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15 September 2014

42 to go.

Day 2.

My birthday party. He didn't come. But I didn't really invite him. I more or less just mentioned it briefly that if he wasn't doing anything and felt like stopping in, that would be cool. 

Plus, my birthday parties always consist of too much booze, and vodka makes me horny. True Story. So having him show up wouldn't have been very conducive to this little project. Am I right?

Day 3.

I was too hungover to give a shit. Plus, it was Football Sunday. He was incommunicado with his buddies, and I was asleep by the pool. And on the couch. And on by bedroom floor. Maybe. 

Day 4.

I was up at 3:30 am because Little Man thought it was time to party. I kinda feel like a Zombie to be honest. So sex hasn't even crossed my mind, and to be honest I was kinda feeling like maybe New Guy changed his mind about me. Quiet weekend = Carmen over thinking and over-analyzing.

Then he totally redeemed himself and asked me out to dinner Friday.

So... 42 to go.

I'm gonna completely NAIL this. Pun intended.

12 September 2014

45 Days

Dating is hard guys.

Like, when is it the right time to make eye contact? Or chew with your mouth full? Or even steal their medication from their bathroom cabinet?

I just can't seem to get it right.

And let's be real here: Having sex on the first date? A terrible idea. Not that I know that from experience. Allegedly.

So I disappeared a bit this summer. And my only explanation is that I was dating someone exclusively. But then he broke my heart into like 7 kajillion pieces, and if you do puzzles (which is boring and dumb by the way), you know that's a bitch of a puzzle that's gonna take a long time to piece together.

But I did it. I'm cool. He's clearly an idiot any ways, right? Obviously. 

So here's the thing: I reluctantly agreed that it was time I changed things up a bit and make myself a little bit of a challenge instead of being that girl with the heart on her sleeve. Starting today (because tonight is Date #1 with a new guy*) I will be going 45 days without ANY SEX.

Meaning, poor new guy has to earn it.
Meaning, I'm going to have a really tough time with this.
Meaning, you guys get to hear all the painful, blue ball details.

Aren't you lucky?

*not online dating guys! FOR REAL! Like in person. Like we know each other without a computer. MIND BLOWN. 

18 August 2014

Trampolines aren't for old people.

So it's been awhile. Mostly because I've been out whoring myself around on this thing called "online dating'. Super fun, guys.

If you can't read the sarcasm there, you don't belong here. Actually, scratch that... DON'T LEAVE ME.

I met someone. He was awesome. We had fun. I thought it was going somewhere. He pretended it was. (Maybe?) It wasn't. And here I am, full of blog fodder, because if online dating is good for one thing: It's telling everyone about it!

This one isn't about Mr.Not Right Now though... this is about a date I had about two months ago; one that while completely awesome in theory, reconfirmed that I'm old. And may have made me cry. I won't confirm or deny.

We have this place locally that's basically a large wearhouse suited up in giant trampolines with dodgeball, foam pits and basketball. Other than it not being air conditioned (like WTF?) it appears to be the best fucking time in the whole wide world because whodoesntlovetrampolines?!?!


Did you know that after two kids and age 30, your bladder control is actually completely fucked? Yeah, I didn't. I had heard stories, but it had never happened to me. Until this day. And I wore white shorts.

For real guys. I peed a little every single time I jumped. Ever. Single. Time.

Do you know how hard it is to hide small wet stains in white shorts? Well let me tell you... Impossible. I went to the ladies room 3 times on that date with the excuse that I had drank WAY too much water beforehand.

And on one of those trips? I got busted drying my crotch with the hand dryer.

Strangely enough, this guy didn't appear to have noticed my wet shorts, as he wanted to continue dating. Sadly, it wasn't there for me. Maybe because I couldn't let go of the fact that I peed 372 times on our second date.


02 July 2014


I have some gong-show friends. You guys think I am a train-wreck? You need to meet some of the people I hang out with during ball season. For real. It's unbelievable.

This weekend was one of those trips that will go down in infamy. Not because anything terrible happened (although, maybe...I only remember parts of it) but because so much fucking fun was had that waiting 355 days for it to happen again is going to be reaaaally reeeeeallllly painful.

