Tuesday Ramblings

Endophobic Tendencies

While preparing ingredients for a charcuterie board and ingredients for pizza, I came to the life altering realization that I’m an endophobe. I was chopping off the icky pointy ends of the european pepperoni when I told R-Dolly that I can’t put the ends on the tray because they gross me out. I quickly looked over the other ingredients I’d already chopped. I’d removed the following: both ends of the cherry tomatoes, the little black apex of the red peppers, and the end pieces of the salami. Once I said it out loud, the realization froze me in place. I AM AN ENDOPHOBE!!!

I frantically thought back over the years and realized I’m one fucked up motherfucker. I don’t know what childhood trauma caused this phobia but I’ve apparently been like this since I was little. I NEVER eat the crusts of bread even if they’re the last pieces in the bag. I don’t like end or edge pieces of cake, lasagna, or anything else that’s cooked in a baking dish. I will take a piece out of the middle and leave all the edges intact. When I cook, I cut off the ends, stem area, and the apex of every fruit and vegetable. I cut the ends off of bananas which, honestly, everyone should do already because the little ends on the banana are just disgusting no matter what your feelings are about ends.

Don’t even get me started on end or expiry dates. Milk is to be dumped on the expiry date by someone other than myself, if there happens to be any left. I have cereal eaters at home so, thankfully, that doesn’t happen often. Sour milk is disgusting. I know that one began when I was little and drank expired milk without knowing the horror that was about to explode in my mouth.

The end of an amazing movie, trilogy, TV series, book or book series is a tragedy. I realize that during a horror movie there are only so many characters that can trip, fall and be murdered by an axe murderer; die of an unknown virus; turn into zombies or be murdered by a human sized sex-starved mutant bunny rabbit running around with a huge penis/dildo boner as he chases them. It’s an actual movie!!!! I can’t make shit like that up. Bunny, the Killer Thing was extremely entertaining and I feel weird admitting that I’ve watched it more than once, but I totally have. The huge dildo flapping in the wind as he chases females and a couple of unfortunate males while growling “PUSSY” was the funniest shit ever. It was hilarious and gory and disgusting. It’s also a Finnish Horror movie with subtitles and I love me some foreign horror movies! I believe there was an English dubbed version but I avoid those like the plague. The words not matching the mouth movement is too distracting.

Speaking about the sex-deprived mutant rabbit also makes me realize that my husband’s lucky that the penis has a ‘head’ and not an ‘end’ or his penis would’ve been hand and mouth deprived or, even worse, my habit of cutting the ends off everything might have disastrous consequences for his parts. Now that I’ve acknowledged my shortcoming concerning ends, I can accept myself for who I am and move on with my life.

~C. Dolly~

Tuesday Ramblings

Late Nights and Early Mornings

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We have been pulling some pretty late nights here during the last week, which is all fine and dandy when you don’t have to be up early in the morning. We have been doing the usual, spreading ourselves into a teeny tiny thin little line, and hoping that nothing breaks. So far no one has ended up dead, so its a win. AND, we opened up our new restaurant! We have been trying to use local ingredients, keep the menu small (and simple – which will help minimize waste) as well as utilize some of our favourite recipes like roasted marinara sauce, homemade tobasco (keep following our blog as this one will be posted in the coming months) and our favourite signature caesar named after our favourite little pug, Dolly!

I can’t let you in on all of our secrets, but if you have only tried drinking a caesar made with vodka, you have not yet taken a ride on the flavour express. While a gin caesar can be good, a caesar made with some good old Jack Daniels can’t be beat. And that folks, is how we remain sane in the Dolly households! 4 hours of sleep at night and the perfect mixed drink can still bring a smile to my face. Because someone making you a mixed drink means love. Anyone can crack a beer – real love means emptying out the pantry – C.U.Next Tuesday, R.Dolly

Tuesday Ramblings

Asthmatic Zombie

 

 

 

We’ve had really smokey weather here lately because of raging forest fires throughout the province. I can’t complain because my home and community are still intact. I do, however, have asthma which is triggered by smoke, horses and cats (so far, no seasonal allergies. Score!!!) The smoke has been thick and there have been many days where the world looks apocalyptic.  

