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.

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.

I Work with Crazy People. And I Feel Totally at Home.

If I had a pet giraffe, I would name it Gustave. It would probably
be allergic to leaves. Or have multiple personalities.

I guess I never mentioned it, but I got promoted back in October. ...Oops. I'd like to say I didn't mention it because the promotion came with a huge raise and I've been busy traveling the world in my private jet and taking care of my pet giraffe. But I would be lying in your face...screen. I just have a horrible memory and forgot about this post. Sometimes I'm amazed I remember to feed myself.
But seriously, I want a pet giraffe. Someone make that happen for me.

Anyways, instead of being a Administrative Assistant, I'm now a Coordinator. I work for a company that does environmental assessments (we check proposed business and building projects to see if they'll negatively affect the environment), and my job is to make sure the projects and responses are all correctly catalogued and kept up to date.

I'm just a fancier secretary.

Next to my fancy-secretary desk, there is a whiteboard with the the status of every employee (in office, out sick, at a meeting, etc). This would usually be a pretty ordinary aspect of work, except for the fact that ours includes a completely fictional, nonexistant person.

We have Jack Longquest.


"Jack" appeared on our status board back in November, but is always out of the office due to some excuse or another. Having never met Jack, I like to think that he looks like Indiana Jones - College Professor Edition. He enjoys canoeing and has an unfortunate propensity to pose like a superhero when talking to you. He's a lifelong bachelor, makes his own beer and hates the sound of crinkling aluminium paper.

Look Ma, I'm number one!

As weird as it might be that I've completely made up a history and description for him, please remember that I'm not the one who created an imaginary coworker. Not only does he remain on the status board after 10 months, his status still receives regular updates. Reasons why Jack isn't in the office include:

• Acupuncture Appointment
• Origami Class
• Abducted by Aliens
• In the Bermuda Triangle
• Disney Movie Marathon
• At a Sweat Lodge

My coworkers who update the status board also send emails on Jack's behalf:

FYI, Jack Longquest will be out all day today.  He is attending a conference in Moncton.

And regularly mention Jack in their day to day conversations:

"Did you see that Jack is coming back on the twelfth? It's gonna be exciting to see him again!"

I like working here.

Instagram Quickie - Recreating-Moments-with-Nature Edition

Sometimes, I send Andrew text photos from work in which I pretend to be a deer chewing on a leaf.



*leaf-munching sound effect*

Unfortunately for Andrew, these kind of texts are pretty common. 

Is That a Fish in your Pocket, or are you Just Happy to See me?

Andrew, while preparing our fish & chips supper: How many fish dicks do you want?

Woah, that's a lot of fish dicks!

No thank you, Andrew.

8 Things You Will Deal With While Working at a Summer Camp

FINALLY!

Let me just start by saying that I love kids. My totally unattainable goal is for Andrew and I to become become Brangelina 2.0 and adopt/give birth to a bazillion kids and have a rainbow of adorable kids. That would be the total bombizzle (word, homie). Not only would I love them and teach them to be awesome, but I would also use them as free labour on my future hobby farm (chickens, goats and horses included).

Sidenote: Unfortunately, Andrew is against a full van of children. He thinks two kids is perfect, because he grew up with one brother and his childhood was awesome (i.e., one hit the other in the head with a golf club; they were clearly the best of friends).

Me, at 16, woking hard at summer camp.

But other people's kids can sometimes bring out a different reaction out of me...

Camp Counselors, or anyone else that has to deal with someone else's kid for more than 6 hours, should be given a raise. Cause kids are nasty. After some of the events I went through during my summers running camps, it's a complete miracle that I haven't sterelized myself.

So here are some of my experiences/lessons from the 6 years that I worked with kids. If you have also worked with kids for any length of time, you totally know what I'm talking about.

