Wednesday, 11 June 2014

Storytime with Andrew

This past week, I have learned two valuable life lessons. Not so major that Oprah can make a Master Class out of it, but apparently signficant enough to write a blog post.

First lesson: if you're lactose intolerant, do NOT EAT A BOWL OF ICE CREAM. Seriously, just don't. No matter how good it taste, it will still give you stomachaches and nausea for three days straight. The fact that it tastes delicious does not magically remove the lactose from it.

This bad decision led to the discovery of my second life lesson: don't let Andrew tell fairtales to little children. He will confuse and scar them. Case in point, this is the bedtime story Andrew made up for me when I was feeling sick:
Once upon a time, there was a fair princess who was sometimes a bitch, and an ogre.
So basically he's telling a story about Shrek.
The ogre loved the bitch...I mean, the fair princess, so much that every night, Shrek would-this  go to her castle and peer through her window.
While she bathed.
"...Tha fuck, Dude?"
A really perveted Shrek.
Then one day, the fair princess saw the ogre peer through her window and was surprised to find that he was tiny. Not a big, angry, brain-smashing hungry ogre, but just a wee little man.
So she put him in a jar.
That is the end.
...There's not much you can say to a story like that
Sidenote: If you type "Shrek" into Google, the first thing that it suggests is "Shrek is love Shrek is life". Don't click on it unless you want this face to haunt your dreams for the rest of your life. The pun "It's all ogre now" will have an entirely difference meaning afterwards.
This picture was taken from the Tumblr account Strange Pictures of Shrek.
It's filled with pictures of desk lamps.

Thursday, 5 June 2014

I Love You

This is a love story. It's kinda similar to The Notebook, only involving booze and heaving.

This all happened at a friend's camping party, months after I had a bug in my teeth. It took place in a backyard where everyone could get hammered, constantly fall in the ground's natural potholes and go pee in the woods. We had Christmas lights decorating the laundry line and patio, a bunch of tents and a boombox playing dance music. It was obviously a black-tie kind of affair.

Aww. We look so normal.
Andrew and I had been dating (which for us, was mostly composed of four wheeling and making out) for a while, but we were still in the phase where I wanted to impress him. And so how did I attempt to astound him? By downing half of a quart of "French Kiss", a vanilla liqueur, in thirty minutes. (Yes, I now know that being drunk is not actually impressive.) I thought it wasn't a big deal, since I had done it before. It was only later that I remembered that the first time I drank half a bottle of Kiss, it took the entire night to do so, rather than half an hour.

Result? Me, in my tent, laying in the fetal position, as the Earth spun a lot faster than it usually did. I had never felt so nauseous, dizzy and disgusting. I hadn't told anyone I was in the tent, but after a while, Andrew came looking for me. He entered the tent with a goofy smile on his face, probably thinking he was going to get some action or something. He was so wrong.

Andrew ended up holding me and rubbing my back for hours as I cried like a little baby. He tried to tell me stories to take my mind off of my misery, but trying to ignore the feeling that your insides are playing Twister can be difficult.

And then he said it, those three magical words.

"I love you".

Even in my haze of torture, I thought to myself "He has to be joking. I am the most revolting mess right now.". What I said outloud was "Now is not the time, Andrew." But after convincing me he was completely serious, I said it back. I then lunged my upper body out of the tent to heave on the grass.

I do want to state that though there was heaving, there was no actual vomiting. And for that, I am proud.
Fact: I have never actually vomited due to drinking. I like to add that to my list of accomplishments. I may have gotten so drunk that I hid under a table during a party, eating popcorn with nacho cheese (which is amazing), I may have also been so inebriated that I thought I was so ghetto that I challenged my Black friend to a dance-off (which I thought I won, but later came to realize that there was no dance-off, since I was just dancing by myself), but never have I puked. Take that, sorority girls!
The next morning, I felt bad, but it was nothing that a Tim Horton's Breakfast Sandwich couldn't cure (seriosuly, a Tim's Breakfast Sandwich is THE best cure for a hangover.) When asked why the hell he had picked that time to declare his love, he responded with "When I realized that I was willing to hold your hair back if you puked, I realized that I love you."

