Am Not Dead

I am pretty sure this trip to Mexico is going to kill me.  Before I even get to the airport.

I have had a nervous breakdown in a Walmart dressing room over the size of my ass and how much cleavage is too much for a trip taken with colleagues from work.

I could not find a dress at Old Navy that didn't hang like a muu muu off me.

I thought my arm was going to fall off after the first Twinrix shot.

I am having a crisis over which bags to take and which to leave home.  They all want to go to Mexico and I think only two or three will be making the journey.

I have been told so many diarrhea stories that I am already taking Imodium.

Travel Companion A turned out to be a total ass hat of a boyfriend.  Travel Companion B said if I could not find someone of the male and available persuasion to go, she would.  Travel Companion C was a douche bag about coughing up a copy of his passport, taking days off, and cost me my entire budget for resort wear hundreds of dollars because he did not answer an email.  Travel Companion B then had a family crisis that involves funeral plans.  Travel companion D is happier than a pig in shit to be going.

Travel Companion A, no I will not have hate sex with you and you can go hump an ant hill.

Travel Companion B, stay strong girl.  Be brave.  Chin high, shoulders back, heels in the best pair of stiletto's you have.

Travel Companion C, you are not the only ride in the amusement park.  Your loss.  Again.

Travel Companion D, let's rawk.

Ya, so there's that.

Now, if you know me, you know my skin is pale.  The kind of pale that is only one shade darker than albino.  And when one is off to Mexico but is currently residing in the North Pole, one must "pre-tan."  Sounds simple enough, right?  I have been tanning before, I own ceramic protective eye wear, and I know how to nude up in less than two minutes.  Yes, this is important information for all of you who do not tan and keep in mind, I was naked for what I am about to describe to you.  OK, just the tanning bed part.  Things can get pretty sexy at The Office, but we keep it G-rated.  Who am I kidding, it is all NC-17 in that place.

The lovely Della, Queen of the Countdown to Mexico, and I have been tanning buddies for a couple of weeks now.  Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I have a date with Della at 12:30 to go get microwaved.  Last Friday was particularly stressful as I had to empty my savings account onto my credit card to pay for Travel Companion C's cluster fuck bullshit game playing (ya, I said it and I meant it).  It was exacerbated by Judy The Travel Agent when she called to say the credit card number I had given her was invalid.  Big sighs of relief when it was discovered she had transposed the last two numbers.  BIG SIGHS.  I have never been so close to needing to jump half the people I work with for their antidepressants.

The lunch date tanning session was supposed to relieve all these frustrations.  On a regular day it would.  Not on this day and not in tanning room three.  I did the typical flight of the bumble bee to nude up, goggle up, and jump in the bed.  As I lay there na-na'ing with Rhianna, I heard some creaking from above me.  I was mindful of it but did not pay much attention as I was more concerned with finding the optimum tanning position and Drake's "uuuuuuhh".

I should have paid attention.

At about the seven minute mark, the Plexiglas from the top side of the tanning bed came crashing down on me.  Yes, it was no longer part of the tanning bed and I was nakedly sandwiched between it and the rest of the bed, having a near death experience and totally freaking out leaving me to quickly ponder my future.  Why?  There are speakers attached to that tanning bed.  Speakers that have electricity flowing through them and they are about to kill me.

I cannot remember all of what went through my mind at that moment but it was all prefaced with "I am naked, I am not a size two, I cannot scream for help.  I am uber fucked."  I managed to slide and then push and fall my way out from under the Plexiglas and onto the floor of the tanning room.  By this time, I was nakedly crawling about the room with my eyes squished shut (protective eye wear seems to be the first thing to fail you in a tanning crisis), feeling my way around to the stop button, not so conveniently located in the back of the bed.  When I opened my eyes, I was relieved to find that the speakers on the Plexiglas are actually just covers and the speakers are actually hard wired into the top of the bed.

Big sighs.

Am not dead.

Am naked on my hands and knees, with my ass up in the are like I am worshipping some tanning god.

Are we there yet?

PS:
To the The Office Goddess... thank you for being you.  Thank you for having shoulders to cry on, hugs that make the pain go away, and boobies to rub up against.

So I'm Really Doing This Thing

My passport came today.

Actually, it came yesterday but no one was around to sign for it so it got sent to the local post office that is renowned for being complete fascists when it comes to releasing registered mail and packages.  It is so bad, I have my online purchases sent to The Office because once it is in the firm clutches of those crazy ladies at the post office, you have to produce DNA and character references to get it back.

I was shaking so bad when I signed for it.  Of course, I had to sign one of those electronic pads that morphs your signature into hieroglyphics.  I hesitated.  Totally expected crazy lady to take the package back and tell me "No Mexico for you!"

Once I had liberated my mail from Canada Post, I stood at the counter at the post office and tore the package open.  Even though I went over my passport application a bazillion times and had others check it for completeness, I was certain it would get sent back and I would be told by some faceless government mucky muck that I suck at filling out applications and to try again.

I opened the package slowly.  Ohmigawd its not in here.  Ohmigawd.  Ohmiwait... that looks like the pages of a passport.  Ohmigawd.  It is here.  Ohmigawd keep your shit together girl and get outta here.