• You will quickly learn that kids under the age of 10 do not understand sarcasm. At all. While in the craft room, a child once asked me if I had a bowl. I naturally replied "Of course I do! I always carry one in my back pocket in case of an emergency!" She stood there expectantly, waiting for me to pull out a giant mixing bowl out of my Mary Poppins jean pocket. Sarcasm was never again used on a child.
• And it's not just the kids: you will inevitably have that one mom that brings her kid in with an entire lunchbox of over-the-counter and prescription medication. This kid takes so many drugs in a day that they put your local stoner to shame.
• Some of you are probably like "Hey, aren't you kinda being a humongous hypocrite, you crazy hypochondriac?!", so I should point out that I don't usually take any medication like some hypochondriacs, I just constantly worry that I have some osbcure and uncurable disease. I'm a hypochondriac au naturel.
• No matter how much flat ginger ale and quiet relaxing time you give them, the chances are, you will eventually get a kid that throws up. And chances are also that it will be a projectile vomit. All over the other kids' shoes and backpacks.
• You will get a child called Jessica who demands to be called Madison Butterfly Butterfly.



"Oh God, it's like a crime scene in there!"

• You will have to wipe blood off of random surfaces, because kids either: a) panic when they get hurt and run around, dripping the stuff everywhere, b) don't notice that their arm/leg/nose is gushing blood, or c) they don't give a damn.
• As bad as cleaning off blood makes you feel, having to climb up a dark tube slide to clean it is 1000 times worse.
• You will have to chase down a misbehaving child in a bouncy structure. No matter your size, wit and strength, they will make you look like a drunk panda.
• When the kids get picked up, you'll be talking to an older father in a business suit and realize he's giving you elevator eyes and hitting on you right in front of his kids.   
• And finally, I hope this will never happen to you, ever. But maybe, just maybe, if you have any of my luck, you'll be feeding the kids their lunch when a little boy will walk up to you and whisper in your ear "I think someone pooped in the sink." And no matter how hard you pray that this kid is just an extremely creative liar, lo and behold, there is actual shit in the sink.
• Sidenote: Interviewing each and every child to ask them if they're the one who "left something in the bathroom that you shouldn't have put there" will not yeild results.
• Second Sidenote: You can use your charm and pleading to convince another staff member to clean up the crap. You will owe them big time. Big time.

Now please give me your own horrible/gross experiences working with kids that will make me feel better about mine.

Our Wars III: Revenge of the Hick

See what I did there? I'M SO CLEVER!

You know that time I accidentally shot Andrew in the face with an elastic? Well, I don't have to feel guilty about it anymore.

Sidenote: Yeah, I never actually felt guilty. It was hilarious.

We were at the gas station. Andrew was pumping Knuckle's (my car) gas, I was inside paying and Lucy was sitting in the car, freaking out because Andrew was outside of the car and "Oh my God what if he NEVER COMES BACK AND I'LL BE LEFT WITH MAMA AND DAD WILL NEVER COME BACK DAD,DON'TLEAVEMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Sidenote: Lucy's neuroticism clearly comes from my side of the family. Also, yes, we take Lucy everywhere with us either because Andrew can't bear to be without her or he thinks she'll be lonely at home alone. In the case of the latter, we could just fix it if we bought another puppy, Andrew!

By the time I was done paying, Andrew was already back in the car and ready to go. So I walked up to the passenger side, started to open the door, and got sprayed in the face with windsheild wiper fluid.

Sprayed in the fucking face.

With fucking windshield wiper fluid.

It's like time slowed down as I stood there in complete shock: the wiper blades going back and forth, my face and coat getting drenched, the look on Andrew's face as an unending stream of "I'msorry!I'msorry!I'msorry" poured out of his mouth.

After wiping off most of the washer fluid, I got in the car, where Andrew excused his behaviour by explaining that he "thought you were already in the car!"

You can be assured that that excuse didn't fly.

We rode home in silence; Andrew knew better than to try to play country music on the radio in a time like this.

Someone's on his Way to Becoming a Youtube Star

It's not Justin Beiber; unfortunately, that's already happened.

 

Andrew and his best friend from childhood (who lives exactly 27 seconds away) are hickentical twins, which means that they like to drink beer in our shed, wear camo and talk about hunting together. The hickness is also exponentially multiplied when they are together for long periods of time. Which results in videos like this one.

 

Behold, the hickness that is Andrew and Justin:

 

 

Andrew will want to ensure that you all know that he is the one weilding the gun, not the Borat weilding the camera.

Sidenote: When Andrew found out that I was posting this on my blog, his immediate response was "Awesome! Then we can get more pageviews and get shown on Ellen [DeGeneres]!" Andrew apparently doesn't know how limited my scope is.

