I love that liquor is so cheap in America

This July marked my in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary. The fact they have managed to hang in there for that long together without ever once having yellow police tape surrounding their house is impressive to me.

They decided to celebrate by having the whole family join them on their dream holiday.

To the Mall of America.

I’ve only been married for sixteen years, but if by some miracle we manage to make it to the 50 year mark, Minnesota is probably not going to be our celebratory destination of choice.

Nothing against Minnesotaians; they are our American doppelgangers who know exactly why we have a plug dangling out of the front of our cars and have transitioned ‘eh’ into the popular lexicon in the way god intended.

But the Mall of America? For the golden annivesary? After 50 years of marriage you’d think my in-laws would want to up their game a little.

However, I figure an anniversary of that magnitude buys the right to boss everyone around so I just rolled with the punches.

The punches being a 14-hour drive with three children.

Here is the problem - my husband has five siblings and NONE of them have small children. They either have teenagers, young adults or no children at all. So when they plan group events they don’t take into consideration stuff like asking our kids to sit next to each other quietly for the entire waking day is kinda like asking Hamas to lead the campfire sing-a-long at Hebrew camp.

I addressed this situation by buying enough candy to lull them into a diabetic coma and purchasing so much liquor at the duty-free store I was able to build a booze tower between the kids so impressive they couldn’t see or touch each other for the majority of the trip.

And all that liquor came in handy as a week with the extended family was a pretty tall order. Some of the highlights:

- My brother-in-law telling racist and homophobic jokes in public places to the horror of servers and patrons alike. I started writing little notes on slips of paper I could pass to random strangers that read, “I have nothing to do with this guy – I just married into this family and am being held hostage by tradition and obligation to my mother-in-law. She’s actually pretty nice. She makes cabbage rolls and plays the pan flute”

- Staying in a hotel that served gravy for breakfast and smelled like chlorine and old lady.

- My father-in-law barking at my 70 year-old MIL after she fell on the steps coming into the hotel - “If you think you need to go to the hospital, get in the car and drive straight to Canada”. Which, by the way, is a six hour drive from Minneapolis. NICE. You’d think someone THAT cheap would have sprung for travel insurance.

- Paying $9.00 for a slurpee at Valley Fair

Alright, it wasn’t all bad. We did get to meet up with my BFF from Winnipeg who just so happened to be passing through. We had lunch at a Burger King attached to gas station in some small town I can't remember the name of now. I had a Whopper Jr. with cheese.

And I discovered I'm not too fat to ride a roller coaster. That was good news.

But not even ONE time did we run into Prince. I spent all that time practicing my interpretive dance version of 'Raspberry Beret' for nothing.

If it’s another shitty winter I might just be in line for a Pulitzer.

So, I took the summer off from blogging. There are a few reasons for that.

First of all, it was SUMMER. Living in a frozen arctic tundra such as mine, I feel obligated to spend the lousy three months of warm weather we get a year outside and NOT in front of a screen (unless it's to watch the new season of Big Brother, but even then I usually just record it to watch when it's raining out. This was kind of a boring season, don’t you think? I hated all those fucking people). Plus, I’m a lot happier in the summer. We’ve been hanging out at the lake, barbequing some steaks, drinking some beers, having a few parties on the deck...you know….FUN stuff.

As it turns out, carefree happiness doesn’t breed good writing material. I have had no motivation whatsoever to blog about a goddamn thing.

This morning I woke up and it was so cold in my house I had to turn my furnace on.

And it really pissed me off.

Random Tuesday - the one where I torture my husband with memories of the slammer, old boyfriends and tales of fantasy dogs.

My teenage daughter got her eyebrow pierced while she was away for a week in Ottawa/Montreal with her school choir last month. Apparently the legal age for drilling holes in your face is only sixteen in Ontario. You know, I think it actually looks kind of cute. At least until the infection sets in and half her face rots off.

Note to skinny girls everywhere who are lurking behind me while I’m weighing myself at the gym – “OMG I just have to say that you TOTALLY don’t look like you weigh that much!!” is not actually a compliment. Thanks anyway though.

The Hubby just got a full-time teaching contract for next fall! Yay!! Employment and regular pay cheques are magnificent. I wonder if the bill collector lady misses me yet.

My husband refuses to accept my ‘confirm you are married to FoN’ request on facebook. He thinks that if people he works with see my profile his career will be over. So, he basically is refusing to marry me. Real nice, huh? I need to figure out a way to publish my blog url in his school newsletter. Holy crap, he would be SO mad at me! Even madder than the time he was arrested while driving my car because the plates turned up over $400 of unpaid parking tickets. Trust me, he was SUPER pissed about that one.

But holy crap was it funny.

Speaking of facebook, here is an interesting experiment.....go through all of your facebook friends and see how many of them you’ve made out with at one point or another. I have made out with at least four, and possibly six of my ‘facebook’ friends. Respectable, but not overly whorish considering I have about 150 'friends'. I honestly can’t confirm or deny the other two – cheap wine coolers have a way of obscuring accurate memory details. Four for sure though.

I’ve been thinking lately that I really want to get a dog. I know they are expensive, messy, time consuming and all around a giant pain in the ass, but I want one anyway. Besides, MY dog will be super friendly, non-shedding, non-jumping, wonderfully socialized and perfectly behaved at all times. He will also love kids, only bark at the bad people and clean up his own poop. So it will be fine.

That’s as random as I’m ever going to get, so now go see Keely and peruse the other indiscriminate bloggers of Tuesday.