I buried my head into my chest and bolted out of there, stopping briefly at the ice cream cooler (there was a ledge there for me to put my bag on... I wasn't even thinking of the Haagen Dazs) to check and see if the government sent back my I.D. I had to very reluctantly sent to them because if they had not sent it back, some poor bastard on some customer service email account was going to get a snot-a-gram, the likes of which have never been read or felt.  O.C.D. makes you twitchy sometimes.  This was a sometimes.

The I.D. was there.  And the passport was still there too.  Keys and phone in the right pockets?  Yes.  Good, we can go now.  Effing O.C.D. kicks my ass all the time when it comes to things like this.

At home.  Sofa.  Dump work bag out looking for package with passport in it.  Inwardly remark that my passport photo looks like a proper mug shot of a lesbian with bad hair and how nobody is going to let me in their country when they compare that with the live and in person me.

Then it hit me.  I can go anywhere.  That thought alone made me weepy.  It was bittersweet.  All that time all those years ago Captain Celery told me I needed a passport, that it immediately opened the world up... I get it now.  You were right and I understand it now.  Sorry I doubted you.

Little secret, just between you and I.  I am a kid from the ghetto who only ever dreamed of going to other parts in the world.  When I was growing up, we were lucky enough to be able to afford the gas for the thirteen hour drive to my grandparents' place every summer.  I travelled a bit in Canada as an adult but never needed a passport.  Never thought I would.  Machu Pichu, India, Nepal, Tibet, Italy, Greece, NYC, Scotland, Ireland, and the Louvre in Paris had always been places I read about but had always seemed so far out of my reach.

Now I can go there.

Bittersweet.

Oh you may think I'm a fool for saying it out loud and that is okay.  You may have held a passport for years and think I'm just being a ridiculous, sentimental fool.  Perhaps I am.  But think of what that little twenty four page book does for you, especially if you are Canadian.

You can go anywhere.

I can go anywhere.

All those places that I have read about and have dreamt about suddenly got a whole lot closer.

More Fave Things

Avon has come a long way in the last few years.  One thing I love love love from them is their Liquid Freeze Quick Dry Spray.  If you are anything like me, I do not have the patience to sit and let my nails dry.  Also, when that final coat goes on, my bladder decides it is pee pee time.  Or the phone rings.  Or I get an itch on my foot but it is on the arch of my foot,  not quite at the bottom of the arch but definitely not something you can scratch without your nails.  I know you know.  The price point on this stuff is tres reasonable.

My love affair with Pampered Chef continues.  Their crinkle cutter is worth paying for.  Yes, that is code for I probably paid too much but I had to have it.

Not only do you get a great ripple cut on carrots or potatoes or any other vegetable for that matter, you can channel your inner Nigella when chopping herbs:

My new winter boots... Makayla's from Payless Shoes.  I don't live in Ms. Paltrow's world so her latest edition of Goop is pretty to look at but not what I'll be wearing this season.

 
Again, Images and Shades in Edmonton is amazing.  The essie brand of nail polish is my go to brand.  Images retails this stuff for about half the price of Shopper's Drug Mart other retailers.  Below are Rock Candy and Angora Cardi.

I love coffee.

I require coffee in the morning like you need air to breathe.

I am, without question, Team Tim Horton's.  I also was Team I Need A Travel Mug That Is Hard Plastic, Slender, And Has A Leak Proof Lid.  This was an ongoing issue for me until I cheated on Timmy's the other day and went to Starbucks.

I really had no choice.  That is where the driver was of the car I was in was going.

She is not Team Tim's.  She is Team I Want To Be Separated From My Hard Earned Money By Paying For Overpriced Shitty Burnt Coffee.

I entered Starbucks and my search was over.  I found this pretty mug, hard plastic (it is winter here kids), complete with leak proof lid.  I have put it in my lululemon bag, almost full, and never had it leak.  Of course, it was also standing upright and not swimming around on its side, co-mingling with my wallet and lunch.

The price you ask?  Well, I am not sure.  The kid working the till was a useless tit (shhhhh I am being nice) and fucked up every order that was taken before me so it should come as no surprise that he did not charge me for it.  Who knew a soy latte was so difficult?  Starbucks really has to work on training their people to deal with the 2:00 coffee rush.  Sooooo by the time I got to the till, I was well on my way to stabbing my eyes out.  The kid took the mug from me, TOOK THE HOW TO CARE FOR YOUR MUG INSERT OUT OF THE MUG, filled it with regular coffee, got my my chocolaty goodness treat from the display cabinet, and charged me $3.83.

Now, if the Dalai Lama, Jesus, and Allah had been standing behind me, I would pre-paid their order and would have corrected this creature who was stripping the life off me.  But they were not behind me and the kid had to know the mug was new because he TOOK THE HOW TO CARE FOR YOUR MUG INSERT OUT OF THE MUG and put it on the counter.  He even took the sale price sticker off the bottom of the mug and affixed it on the how to care for your mug insert before he filled it.

Am justified.

Am loving my mug.