I’ve been exhausted and my brain feels foggy and sluggish. I’m going to blame the fogginess/sluggishness on the smoke and resulting asthma. When my husband (who has been relegated to a lifetime of listening to me find reasons for my quirkiness & clumsiness) reads this, he’s going to look at me like this:

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Anyhoo, while driving to work this morning I was thinking about zombies. Don’t be alarmed! This is completely fucking normal for me. I was also doing a ‘wheeze check.’ I was the only one awake before I left for work, I hadn’t spoken yet and I didn’t want to walk into work and surprise myself and everyone else by wheezing out my ‘good morning.’ The wheeze level was low to moderate with a chance of coughing spells. Not too shabby.

I started thinking about zombies again and wondered what an asthmatic zombie would sound like. Totally normal stream of consciousness. I purposely made the wheeziest sound I could to see what an asthmatic zombie would sound like. Unfortunately, it just sounds like a regular zombie. I was so disappointed. I was hoping it would be a very distinguishing sound because I could totally outwalk an asthmatic zombie. I’d know that I wouldn’t have to run and I could take a breather and saunter along, staying just out of it’s rotting little grasp. Now I’m screwed because I won’t be able to tell if it’s a regular zombie or not. I don’t like to run.

I wondered what I’d do if I woke up one morning and was faced with a zombie apocalypse. The world would be burning out of control. I’d have to lay low until most of the burning stopped otherwise my asthma would kick in and I’d end up as a zombie-in-training. Greens and yellows are not my colors. They totally wash out my skin tone. So green, oozing, rotting flesh would NOT be a good look for me. Plus, the sight of ooze would make me vomit. Every time I noticed ooze or rotting flesh dripping off of myself I’d start to vomit. I’d be an oozing, vomiting, asthmatic zombie. To any uninfected humans, though, I guess I’d just look like a regular zombie. I’d want to yell at them, “Don’t just walk on by. I’m special, damn it! Not just because my mommy said so, either! I’m unique. I’m a vomiting asthmatic zombie! Why aren’t you listening to me?” Sadly, all they’d hear is a normal zombie moan before they outwalked me.

Then I arrived at work and my ‘normal’ day began…

~C.Dolly~

Tuesday Ramblings

Rape Van or Just an Innocent Mode of Transportation?

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I often hear parents tell their teenage offspring, that they have no idea how easy they have it these days. Parties are arranged via Facebook invites, you always have access to a phone to text/snapchat with friends and now you can even see where all your friends are with snap maps. I happen to find this all horrifying. I know parents who have their kids phones lojacked! No doubt I would have done this myself had I allowed my kids to have a phone when they were younger, but looking at this from a former sneaky teenager’s point of view, I would have to say that we had it better by far. 

First of all, with cell phones, you expect someone to be reachable 24/7.  Back when I was a teenager, you had to call a landline to speak with someone. Unless of course you were rich and had a giant cell phone, but even then, there were no towers so you couldn’t use it 90% of the time anyway.  Parents were super polite back in the day as well, and they wouldn’t dream of calling someones house at 3am to see if you were there unless it was an absolute emergency. And, who actually wanted to admit to other parents that they had no idea where their children were? Without cell phones, it was possible to call parents at your curfew time from some random house assuring them that you were back at your friends house for the night and heading to bed. There was many a party where the music would go off and you would hear, “Quiet! so and so is calling their mom.”  In later years, my mother became quite savy and bought herself a scanner so she could cruise by the parties being broken up by the police so she could locate her errant offspring.

Instead of sitting at home texting friends to see what everyone was doing, people would drive around by the car load, pulling ‘mainers’ (driving down main street again and again), until they met up with more cars in the 7-11 parking lot. At that time, someone would either admit that their parents were out of town and we would invade their house, or we would start the collection of pallets to have a pit party.  Lots of time was spent out 4xing and an equal amount of time was also spent walking home. Either way, it was an adventure!

