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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.

08 May 2014

Online dating for the professional woman.

I did it. I made a profile. Again. Apparently I am a glutton for punishment. 

It took all of 1.2 seconds for my inbox to be flooded with messages. And not because I am some drop-dead gorgeous, successful, have-to-have-me, woman... (Although that part is very much true) but because men are seriously pathetically predictable. 

She has a vagina, she's not ugly, and she is brand new to online dating. FRESH MEAT. This is what I assume is going through their tiny brains. 

Not all of my messages are terrible. I should mention that part, you know... just in case one of the hot ones happens to inadvertently fine this page and get all hurt and sensitive over this. I am shallow. I know this. 

I haven't met anyone yet (seriously, I signed up yesterday), but I have answered a few. So far, not terrible. Truthfully though, I am just tired of being single. I kept telling myself I need to find ME, I needed MY space, I needed to be ALONE. It's been two years, wake the fuck up lady. (That's my tiny brain talking)

Single is fun, don't get me wrong. But when you are consistently good enough to sleep with but not to be called girlfriend... SHIT GETS OLD. I can't tell you how many times I have had high hopes to only be told "You're awesome, and I totally like you, but I am not ready for a serious relationship". 

Isn't that my line? 

We will see how it goes. I'm not holding my breath that this online thing will amount to a boyfriend. BUT, I am going to give it a valiant effort and do my very best not to sabotage anything potential. That's pretty much my go-to by the way: I self-sabotage. 

At least I recognize it. Don't judge. Also? Wish me luck. I need a lot of it. 

03 April 2014


Have I ever mentioned how much I hate April Fool's Day? I truly do. Not because I can't take a good hearted prank, or that my sense of humour is busted, but because I think it's a lame reason to pull a prank just for laughs, especially when they're expecting it. How about we just do it every day because it's funny as hell to fuck with people?

For real.

Generally I don't get pranked on April 1st. Probably because I'm not a fucking idiot. Just a wild guess. My friends and family know that I wouldn't fall for anything that day (ie: That I am not a fucking idiot) so my cousin decided that she'd set the stage the day before.

And I fell for it. Hook. Line. And sinker.

And to be honest? It was pretty fucking good. Nothing bad happened. No one got hurt. And most of all there were no repercussions. But it did freak me out. And isn't that the point of a prank?

Ever heard of Canada's Worst Driver? Apparently they're on season 8. Who knew... ? Any ways, my cousin has been threatening to apply for years. At my expense of course. Because telling your cousin she's a terrible driver is funny.


On March 31st, our text messages went as follows:

It continued on for a bit...but this post is getting a little out of hand with the images don't you think?

But the bottom line is this: I believed her. And I was pissed. And I was also embarrassed.

The next day she stopped by my work to drop off the consent form. It took me all of 4 seconds for it to become abundantly clear. I was had.

Well played, Naomi. Well played