And This is Why I Don't Take Taxis

This conversation happened today when I had to take a taxi from work to go pick up my car from the garage.

Me: I can't believe you guys have to deal with the horrible drivers in the city every single day. It would drive me crazy!

Taxi Driver: I'm already crazy. 

Me: *laughs* Well, that saves you the trouble then! 

Taxi Driver: *deadpan* I'm not allowed to carry a gun anymore. 

Me:

Oh my God, I'm going to die in this cab.

 Conversation pretty much ended there.

When Did this Happen?

HOLY FUCK, IT'S FUCKING NOVEMBER!

Sorry for the swearing, Tika is a bit lewd and foul-mouthed. She takes after her mother that way.

Seriously, where did the year go? I just got used to 2012!

Let's just Rename Andrew M. André Bibliothécaire and give him a Berret and Monocle.

Holy shit you guys.

I'm pretty sure Andrew was kidnapped last night and replaced by a clone/robot/cleverly disguised genius llama, cause some weird shit went on.

Sidenote: For those who didn't know/forgot, I'm French Canadian.

When talking to my dad on the phone, Andrew casually asked me Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?, which is French for "What's he saying?" Let me explain why this is so astounding. 

DIE, CHEVREUIL, DIE!

Andrew's knowledge of French can be categorized into three different subjects:

1. The basics, such as Bonjour, comment ça va, etc.
2. Most of the animals of the forest. That way, he can identify them in both languages before blowing their heads off.
3. Swear words. Lots of swear words. Pretty much all of the swear words.

This is the vocabulary of a French toddler, if that toddler happened to be raised by sailors with no parenting experience.

So the fact that Andrew was able to form an entire sentence completely on his own that, while being small in size, was filled with contractions and complicated structure is nothing short of a small miracle.

This is why I simply stared at him in awe, whispering "what did you say?!" Probably feeling extremely superior, he smugly repeated the question with a flawless French accent and walked away. I finished my call with my father and stayed on the couch, wondering who the hell I've been living with for the past 3 years.

Then, later in the same day, I turned away from the computer to find this:


Notice the bag of Teddy Grahams under the chair.
I was not joking about the Teddy Grahams.

Never, in the entire 4+ years I've been with Andrew, have I ever seen him read a book, never mind a novel.

Sure, I've seen him read books about guns and reloading gun shells, enjoy cowboy comic books and glance at hunting magazines, but never an actual book with over 100 pages. And no pictures.

I was so shocked, I took a picture of it as proof that it actually happened because otherwise, no one would believe me.

Add a Little Sex Appeal to your Front Yard this Halloween

Do you feel like your lawn needs more trashy seductiveness?

 

Do you want the atmosphere around your home to scream out bimbo! without having to resort to ridiculously skanky costumes that only vaguely look like the character they're supposed to represent? (Not that it will stop you from dressing up as that sexy nurse.)

 

Do you think to yourself "Pumpkins and Scarecrows just don't get me hot and bothered anymore"?

 

Do you just love whores?

 

If you said yes to these questions, consider purchasing the Halloween Hooker Skeleton!

 

Venereal disease and  18th century pimp not included.

We saw this at our local Canadian Tire. They were on sale and yet no one seemed to be buying them. Probably because prostitute chic is so last year.

"Hey baby, how much
for your honey?"

Sidenote: Do prostitutes actually dress up on Halloween night? Like, can you pick up the bumblebee and the ghost on the corner?

And then the World was Ending.

We're all here reading this, so I can report with 95% certainty that the world has not ended.

Of course, we could all be in this weird twilight zone where everyone is dead and no one knows it yet. Like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, except we don't get Haley Joel Osment.

Sidenote: If you thought of sparkly vampires when I said "twilight", I will cut you.

Second Sidenote: Who names their boy Haley? Is that a thing? Are there any boys called Martha out there?

Anyways, the reason for this speculating, other than for the fact that my brain tends to jump to the dramatic, is this wierd weather phenomenomenom-nom-nom.

 

Andrew and I were sitting in the living room with the curtains closed when he noticed the light in the room had altered. We then went outside to find the entire world completely bathed in pink. It was like wearing rose-coloured glasses, without the positive outlook on life.

