You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'Giggles' category.
Dear Booty,
I’m writing to apologize in advance for what I’m about to put you through.
As you know, you and I will soon travel to the land of vino e formaggio, where pasta is an appetizer in a long line of courses and gelato is as readily available as air. Not to mention our short stop in Guinness and Fish & Chips territory as well as a week-long stay on churros, tortilla de patatas and paella soil. I think you know what I’m leading to. Do you remember what my sister said when I told her that I might come home from this trip 10 pounds heavier? Her reply was “I certainly hope so, otherwise it means you did it all wrong“. You heard her, ass… she makes a valid point. What I’m trying to say is that March may be a month-long gastronomic adventure, which will, without a doubt, have an effect on your gluteal girth.
But I wouldn’t want to shock you into rapid expansion, so I feel we must prepare for this journey. Kinda like how people get a base tan before going to the tropics in the middle of winter. Or how climbers spend a couple weeks at base camp on Everest to acclimatize to the altitude. I’m thinking we need a base ass. Luckily, you’re already sporting your winter “coat” so we’re halfway there. Now we just have to prepare you mentally for the training in licentiousness you are about to receive.
If it is any consolation, I’ll drink wine to help you forget what life used to be like when you were a happy firm bum and not a badunkadunk butt – the booty that makes 2 moves. 1st, badunk (up) and 2nd, adunk (down) (not my definition, it’s from the urban dictionary).
The worst, of course, is yet to come — when we return home and have to reverse the damage. When I’ll have to whip you back into shape, walk, run, lunge, squat you… until you can fit back into those jeans. I’m telling you, take one last hard look at them jeans because they will soon become the skinny jeans you aspire to fit into.
But in the meantime, let’s wear the loose twirly skirts and eat all the gelato we want.
I’ll see you on the flip side.
Sincerely,
Jeanine
***
Thank you for all your lovely comments to Saturday’s post. It warmed my heart. Turns out, it was one of the best V days ever, thanks to a little help from my friends and sisters.
Also, aside from learning the true meaning of gluteus maximus, there is much to do in preparation for this trip so I will be quiet in these parts over the next couple weeks. I’ll be sure to pop in and pepper the page with quotes and I’ll definitely post before leaving. But otherwise, don’t be surprised if you see tumbleweeds dancing across the screen and hear a dusty desert wind blowing through.
When I woke up Sunday morning, there was a pig on my pillow with a very stern look on his face. For all the charm Wilbur exudes, he’s also quite capable of getting his point across, and by the way he was staring me down, I knew he meant business.
Me: Good morning, Willy.
W: Don’t you good morning Willy me, Little Miss Blah. It’s intervention time. I know I’m a pig and all but this place is worse than a sty. That thing in the closet with a long handle and bristles isn’t purely decorative. It serves a function and that is to sweep dust bunnies, which, in case you haven’t noticed, are hanging out in every corner of this house and they’ve been inviting friends.
Me: Am I in the twilight zone? Because it seems there’s a pig lecturing me on the virtues of cleanliness on a Sunday morning, before I’ve even had a chance to wipe the sleep from my eyes.
W: You better believe it. I can’t live like this anymore. There’s 3-day-old jam on the counter and a grimy ring in the bathtub. What kind of place are you running here? Un hotel para cucarachas?
Me: This coming from an ungulate who rolls around in mud with glee.
W: You should know that pigs are generally clean animals and you’d roll around in mud too if you didn’t have sweat glands and needed to regulate your own body temperature. Besides, we’re not talking about mud here, we are talking about the fact that even my hog cousins in the country would judge you for being so messy.
Me: Ah, come on Wil, it ain’t that bad.
W: Oh really! Perhaps we should let your readers decide for themselves. Readers. Check it!
W: I’m quite aware of the irony of me standing under a web but I can assure you, I am not chillin’ with Charlotte here. I am merely pointing out the laisser faire attitude that has taken over my roommate as of late.
Me: I saved you from the slaughterhouse, from the land of bacon and porkchops, and this is how you treat me? No respect.
