About 3 seconds....

.....in I realized the VHS copy of Dr. Doolittle 2 that we had picked up this past summer for Portia was in fact not very child-friendly after all. I may have just stumbled across one of the glaringly obvious drawbacks of garage sale purchases. On a sidenote....anyone need a VHS copy of Kaytel Video's "Lesbos"?

A "finger quotes" recap....

....of the weekend.

"We are so out of our league. I own pairs of underwear bigger than those girls shorts." Said to my co-worker upon getting our asses handed to us during a supposedly "non-competitive" volleyball tournament.

"Do you ever get tired of the sound of your own voice?" My friend Jenn, uppon hearing me recite the exact same speil, for the 11th time in a row, to a group of winners coming in the fron tdoor of the Superbowl party. Me, without hesitation:
"No."

"Oliver's gas smells like that of a million demons." A slightly incoherent, half asleep text to my brother after being awoken by a farting dog.

"Where were you this morning?"
"Um...work."
"What time did you go in at?"
"Seven. That's what time I start at now."
"Oh. You probably told me about this didn't you?"
Exchange between the Boy & I this morning which indicates we may need to improve our mad communication skillz.

"Take off your shirt!" A heckler at the Wiarton Willie festival. Unsure if this was directed at me, or my male co-worker.

Jay-Z just....

....released a beautfil song about his newborn daughter.

Way to make the rest of us no parents look lame and mediocre, buddy.

Here's the link if you want to hear it:

http://www.usmagazine.com/entertainment/news/hear-jay-zs-emotional-new-song-about-baby---featuring-blue-ivy-herself-201291

I texted my friend Jenn to tell her she should listen to it because.

Jenn: He sounds so soft, eh? He totally got me. Did it make you cry?
Me: No. because I don't have a heart. But it was still really sweet and made me jealous that some people are so talented. And mad that JR didn't compose a song when our daughter was born. He really dropped the ball on that one.

Sometimes it takes....

a full 24 hours for buyer's remorse to set in. I bought a yesterday. A shirt which I am now wearing. And god willing, I will be able to find the tags somewhere in the depths of my garbage can at home so I can return this hot mess of a shirt tonight.

I am so sick of.....

....Jessica Simpson striking this contrived pose.



Yeah, we get it. You're pregnant. Please stop cradling your belly like that.



Nobody stands that way. I know you are trying to act all casual, like you don't even notice what you are doing....FAIL.



Why can't she take a page of out Beyonce's pregnancy book and secretly give birth after only 7 days of being pregnant?

It's informal but....

...I wanted to wish all of you who read my blog a very Merry Christmas! In the spirit of the season, I was going to post a photo of my 1-year old daughter from her first official holiday photo shoot. The trouble is, in said photo, she is nude. And for some reason, it just seems wrong to share nude photos of her on the Internet when she will have plenty of time during her early twenties to make those mistakes on her own. (Unless, of course, she takes after her demure and bashful mother. Anyone who knows me, would know I would never do such a thing. And, let's just say if I ever did, I would make sure these photos were flattering and taken when I was skinny and cute....moving on....)

Instead, I sent out photos of my daughter's exposed bare bottom to everyone on my Christmas card mailing list. I'm sure she will thank me for that when she is older.

Anywho.....Merry Christmas!

Hairdresser molestation....

...and other awkward encounters.

Good title, huh?

Have you ever found a hairdresser that you loved so much you would put up with almost anything as long as he continued to work his magic?

Maybe my high threshold for inappropriate hairstylist behaviour stems from the fact that growing up, I had a very tumultuous relationship with my hair. And that is the only reason I can come up with for why I would have subjected myself to years of unrequited PDA's (see: middle of the day, in public, unwanted sexual groping) from Booty.

Booty (and yes, that was his real name) was a 50-something year old, 4'8 Lebanese man, with long shiny black curls, he kept tied back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. He always wore all-black. Black shoes, black dress pants, and a too tight black t-shirt. Booty wore large gold rings on both hands and also had a very long nail on his pinky finger. All the better to use for parting women's hair. And coke sniffing. But I'm not judging.

Who could judge such someone so gifted in the follicular arts?? (I just made that term up.) I had tried other stylists over the years, but Booty was the only one that could tame my tresses. It got to the point that even after I moved to Owen Sound I would book an appointment in Ottawa, when I knew I would be going home for a weekend, just so he could do my hair. Essentially I would be making a 14-hour round trip to have a permanent straightening treatment, a cut, a colour and a dash of breast grabbing thrown in for good measure.

On most visits to his salon, I would wait nervously in the front lobby. When Booty was ready for me, he would come swopping out of the back room and put his arms around me, or plant a kiss on my cheek. At first I liked it. he made me feel like a celebrity, or a supermodel. As he styled my hair, he would stop mid-blow dry to scream in English at one of his minions (the other stylists) or to bark a comman in Lebanese at the receptionist). he would then turn back to me, smile, and softly ask me something about my love life or my job. Sometimes he would stand in front of me, his face inches from mine and whisper "You are so beautiful." Sometimes he would kiss my cheek again. Sometimes he would stare into my eyes and then wink, as if we had somehow just shared a "moment". And then there were other times when he would "accidentally" grab my boob while removing the protective cape I wore during treatments. Othertimes he would push his body up against mine as he blowdried me straight. All of this I put up with because, frankly, this little Lebanese hair fairy was magical. I would smile through it all, and laugh and chucle and gently push his hands away while playfully dodging his advances. Some might call me a tease. But those of you who know the value of a good hairstylist will understand. I don't know the monetary worth of my dignity, but I was willing to pay it, in order to have pretty hair.

I finally had to break things off with Booty when he invited me, along with his 20-something year old son, to spend a week with them in Miami. I promised I would go, and we talked about how fun it would be. And then I paid my bill and left. I knew I would never be able to go back to Booty and his verbally abused employees again. A line had been crossed. The innapropriate sexual advances, the innuendo, the subtle gropings, I could all handle. But after that it just became too hard to face him.

I have tried many hair stylists and many salons since my years with Booty. My hair has never been the same either. However, the moral of this story is, what I lack in stylish hair, I now make up for in self-worth. Some days.