Everything is fucking pink!

Maybe this was God's final message before he started the apocalypse. Maybe he was saying something along the lines of "I'm here, I'm queer, the end of times is near!" Cause maybe God is a gay cheerleader.



The sky. In case you hadn't figured it out.

So far, my speculations seem to be incorrect. Although really, heaven would be awesome if run by a gay cheerleader.

I Thought we Had at Least One Normal Family Member - I was Wrong.

With one cat that drools and another that most likely has bipolar disorder, the hick who loves musicals and myself, I mistakenly thought Lucy held the title of "Most Well Adjusted Household Member."

 

Then she started doing this.

 

Here is a video of Lucy sounding like the offspring of a bear and methdog.

 

 

There's Gotta be an Idiots Anonymous Group that I can Join.

Hi. My name is Christine and I am an idiot.

(Hi Christine.)

It's been 12 hours since I've done something stupid.


Don't be fooled by her cuteness. She will eat your dangly bits for lunch.

(*Awkward silence, followed by a slow clap*)

It all started when I agreed to watch my parent's dog for five days. Her name is Tazz, short for Tasmanian Devil; like the character she was named after, she will eat through anything and leave a trail of destruction everywhere she goes. Things I have found in her mouth this week: leaves, a roll of electrical tape, a used Q-tip, kleenex, receipts, cat toys and one of Andrew's winter glove. She also constantly had to be tied up when put outside, because otherwise she'd just fuck off and run away to do whatever she felt like doing. There's a lot of personality packed into that 10 pound ball of fur. 

It wasn't until the last day of dogsitting that I had my great idea: since Tazz doesn't have very far to run when tied to a post, I thought it would be great if I would tie the rope between the two dogs (since Lucy doesn't run away). And I thought it would be genius if I got them to run by having them chase me.

Do you see what's coming?

After sprinting, I stopped and watched them run by me. I also watched the nylon rope stretched between them get closer and closer to my legs. And then I saw a beautiful blue sky.

Because I was laying flat on my back on my front lawn.

Because I set myself up to get clotheslined by a 60 and 10 lbs dog.

Although it didn't actually hurt at the time, after 24 hours I ended up with this giant bitch of a bruise:

Apologies for the shitty photo quality, but my camera is dead
and I'm too lazy to find more batteries, so I took the photo
with my cell. Also, it's fucking hard to take a picture of the
 back of your own leg.



 

I am now forced to wear leggings under all of my dresses or people will think that Andrew goes after me with a baseball bat when I burn his supper.

 

HA! Like I would ever cook.



An Exciting Night Filled with Chaos and Fire

Last night was quite special. I don't know if something got dumped in the water or if it was a full moon or something but weird shit went on in Dreamland.

Firstly, I dreamt my cat Tika had superpowers (awesome) and that Andrew proposed (actually not a good thing; the dreamring he got me was absolutely hideous), but that was nothing compared to what happened later. I was the tamest one in our room that night.


Squares are furniture. Yes, I sleep in a Spiderman
 position, while Andrew looks like a drowning man.

Let's start with Lucy.



To help with Lucy's story, I've included a horrible (as usual) map of our room. Everyone was peacefully sleeping away, when all of a sudden, Andrew and I woke up to what sounded like a mosh pit in a gift shop. Complete pandemonium. I immediately assumed Super Tika lost control of her flying abilities or her super powerful laser eyes and was destroying the house; my rational thinking may or may not have been functioning at that point.





It turns out Lucy was running full tilt and crashing into everything. Why? I think she might have been sleeprunning. Here's what her trajectory looked like:


Lucy's sleeping warpath.

That shit isn't normal.

She didn't stop crashing into things until Andrew yelled out her name. At that point, she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at Andrew like "how the hell did I get here?" I then made Andrew take her for a little walk to make sure she didn't have a brain tumor, a seizure or was possessed by the devil. Cause its a well known fact that exercise treats cancer and demonic possession.

Eventually Andrew convinced me that she wouldn't die in the next 48 hours, so we all went back to sleep. The quiet only lasted for about an hour or two.

Andrew started tossing and turning, sounding really stressed/frustrated/upset. He was dreaming again. So I asked him what was wrong, knowing I was probably going to get an interesting answer.