W: It’s my tough lovin’ technique. You and I both know that a cluttered space = a cluttered mind. You’ll thank me later.
So that’s what I did, first thing Sunday morning. I got out of bed and cleaned the place real good. We’re talking about washing floors, cleaning out the fridge, re-organizing kitchen cupboards and bedroom drawers. Le gros ménage, quoi. I must admit that it not only feels good to have a clean apartment, it felt good to snap out of it, to take control of the reigns again.
After cleaning, I was all jazzed to tackle the good old to do list, but Wil and his gnomie had other plans for me. They decided they wanted me to chauffeur them around the city. They’d been cooped up long enough and needed some fresh air. It was, indeed, a gorgeous sunny Sunday and the camera was moaning and mumbling something about feeling rather useless and abandoned as of late. So I packed up all the kids and headed to Mount Royal Park where I strolled around for hours. Oh! The fun we had.
W: Dude, what is she doing? I’m freezing my little testes off here.
G: I hate to break it to you, but I don’t thing your particular model came with testicles.
P Positive and Jolly G going door to door, doing a little veggie bacon solicitation.
Always up to no good these two. Monkey business, as usual. The great thing about their size is they get to explore miniature worlds. And I am a big fan of the small stuff so I follow along as far as my size permits then relish in the tales of their adventures.
Leave it to Wilbur and his gnomie to pull me out of my funk. Turns out, a pig, a gnome, a sunny day and a photo foray do wonders for this girl.
Let it be known that I have “live” friends with whom I spend much time having “real” conversations. But sometimes, you need to step out of reality for awhile and saunter through the world of imagination where anything is possible. Where you can carry a little plastic pig and his buddy in your pocket and convince yourself that you can hear them whispering to each other. Sometimes, it’s that playfulness that awakens the creativity within. The letting go of preconceived notions, of what people think of you when you are knee deep in mud taking photos of a toy pig.
And for the record… my apartment may be spotless but I left the cobweb by the window. I left it… because who’s to say Charlotte doesn’t live there?
Lately, the only thing keeping my blood pumping through these tired veins is espresso and music. Seems I’ve caught a case of the February blahs. Not to be confused with the blues. I’m not sad or depressed or morose. I’m not hopeless with a bleak outlook on life. I’m just blah. Desaturated. Dim. Flat.
At this particular moment in time, if I were a scent, I’d be tap water. If I were a taste, I would be iceberg lettuce or bread, toasted dry with nothing on it (not even a suggestion of burnt). If I were a paint chip, I’d be boring beige, hospital green or cubicle gray. If I were a sound, I would be meh or one of those long sad dog sighs. If I were a number, I’d be the square root of zero. A letter? B. For blah, bland, bored, banal. A month? This one. Except that I would officially rename February to Feblahry. A day? Tuesday. Tuesdays are useless days. Mondays at least suck. Wednesday is the midpoint, Thursday, the night before Friday, Friday is the beginning of the weekend, Saturday is the best and Sunday is rest (that came across as awful 3rd grade poetry but this is what happens in Feblahry – the brain, she stops functioning). If I were a shape, I’d be a blob. If I were a DJ, I’d be DJ Drab. A crayon – the ugliest crayon in the box. That unsightly skin colored one that nobody uses. Peach renamed from Flesh, I believe. Urk. Flesh. Who names a crayon flesh? I hate that word.
Um! You get the point, right? I’m blaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
Given the choice between doing something or nothing, I would rather choose the latter. Even those things that usually bring me so much joy are lukewarm these days. They have lost their shine, their luster, leur goût. Mainly because they take too much effort. Can’t I just stay home, watch bad tv and eat popcorn all day or read photography magazines and travel guides to Italy in a steaming bath until I get prune fingers and wrinkled toes? I would be happy just lying on the couch with my feet up on the hot radiator, daydreaming for hours on end.
So if you see me with a blank look on my face, please move along. I’ve gone to the happy places in my head and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. It’s healthy, I think. At least, far better than shouting from the rooftop “F-off Feb funk and the dark horse you came riding in on.“
What do you do to fight the blahs?