I was a newbie to this trip: A memorial weekend for a dear friend of the team who passed away after a quick battle with cancer 2 years ago. I was truly honoured to share this weekend with everyone...and completely humbled by the love they have for their friend and team mate. And also in awe at their ability to drink so much Fireball, his drink of choice when playing slo-pitch.

For real guys. I can't believe how much was consumed. Insane amounts. I won't be able to smell the stuff until next years tourney. 

#YELLOW, by the way, is referring to the fact that some of those friends are dumb-asses and didn't realize that saying of the weekend was #YOLO. But not in a serious way... in a mocking I-can't-believe-you're-saying-yolo way. If that makes sense. #YOLO is totally 2013. 

Any ways... I digress...

There were banana hammocks, Fireball, beer-bongs, passed-out men in parking stalls, injuries from flying off the stage at the make-shift outdoor 'club', some slo-pitch thrown in for good measure, one Sponge Bob Square Pants, and a whole lotta hungover adults because sleeping in tents in the heat does not allow for sleep or recovery. And I had a 4 year old who thought dive bombing my face every morning at 5 am was the funniest.shit.ever. True story. 

Today, I am back to work. And I feel as though I should be back in bed. For a week.

But in other news... my tan fucking rocks.

And this guy? His tan is a little fucked up.

17 June 2014

Carpet burn hurts. Especially on your face.

Did you know I went to Vegas? Again? I realize it was a few months ago and I've been a pretty big asshole for not sharing... but you know what? I don't fucking care what you think.

This post has been in my drafts for almost as long. So really, you should all be grateful I went back, noticed, and decided to finish it. You're welcome. 

As you probably recall, the first night is never one without stories. It always amazes me how every.single.time I go against my own advice and get royally fucked up. With coworkers. And rarely do I remember to wear panties.

You think I would learn after the 7th time? Nope. 

I threw the panties thing in there to see if you noticed. I learned that after the 1st time. For real. I'm not a complete idiot.

This trip was no exception (obviously) and I proceeded to meet up with a co-worker and one of our major partners at the duelling piano bar I love so much (you should all know this) and have the time of my life.


Now, completely sober I couldn't tell you what my room number was (side note: Take a picture of your door when you check in. Brilliant advice!) so I am still wondering months later how I woke up in my own bed alone the very next morning.

But what really surprised me?  No, not that I was still drunk. It was the massive carpet burn located in the middle of my forehead.

Which I discovered when I walked into the bathroom and screamed. Dried blood on your face? Kinda scary. In Vegas? Terrifying. 

Like this, only not as cute
Since no one has owned up to walking me back to my room (Read: They all ditched me) and no one recalls picking me up off the floor at any point of the night (Read: they were all just as hammered) my best guess is I face planted when I opened my room door.

My other guess? I found my floor and checked every single door until one opened.

The only explanation that makes any sense.

04 June 2014

Those friends that never really leave you...

It's been FIFTEEN fucking years...and shit never changes...

02 June 2014

Diarrhea: Not for the Pool

Poop happens to the best Mom's.

Last night poop happened. And because I am a total badass Super Mom, no one knew and our pool is safely poop-free. Which also means that I am not the complex outcast. Pretty sure I'd have no neighbour friends if I hadn't been awesome.

I live in a skookum townhouse complex, directly across from the common room area with the pool and hottub. Little man pretty much wants to live IN there, so I spend a lot of my free time there with the kiddos.

Last night we were there (Obvi) and because I had some weekend-recovery to do (Read: ball tourney beer gardens) I sat my pretty little behind in the hottub with the other parents and let him run happily around with his life jacket on. Because I was recovering. 

Eventually the other parents vacated the hottub and went in to the pool. Which, in hindsight, was a HUGE BLESSING.

As I was sitting there watching little man climb down the stairs, I smelt it. That rude pungent smell that could only mean one thing: Toddler poop. And not just a regular poop that can be cleaned up quickly. No, I' not that lucky. But that yellow brown mess that runs down children's legs and makes parents wish they could cut their noses off with their bare hands in order to never. ever. ever have to smell that again.

In a quick flash I had myself, Ryder and his swim trunks in the shower inside the ladies bathroom.

And not a single parent in the pool had any clue. 

So I'm pretty much awesome. I'm also not ok with diarrhea. Like reaaaaalllly not ok. So having showered in it all to save embarrassment show's how truly awesome I really am.

And also gross. I'm also very very gross.

Shit happens.