"*mutter mutter* the ankle thingy, before she went in the fire..."

 

 

I was not prepared for that answer. What ankle thingy? Was someone wearing an ankle monitor? Did they have cankles? I don't know what else could be related to ankles. And I won't even take the time to question what the hell is up with some chick going into a fire.

 

After I asked him to elaborate, he seemed to wake up a little, because he looked at me like I was stupid and said "Nevermind." As usual, he has absolutely no recollection of the conversation and unfortunately doesn't remember his dream.

 

Feel free to share your theories on the nature of his dream.

-------------------------------

P.S. I'm still looking for more question to ask Andrew in my Drunk Hick Interview. I've had awesome ones so far, so keep them coming!

Canadian Feature Friday: Kanata - How the Country was named

Here's a quick history of the origin of Canada's name. It's also not 100% accurate. It's probably like 85% accurate. Although the part talking about the Backstreet Boys is totally true.

"I do me, you do you."

The country was named Canada after French explorer Jacques Cartier talked to Iroquois natives who described their land as "kanata". Turns out kanata only means village or settlement, and not "yeah, we're just one native tribe out of hundreds - Micmacs, Inuits, Cree, Hurons, etc. -  spread across the second largest land mass in the world. We all have different languages and we don't have an alphabet, but we still somehow all gathered together to form a Native Empire Committee, which then decided that this giant chunk of land should be called Kanata. We played Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide the winning name." But good ol' JC took it as the latter and started using the word Canada to describe the whole region.

 

Soooo, basically the entire country started on a fuckup. Maybe Jacques was a nice guy and it was all just a huge misunderstanding, or maybe he was just a know-it-all douchebag. I'm thinking he was a douche and was all "Of course I understand these peoples' language! Sure, they may be pointing at a village down the river, but I'm sure it's a metaphor for this giant magical land full of strange animals. I'm cultured."

So once he started calling the area surrounding Quebec City "Canada", everyone started calling all the different parts of Northern North America the same. Cause I guess even if he was a jerk, Jacques Cartier was still a trendsetter. Kinda like Kanye West pre-Kim Kardashian.

Jacques Cartier is apparently such a D-bag that he speaks from his crotch.

Completely True Fact: Jacques Cartier is french for Jack Carter, which means he was Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys' ancestor.

Ok, I made that last fact up.

Now you know.

Giving Drunken Directions Does Not Constitute “Learning How To Stick Shift”

It seems that whenever Andrew drinks, I get pulled into some small adventure.

In this case, Andrew was drinking at his work party during our first summer together. He had invited me, probably thinking that I would make friends with everyone. That was the day he learned that I sucked at making friends.

Sidenote: I went to the same school from daycare at two years old until my High School graduation; meeting new people was a mostly pointless skill.

Technically its "bear spray", because you're not allowed to
carry any weapon in Canadaland.

Because of my lack of social proficiency, my night mostly consisted of :

• Avoiding one of the staff members that I went to school with. (He lived in my neighbourhood and creeped me out enough that I bought some pepper spray).
• Woefully watching the employees' children have the time of their lives in a rented bouncy castle that would only take children under 12.
• Eating multiple plates of Andrew's mother's famous macaroni salad. You haven't tasted macaroni salad until you've tasted her macaroni salad. (I kind of feel like that sounds like a sexual innuendo.)

Sidenote: Andrew got the job in part because his boss wanted to sleep with his mom. Andrew's mom, that is. Not his own mother. Ew.

While I didn't particularly have a blast, Andrew was really enjoying the night, which made me happy. Sometimes, you just gotta let hicks do their hick shit. That way, he can get it out of his system, so that we don't end up with crap like this at home:

Ok, I'm not going to lie, this acually looks like fun. As long as no one pees in the tub. 

Finally, the night was at an end. We were staying the night at Andrew's friend's house nearby, so I asked Andrew how we were getting there. He looked at me (most likely with unfocused eyes) like I was asking him to ride a unicorn. Utterly confused and unprepared.

Andrew:..Well, Corey already went home.  

Me: .......

Andrew: ...So...I guess I'm driving?

Me: No way in hell.