Looking back, we made a tonne of bad decisions, but managed to survive. Mostly due to luck rather than skill. By far, the worst decision ever was the night our POS car died on the way to a party out in the sticks and we decided we would hitchhike. We were so committed to making it out that we actually hopped into a van. With no windows. And no backseats. But…. it looked like the drivers were friendly enough and they pinky swore that they wouldn’t kill us.  The driver assured us that it wasn’t a rape van and it only looked that way because he had a brother in a wheelchair that he needed to take places.  Seemed legit, and we were super confident that we would be able to take them on if need be. This changed once we got in and saw that there was no way to open a door from the back where we were. We were the dumb girls that you watch in a horror show getting themselves into a terrible situation. 

Unfortunately, we forgot how far out the party was. They were starting to get super irritated with us, but we just kept telling them that it was, “just a little further….” Half an hour later with two irritated out of towners (who so would not have been welcome at the party to begin with) and us rolling around the back of a rape van, we finally arrived. To see that the party was over. Oopsie. It was a pretty silent ride back to town, and I think that we were all pretty relieved to see each other go our separate ways. Looking back, every single one of us is amazed by our stupidity. But, we had liquid courage and if someone had a video tape of it, they could have used it to dissuade teenagers from drinking. -C.U.NextTuesday, R.Dolly

Tuesday Ramblings

Revenge of the Twitchy Toes

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I have twitchy toes. I’m always wiggling them no matter how relaxed I am and my girls spend way to much fucking time making stealthy recordings of my feet. I guess I should be grateful they aren’t making porn. I have no idea when it started. Maybe I was born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

I can pick things up with my toes and that’s been a lifesaver when I’m all comfy and the thought of moving almost makes you regret life. You know, when you’ve found that perfect, totally relaxed position on the couch and you spy something on the coffee table that you suddenly urgently need? I can pick up the desired object with my toes and bring it to my hand and all I have to move is my one leg. I know that the looks of disgust my family send in my direction when I do this are only masking their true feelings of jealousy. Because guess who’s still in their comfy position? The twitcher.

While we were still in highschool, R-Dolly and I were hanging out and had just finished making some Kraft Dinner. We grabbed a couple of forks, the pot of KD and headed into the living room to watch tv while we ate. The forks were set down on the coffee table and once we settled onto the couch R-Dolly realized she’d left her fork on the coffee table right in front of her. She sighed a sigh filled with the weight of the whole damn world and asked if I could pass her the fork. I looked at how close it was to her and decided that if she didn’t want to move, neither did I. I grabbed the fork handle with my toes and handed (or more accurately, footed) it to her. She looked at it for a second, shrugged, grabbed it and started eating. That’s when I knew that we were going to be friends for life. It’s a true sign of trust when there’s a fork (held firmly between my toes) coming at you from this direction as I slide my calf along the top of my knee until my twitchy toes are dangling the fork over your KD:

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I’m also proficient at holding a pen between my big toe and pointer toe and writing my name, which would be totally awkward if I decided to sign all legal documents in public using my toes. “Oh, I need to sign this? Let me get out my pen (I wouldn’t want to use a public pen. Who knows where people’s filthy hands have been???) and my handy-dandy toes and I’ll sign that baby right now.” I would slip off my sandals, wriggle my toes to get them warmed up, slap my foot up on the desk, pick up the pen with my toes and sign my life away. While that would be so much fun for me, I have a feeling that their reaction would be the same reaction my husband gets on his face as my twitchers try to make their way across the couch to rest on his legs. Total and complete fucking horror.

Maybe I ruined him of feet for life because of my twitching. Maybe he was never really a foot person. In the beginning of our relationship, we would be on the couch and he’d let me rest my feet on him. Then, after he made sure that I was trapped/married, he didn’t want my feet on him, anymore. When I asked him why, his response was, “Your twitching toes creep me out.” Huh. I told him I could keep them still and we tried again. I thought I was doing well. I couldn’t feel them moving but he disagreed. I totally didn’t believe him so I asked the girls to take his spot and see if Daddy was just being a little bitch. Apparently, in that instant, he wasn’t because the girls both said they were still twitching. I watched my pretty little toes and they didn’t look like they were moving at all but after three test trials, I admitted defeat.