While not conventionally romantic, that sentence fits him and our relationship to the T, and I love it.

Monday, 21 October 2013

My French Family Reunion

Me and my cousin Steph, who used to blog. Feel free
to go on her blog and bitch at her for not blogging
in over a year. Do it.
Towards the end of the summer, Andrew, my parents and I went up North of the province to go to my mother's family reunion. It only happens every four years, so it's exciting when it finally comes around: we get to pay tribute to the members of our family that have passed on (by choosing one person from each family branch to fight the others to the death. But we're trying to change that). We also like to celebrate all the recent weddings, births, and knocking ups, as it means our plan of world domination can expand. We do all of this celebrating by partying all day and night.

As much as I roll my eyes as Andrew's love for camo and hunting, the French-Canadians of Northern New-Brunswick are basically rednecks: predominantly white, rural, working class people with lots of bad tattoos who listen to French country music (yes, that exists), go to church and love the beer. My family has many of those characteristics and they're awesome.

Since Andrew and my French family were so similar, I thought they would get along great (most of them are bilingual, so Andrew wouldn't have to use his French to communicate. Which is good, because all he knows are "How are you?", "You're a fat cow" and some animal names). To help Andrew better integrate into my family, I decided that I should include an interesting (albeit false) fact about him whenever I  introduced him.    

 I came up with a quite a few. They include: 

This is me in my Typique hat (the mascot of
the big festival held in my mother's hometown)
and a ploye, a local dish that I FUCKING LOVE.

Hi, this is my boyfriend Andrew... he has a glass eye.
...He has an STD.
...He likes to make jokes about killing puppies.
...He has a thing for women over 70.
...He eats banana peels.
...He can't feel anything past his left knee.
...He has a pet moth.
...He once made out with a drag queen. He had no idea it was a man.
...He's wearing a wig.
...He's a eunuch.
...He memorized every Teletubbies episode.
...His aspirations include creating the biggest ball of chewed bubblegum in the world.
...He farts when he's excited.
...He wants to dye our pets' fur in camo.
He didn't appreciate my efforts at all. He still had a pretty good time without the use of my master plan, although he was most likely referred to as "the boyfriend of the crazy chick wearing a porcupine hat."

Monday, 14 October 2013

Sky - She Likes to Prove me Wrong (Video)

After I taught Sky to speak, I made a video to show off her extreme intelligence to friends and family. It failed.   
 

Also, in case you're wondering why I'm threatening my puppy with a closed fist, we teach the dogs using both verbal and non-verbal commands. "Speak" command includes a power fist. It helps her self-esteem.

Thursday, 10 October 2013

Needles Should NEVER be Repeatedly Driven into This Area of the Body


I was looking at tattoo artists in the surrounding area when I came upon this promo on a studio website:

After reading this ad, my nipples screamed and ran away in horror.

...

WHY IS THIS A THING? AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS NEVER HEARD OF THIS?! DO NIPPLES REALLY HAVE TO BE ENHANCED? CAN'T THEY BE LEFT AS MOTHER NATURE INTENDED THEM TO BE? They're so sensitive! WHY INFLICT PAIN UPON THEM?!?

And WHY is there a Breast Cancer Ribbon? I totally get if a woman had Breast Cancer and needed a mastectomy or reconstruction, she would pehaps want to recreate that aspect of her gazongas, but then how does that work with the "enhance your natural beauty"? Does the average person feel the need to make their nipples stand out even more? Is it the new vajazzle or something?

Maybe since I've moved into the sticks, I'm way out of the loop. Please let me know if I've missed out on the introduction of other fads.

You May Also Like These Posts

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...