Labour Day morning. Contentedly lying in bed. I look over and see David reading. He smiles. I yawn, asking him what time it is. He glances over at the clock. “It’s… seven… fifty…. nope. It’s Eight o’clock.” “Boo Yeah!” I’ve managed to sleep in. We just got back from a trip overseas and have been…
“All right. Are we doing this?” I ask, hopping up from my yoga mat. “Now?” replies David, looking up from his laptop. He’s in the midst of programming a new script app. “Now,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Now, it is.” He shoots me a broad grin. I race him up the stairs. My clothes…
When we moved into our house 7 years ago, there wasn’t a master bedroom closet. Oh, there had been a closet, but it’d been situated in the room such that it blocked all the light from one of the two existing windows. So we’d ripped out that illumination obliterating monstrosity. In its place…? There was…
“MOTHERFUCKER!” I exclaim vehemently (and quietly – because I’m in the backyard and our adjacent neighbours have kids and I don’t want them to start randomly yelling MOTHERFUCKER, and then attributing it to the middle-aged, crazy woman whose backyard abuts theirs.) “What?” asks David, looking up from his computer programming on the outdoor sofa “This,”…
Our weekly pancakes aren’t going entirely to plan. We don’t have buttermilk on hand, and none of us feel like masking up and braving the No Frills to get it. Granny’s recipe is always better with buttermilk. “Can’t we just use regular milk?” asks Rissa. “How about we sour the milk. It only takes…” I…
It’s the cannabis fudge. That’s why we’re laughing. (Also, this may have been the first time in his life that David has ever truly been high, because I gave him just a titch more fudge than I ingested – you know, because he’s taller and slightly heavier than I am.) We’re laughing so hard that…
I swear I was not being intentionally disrespectful. I just couldn’t take it any more. Earlier in the day: “Hoorah! I have received my shipment of Humpback Posture Correctors!!” (There’s a sentence every woman wants to utter.) It’s been a process folks. After having purchased 6 different styles of posture correctors – each of which…
David sucks at stopping conversations. When he has the opportunity to make a declarative statement that will allow him to be able to walk away? He can’t do it. Thursday, March 12, right before it was announced that schools would be closed and the shit had yet to actually hit the fan, David was antsy…
“Do you think we can take tasteful pictures of my breasts?” David perks up. “Most certainly.” “For public consumption?” “Pardon?” “You know, for my blog…” “Ummmmm…” His mouth opens and closes. “Don’t get me wrong. I am ALL for your breasts being on display. But… why do you want to have tasteful breast pictures on…
“Don’t shave them DRY!!” I gasp, horrified. “Ah, but my pits are youthful, Mama…” “Oh, I get it, and my pits are elderly, decrepit, crabby pits?” She shrugs and shaves her own dry armpits. “You’ve got to watch out for them though,” I say. “The hair in the elderly, decrepit, crabby pits is so strong…