Thanks to my wonderful husband, my girls are now footophobes. I’ve had to live with the fallout from his foot-loving deception for years. I’ve found a way to ease my troubled mind, though. He’s always the first to fall asleep. So, every night after he falls asleep, I turn off the lights and wait. Like a predator. Once he’s fallen into a deep sleep, I stealthily sneak my toes towards him like a lion stalking it’s prey and touch his leg with my toes. Sometimes he wakes up and looks around all panicky-like but I’ve learned to tell when he’s going to wake up and quickly move my foot back and pretend to be in a deep, blissful sleep. When he doesn’t wake up I leave my toes on him for a minute and let the peace and happiness sink in. Either way, the sneaky grin of revenge is on my face as I fall asleep. Every. Single. Night.

~C-Dolly~

Tuesday Ramblings

“Getting to know you (me), Getting to know all about you (me)”

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Have you ever played 21 questions? By yourself? Me neither! So I googled 21 questions, and 21 questions to ask a guy you like popped up in the search bar. And I thought, “Let’s DO THIS!”

And no, I am most definitely NOT a guy.

  1. What are your personal goals? – Deep. This almost sounds like a job interview. I hope this isn’t a first date because I’d be taking an urgent phone call right about now that requested my presence elsewhere.
  2. What kind of childhood did you have? – Awesome! I feel like everyone wants you to say that your childhood is why you have to spend 3 days a week in therapy, but mine was great. We had rules, we had to work, and there was nothing scarier than an angry parent. It was very similar to running into the ass end of a bear during a trail run, but we all turned out fine. 
  3. What makes you insecure? – This question makes me insecure, so I will give the same answer I would expect from any man who was asked this. Insert ‘blank stare’ here.
  4. What do you expect from a love relationship? – Love?
  5. Do you want children? – Yes. I want two, which is super lucky since I happen to have two. It would have been super awkward if I had said I only wanted one.
  6. What do you find attractive in a woman? – Guys, I am going to give you a piece of advice, no matter how much you want to say, “me.” This is not the answer that women want. Strange, right? I would seriously choke on my water (not water) in a restaurant though if someone actually said this. I may even require the Heimlich. For ‘water’
  7. What expectations do you have for yourself? – To have the stamina to be able to finish this quiz, but things are not looking good so far. Are we really only on question #7?
  8. What are your professional goals? –  My professional goals mirror those a loveable group of guys from a trailer park in Canada. Freedom 45, baby! It used to be freedom 35, but just like Ricky, Bubbles and Julien, my plan didn’t really come to fruition and my sights have now been set on a more attainable??? decade. 
  9. What do you expect from your partner? – The same things I expect from myself.
  10. Who are your friends and family? – I have a select group of friends that are my family.
  11. What would you do if you had a million dollars? – Is this even a lot of money anymore? If I had a million dollars, I think I would try to triple it and fall victim to some shady business deal. What? You have a perfectly legal pyramid scheme that I can get in on the ground floor of? Sign me the fuck up!
  12. The worst thing you’ve done? – Justify my actions.
  13. Where would you like to move? – To a cabin on a lake in the middle of nowhere.
  14. How is being…? – Is this even a question? How is being what? No one likes trying to define existentialism. It stresses them out. Do yourself a favour and skip this question.
  15. Which is the result? – Again, this is a super weird question that I don’t even understand. I thought this would be more fun and include questions like, “What’s your favourite food to eat that everyone else finds disgusting?” Answer: lentil soup with cut up European Wieners and drizzle of mustard on the top to class it up. See? You know me better already. 
  16. If you could describe yourself with one word, what would it be? – Annoying
  17. What is your favourite food? – Finally a question that is so awesome that it needs to be broken down into categories. The Early Years – Spaghetti with meat sauce. This was the best meal ever, and my mom made the best meat sauce in the entire world (which at the time was pretty small, to be fair). It wasn’t until I was living on my own that I discovered that some people thought that meat sauce that came from a can was an adequate substitute. Gross. The Teen Years – chicken fingers and caesar salad. Adulthood – Anything that includes pickles. I have had pickle soup, put them on pizza and even drink the juice. My palette has obviously become quite refined.
  18. What is your favourite character from childhood? Batman and Papa Smurf
  19. What kind of animal do you love the most? – The ones that will give you kisses and let you go all Elmira on them including giving them raspberries on their tummies. 
  20. Would you rather go fishing or hiking? Hiking. Rough waters make me hurl.
  21. Are women equal to men? – This is a stupid question, and I choose to replace it with, “Are humans equal to pugs?” – No. Pugs are way cooler. Especially the black ones named Dolly. – C.U.NextTuesday, – R.Dolly
Tuesday Ramblings

