Tuesday, 28 June 2016

I'M NOT SURE I DESERVE HER BUT THANK YOU ANYWAY!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PIGGLY WIGGLY'S MOMMY!

Sometimes God gifts people who really don't deserve it with the most amazing blessings. And other times He sees to it that we get exactly what we deserve, such as the day, 29 years ago, He gifted me with horrific back labour that would make me take His name in Technicolor vain for 16 solid hours because the nurse was a sadist who kept telling me: "Oh, it's too late for an epidural now, hon; here, bite on this piece of ... ARGH, MY FINGERS!

But I digress. This isn't about me or my suffering or even the poor three-fingered nurse who totally deserved her fate, it's about my daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mom. The day she was born was a blessing I can't even find words to thank our Father for — which is why we have gift cards. (I assume there's an LCBO up there, your majesty? Otherwise I don't think you've got any business calling it "heaven.") 

And so, my sweet child, my sunshine, my second-born:  happy birthday. Enjoy your day at the spa followed by a five-star dinner with your adorable husband, and don't worry about me and Piggly. We'll be kicking back eating organic pumpkin seeds and watching a porno. Seriously *fastforwards to the good bits* it's like it's MY birthday! 

Monday, 27 June 2016

I'D ANSWER THE DOOR, BUT IT'D SCARE YOU TO DEATH

YOU KNOW IT'S THE WEEKEND IF . . . 
I'm dressed like this. 
Actually, I put on more clothes 
 than usual just for you. And the mukluks? 
Yeah, I thought those were a nice touch.
You know what I like best about working full-time? The sheer, dirty pleasure of not having to get dressed on your days off. I like this so much I'm afraid I maybe like it TOO much. On weekends, I schlep around the house in increasingly casual looks, wearing T-shirts and baggy pants left behind by an ex (oh don't ask me which one, I don't itemize these things. They're pants, they're big, they must have been his ...) 

Over time, I've gone from wearing comfy sweats to an oversized T-shirt and pants to, well, just an oversized T-shirt.
Because when you live alone, there are no limits. You can walk around butt naked if you want to (although I don't recommend it; when you're my age and you walk past a full-length mirror in the nude, you can give yourself quite a scare).

More often than not, I lounge around all day like this, shuffling from the kitchen to the couch to the wet-bar and then back to the kitchen again. All day. For hours! 
And then one day, while I was making out with a can of Pringles and watching Crazy Stupid Love, the doorbell rang. Well holy hell. I just FROZE! I was like, WHAT THE...? I can't answer that! I don't have any pants on!

So I actually had to cower behind the curtains and watch from the upstairs window as a man stuck a note on the door informing me that I had a package and would have to pick it up at the nearest post office outlet. Because I was too naked to accept it at my own front door.

I realize that the simple solution would be to just put on some damn clothes. But the incredible all-day comfort of not wearing pants compared to the rare occasion of a knock on the door, well it just isn't enough of a lure. I suppose I'm making excuses, perhaps even displaying addictive tendencies. I may very well need clothes-wearing rehab. (And then I could bring home a pair of those baggy hospital pants with the drawstring waist.) 

But for now, sorry. There's a Jays game, a platter of loaded nachos and one big snuggly T-shirt waiting for me. So if you're planning to knock on my door anytime soon and you have a bad heart, a weak stomach or just prefer your friends to be clothed, I'd advise you to call first.