding on to it as another goal item, like if I just lose five to ten pounds or start doing regular resistance training again, then I will totally rock it. It could happen.

I went shopping alone last week with closet rejuvenation in mind, something I rarely ever do. I went to H&M and tried on some dresses and skirts in a size eight. Apparently I don't fit their size eight criteria. When I hit twenty-five I found that the only stores that size their clothing to fit average woman with a little T N' A specialize in business attire. Business attire for middle aged women. Just because I am in my late twenties and am living without an eating disorder, doesn't mean I am no longer interested in buying fashionable street wear. And don't even get me started on how fashion marketing is monumentally screwing plus size girls. Nonetheless, I walked away from H&M with a few loose fitting tank tops that go with the grungy, I-don't-give-a-fuck, this is my band shirt, look at how it accentuates my second-hand jeans, want to meet my pyramid belt? look I've been projecting since 2008. And through most of my high school years.

Feeling defeated and unsexy, I went to a store that I've never been in before. I can't remember what it's called, so I will just call it Slut(!). Since I knew upon walking into Slut! that the sizes would be marketed towards fifteen year old girls who have not yet blossomed into their womanhood, ('cause who else would a store that screams PROVOCATIVE or LETS GO CLUBBING market their clothing towards?), I accepted my fate and didn't even bother with my usual size medium. A size medium which, not so long ago, was a size small. I went with the larges. I picked up a mini dress and a mini skirt, 'cause sometimes a lady has just gotta feel like a slut. The cheerful sales girl started a change room for me, and as I entered my clothing store prison cell I realized that I wasn't just in any clothing store prison cell, I was in the hole; I was in a change room without a mirror. I put my head in my hands as I slaughtered the Lord's name with profanity. Why? WHY? WHY MUST THEY DO THIS? Accepting my fate, I squeezed into the mini dress and slid my hands over my body. No awkward bulging or chub protrusions. I pulled out my Blackberry and tried to catch myself in the reflection of its screen. That was a failure. Now that I think of it, I should have just taken a picture of myself in the mirror with the camera phone. *NOTE TO SELF FOR NEXT TIME*.  I felt a little more comfortable with the mini skirt. Both were relatively cheap, so I decided to live on the edge and I took them both up to cash to buy my way out.

The cheerful girl swiped my Visa and called me "hon". And despite the fact that I was nothing but a sweetheart to her and we shot the shit for a few minutes, the next girl who is younger than I am who refers to me as "hon" will get punched in the face. And if she knows that she is younger than I am and still calls me "hon", I will wedgie her thong so far up her ass that it damages her sphincter.

I took the clothes home and tried them on again to see what they actually look like. Neither are a disaster. I think the mini-skirt is do-able with the right top. The dress works, too, although I was surprised to realize that the fabric under the horizontal ruffles is actually sheer. Slut sheer. Sheer as in I am not sure if I can wear underwear with it. Or wear it without getting arrested. Or, at minimum, contributing to the assault charge and consequent arrest of my boyfriend. However, I did manage to classy it up with my boyfriend blazer.

Strike a Pose 1:

As I stood in front of my netbook trying to catch this image, I tugged and I squeezed and I tugged and I squeezed again. Then I realized that my magic box was showing. Britney Spears style. So I tugged and I squeezed some more to avoid Squarespace from disabling my website due to pornographic imagery. It became quite clear that this dress will not be a wardrobe staple of mine. So, like any true, retired fashionista, I improvised.

Strike a Pose 2:

 'Cause the one great thing about a mini dress it that it can be transformed into a much more versatile tunic top. And yes, those are my infamous break up boots.

Strike a Pose 3:

Here I am rockin' the mini skirt. You may be able to take the girl out of the band shirt, but you can never take the band shirt out of the girl.

I am not unhappy with my figure, but I am still getting used to it, especially in regards to wardrobe shopping. And, of course, parting with much beloved clothing articles. When I was less curvaceous and wore revealing clothes I still felt as though I was portraying a respectable image. Now when I wear revealing clothing I feel like a video girl from Ludacris' What's Your Fantasy video.

Laura asked me if I'd be interested in doing a work-out boot camp with her, and I was all like hell yes, Rainbow Sunshine, hell yes. The prospect of increasing my endurance and muscle tone seems extremely attractive right now, and I think it will create a lovely package to wrap in that red tube top that keeps heckling me from within my closet.

When a brand of hair dye dies

After twelve years of happily dying my hair with semi-permanent, drug store bought hair dye, the last remaining brand of semi-permanent dye has been discontinued. If I were an everyday consumer, I would be surprised at their decision to discontinue it due to it's popularity. But since I am a merchandiser and have watched many of our company's best selling items go "disco", what is perceived to be irrationality in the retail environment no longer phases me. I just go along with the shit show and try not to drop the f-bomb too often.

Having my semi-permanent hair-dye, well, die has meant that I've had no choice but to turn to permanent. Have I mentioned that I harbor a deep rooted aversion towards change?

So I went with Nice n' Easy. 'Cause I like things that are nice and easy. Like those little packages of steamed vegetables that you put in the microwave for three minutes and they come out tasting delectable.

Application was a piece of cake. When it came time to rinse, I stripped down to my gotch and crouched under the bath facet like I usually do. Except when the water hit my head, hair dye propelled in all directions as if I had severed the ultimate hair dye artery and was bleeding out. Scared that I would end up looking like Robert Downey Junior in Tropic Thunder, I scrubbed dye off my skin as the water roared through my hair. Then I started scrubbing my very white, suburban bath tub so it wouldn't come away looking like Jay-Z. Twenty-five minutes and two aching knees later, the water was still not running clean and I started to wonder if I would die there. From old age. I have so much to live for, I thought to myself, so much to live for.

Eventually I got the majority of the hair dye out of my hair and I am happy with the outcome, which seems to be richer in color than it has been for the last twelve years. However, next time I will be rinsing while standing over my stainless steel sink.

My recent dye job is now accompanying my new hair cut, which is brought to you by my awesome hairdresser, David, from Magicuts in Zellers, where the lowest price is the law. I am almost, sorta, kinda feeling like a new woman.

A girl, her kitty, and getting that perfect webcam picture

REAL KITTY FAILS.

 PIXEL KITTY WINS.