Jekyll & Hyde

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My youngest daughter is allergic to puking. As a little girl, she would sit beside the toilet for hours holding in her puke. Trembling violently, head hanging over the toilet, crying, insisting that her back needed rubbing while valiantly holding everything inside. Whoever was on puke patrol would tell her that she’d feel sooooo much better if she’d just get it out of her body. She was a little trooper though, and there was no way she was giving in. We’d end up making a little nest on the bathroom floor with blankets and settling in for the long haul.

To this day, she shudders in horror whenever anyone mentions The Amazing Race. She’s been scarred for life because I happened to be sick with the flu when my husband was working night shift. We’d been watching The Amazing Race when I first became sick. I was in the bathroom, dying on the inside, and I called for Sarah to get me a cold cloth. Little did I know, the reason that I had to yell so loud for her to hear me was because she was huddled up on the couch, knees to her chest, plugging her ears so she couldn’t hear me being sick and rocking back and forth trying to find her happy place. She was only about 4 years old at the time. When I finally got her attention and again asked her for a cold cloth, I could hear her walking down the hallway so slowly that you’d think she was walking to her death while quietly sobbing. This little voice asked me where the cloths were. I said, “In my closet.” She stopped walking and waited a few seconds, sprinted past the washroom I was in, grabbed a facecloth and ran back past the washroom to the kitchen. I heard her running water to wet the cloth and then the whole “walking to her death” scene repeated. I heard her stop walking just before the washroom door and then the cloth came winging at the back of my head as she threw it around the corner in my direction and ran back to her perch on the couch.

My oldest daughter turned 19 and she invited us to go to the pub with her and her friends. At first, I was honored to be invited to an event that was usually reserved for friends. Honestly, I thought we must have the best Mother/Daughter relationship in the whole wide world!!! Then, I realized that Mamma didn’t raise no fool and she was most likely hoping we’d buy her dinner and drinks. When I asked her if I was correct, she smiled and said, “Well, maybe but I also want you there!” Mhmmmm. I can’t blame her for being so resourceful and ingenious. After all, she’s learned from the best. Her birthday is the day before Remembrance Day and it was also on a Tuesday so we pretty much had the place to ourselves. We had a great meal, my husband had a few drinks and Surprise!…we paid for her dinner and drinks. After dinner, the designated drivers brought everyone back to our house to hang out, play pool and have a few games of beer pong. Out came the Jager Bombs and drinks.

Rachelle’s best friend ended up being the first casualty and was throwing up in the bathroom before her boyfriend could rescue her. I walked in to check on her and he was rubbing her back and saying, “It’ll be okay” while taking selfies with his sick girlfriend. I’m not a psychic but I see blackmail in her future.

I went upstairs to get her water and when I walked back into the washroom, I almost fell over in shock. My puke-a-phobic daughter, who’d also had a couple of drinks, was in the washroom with the puker. Not only was she in the same room as her, but she was also putting her hair up to rescue it from the toilet water. She was tackling this mission with the flourish of a hair stylist on crack who is intent on creating a hair masterpiece. All while singing to whatever song was playing on the stereo at the top of her lungs, shaking her booty and smiling. What. In. The. Actual. Fuck.

It still amazes me what alcohol can do to lower someone else’s inhibitions (My husband and I already know what it does to mine but I just thought I was special.) I warned her to watch how much she drinks because if she was able to put up a puker’s hair with so much unbridled enthusiasm after having a couple of drinks, then there’s no limit to what she’ll find acceptable. – C.U.NextTuesday, C.Dolly