After a long discussion about all of our options, we decided that I would drive Andrew's truck down, as I had only had one drink at 7pm, and it was now 2am.

Andrew's truck was a manual. I had never driven a manual before in my life, and I certainly didn't want to start learning on a late saturday night with a drunken crowd to witness the disaster. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened.

For those who were taught how to drive by a horrible teacher, think of me in the same situation, with the added fact that the teacher was also completely drunk. It was like I was taught to drive by Ozzy Osbourne. I stalled at least four times in the driveway before I was even able to start moving, and instead of pushing the left turn signal, I ended up flashing the highbeams in the faces of all the partygoers. If I didn't have their attention before, I certainly did now.



Picture this X10, but minus the fur, and add camo clothing, work
 boots and a beer in everyone's hands.

With my lovely audience entranced like deer in the headlights (litterally in headlights), I drove away in first gear with the motor doing some noises that previous experience tells me were extremely unnatural.

I then proceeded down multiple roads in the middle of the woods. I had no idea if Andrew even knew where we were going, because he kept yelling "TURN LEFT!", even though there was nothing but a ditch and trees on the lefthand side.

You'd think you can't take a wrong turn while driving 10 km/h (6 mph), but it turns out you can. When I found out that Andrew's left was really right all along (right as in the direction, not as in being correct), I had to do a few slow-motion 180+ spins. I thank God the streets were deserted that night, cause I'm pretty sure I was driving like I was under the influence. The cops would have thought I had taken a new drug made of weed and sloth blood. (I tried to find a funny name for the drug, but it turns out I would be horrible at marketing illegal drugs. Scratch that off my list of potential careers.)

After fifteen minutes of driving 40km (25mi) below the speed limit, we finally made it to what I hoped was his friend's house. I wasn't sure it was actually his place since I had never been there before - the clarity of Andrew's thinking was suspect. We walked in with my fingers crossed that we wouldn't get charged with home invasion.

Thankfully, although Andrew's ability to comprehend relative direction is hindered when completely trashed, his sense of overall direction is fine. This makes absolutely no sense to me, but Andrew has never made much sense. He can hunt, gut and clean any animal, but he gets grossed out when I show half-chewed food in my mouth.

I'm happy to report that Andrew actually got the house right, so no one was arrested. Well, we weren't arrested; who knows who was arrested at the party.

But no matter how hungover Andrew was the next morning, I made him drive the truck home.

Will you be my Brideschicken?

You can probably guess why Andrew and his
parents like him so much.

Today, I expressed to Andrew my desire to go visit his parent's chickens, especially the two little red hens named Red and Green. If you don't know who Red Green is, it's ok. He's a character from an old Canadian comedy show. And I'd rather not know who he is either. If you do know who he is, I'm sorry (And if you know who he is and like him, you're a hick.) Regardless, Red and Green are much cuter than Red Green.

Me: I love those chickens so much, they will be bridesmaids at my wedding!

Andrew: Ooooookay then.

Me: Chances are, a Chicken of Honour has happened before somewhere in the world.

Andrew could not argue.

And lo and behold, look what I found:



Those chickens are like the Freddy Mercury of chickens! MAMA MIA, LET ME GO!

Ok, so it turns out that these are just random chickens held during a bridal photoshoot (which is a new one for me. I had no idea that there was such a thing as a bridal photoshoot. I thought weddings were about the couple, and not just the bride, but I wouldn't know. I HAVEN'T BEEN PROPOSED TO YET.) I really hope that this shoot was done after the actual wedding, because I imagine it would be extremely difficult to clean chicken shit out of a wedding gown. Not that a chicken has ever shit on my blue boho/prairie summer dress before...

Okay, I may have scared Red shitless by hugging her and talking to her excitedly (aka, very loud and high-pitched). 

Note to others: don't treat chickens like puppies. You will be shit on. 

And the Award for Weirdest Effin' Cat Goes to...

This photo, for reasons absolutely unknown, reminds me of Dakota Fanning.

So I've had my two cats for almost a year now and just when I finally started to believe I understood cats, Tika has slapped my confidence in the face.

Tika has always been cuddly and affectionate, but for the past couple of months, she's come up to me, expecting to be petted, only to get pushed away. Why?

Because one side of her face will be completely soaked.