Git.

We're back! And alive! And wondering if your Baba needs a job.

Lena and I made it back in one piece from our little adventure west to visit Politica in British Columbia! It was a fabulous trip and Politica was a wonderful and gracious hostess that made sure I had all the comforts of home at my finger tips.

This, as luck would have it, meant the use of her full-time nanny.

At first I was a little skeptical about the whole nanny situation. I mean, really. How weird is it to have some woman come to your house to babysit your children? To have a whole other person show up at your house everyday and cook in your kitchen, and play with your kids, and fold the socks and shit like that? While I’m away at work? No thank you.

I would always come home assuming Rebecca DeMorney was going to turn up and bash me over the head with a shovel, seduce my husband and make my children call her mommy.

Then all of a sudden my house is clean, my husband is pluggin’ Rebecca DeMorney and my kids are all excited to tell their friends their mom is the hooker from Risky Business.

And me? I’ll be dead with a shovel stuck in my skull. No WAY am I going for that.

To make matters worse, it turns out Politica’s nanny is actually a blonde, leggy, 19 year-old girl with big blue eyes who smells like cinnamon heart candies and leaves a trail of sparkly pixie dust behind her everywhere she goes.

The minute I saw her I shot Politica the, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look, but she didn’t even notice. She happily handed her little ones to Nanny and began her day quietly and immediately.

Hmm.

No crying, whining, or fighting about why you can’t wear your bathing suit to daycare?

No UN style- negotiation on what to pack for a snack or lunch?

No commute through five lanes of traffic trying to maneuver around that one asshole who stalled his shitty 1986 bitchin’ Camero right in the middle of the ONLY street that will get you to your destination?

That you’re already late for anyway because of all the shit that just happened while you were trying to get everyone ready and out the door by 7:00 am in the morning?

How about that. Maybe this nanny thing isn’t such a bad idea after all. I could totally see me getting used to it.

Although I would get a really ugly and fat one that smells like cabbage and doesn’t shave her legs.

Later Gaters

Hey Everybody! Lena and I are checkin' out for a few days to go hang with Politica and her Homies in beautiful North Delta, British Columbia.

North Delta is one of the burbs of Vancouver. Kind of near Richmond. Hey...... that is where Captain Dumbass lives! I wonder if I'll see him? There are only about two million people in Vancouver and surrounding area.......and I'm there for six days.......and I have no idea what he looks like.

Hmmm.

I'll just ask all the cute, dark-haired little boys I see if their dad is Captain Dumbass.

Yeah, that should work.

Hmmm.

Maybe not.

I am the new, thin, totally awesome and solidly heterosexual head of the Games Committee.

I may have been slightly misguided about the whole PTA thing. You know what they say when you assume, right? Quit being an asshole. It turns out the little army of PTA-ers weren't nearly as bad as I thought they were going to be. I think this whole parent council thing might just be okay. There were a few noteworthy events I hadn’t counted on:

1. There were two dads there. Yes, MEN are on this committee. Again, proving I’m kind of an asshole, I assumed that all the men in my neighbourhood kept their extra-curricular responsibilities to waxing the car, barbecuing meat and dicking around with the underground sprinklers. I was wrong; the dudes are totally representing. I’m pretty sure these guys are on the down low, but that just makes me love them more.

2. This committee gets to boss around the principal and they all totally love it. I’m not exactly sure what the back-story is on this one, but the principal is all ‘yes ma’am, right away ma’am’ with this group of parents. What ever the situation that created this dynamic, I’m ALL the way in. Considering this is the bitch that told me she didn’t think we needed to worry about Jake learning to write, having the power to make her dance whenever I want will be spectacular.

3. Ready for the best one?! The two women running this parent council? The president and the vice-president who are clearly the leaders of the group? They are both SUPER fat (I’m not saying that to be bitchy – I can call other people fat because I’m fat. That rule has already been clearly established by blacks and gays). And these women are the best kind of fat, which is fatter than ME. Now all I have to do is make sure I’m standing between them in the newsletter photo.

It turns out sitting on this committee won’t be that bad after all. Bitchy fat women and closeted gay dudes are totally my peeps.

Fat Chick Update

I am sure that at least one or two of you have noticed I haven’t been providing Fat Chick updates lately.

Guess why?

Because I have lost all of my excess weight and I am now a svelte 125lbs. Food is no longer an issue for me, and my favorite meal is steamed white fish with a side of broccoli. I have learned to just LOVE the gym, and I go there so often that all the staff yell “FoN!” when I walk in the door. I always respond with some witty gym banter like, “Mornin’ folks! Is that a bosu ball you have there, or are you just happy to see me?”

In fact, I’ve quit my job and am going back to school to become a personal trainer, just like all the former fatties from the Biggest Loser.

Then I’m going to get famous and design handbags.

Because as far as I can tell anyone that is famous without having any specific talent at some point designs handbags.

The end.

Okay, everything included in the above might not be entirely accurate, but I wanted to live in that fantasy world for a few moments.

I’m still fat. I haven’t lost a single pound since fall.

I suck.

I have started seeing Trainer Lady again though. She seems to not give up on me, so that’s nice. The fact I pay her probably doesn’t hurt either though.

I love going to see Trainer Lady. She trains me without judgment, and for someone like her I would imagine that to be difficult. This is best demonstrated by the fact she’s in Las Vegas this week and told me at our last session she was mostly excited about going to Vegas to workout because she loves working out on vacation.

She and I don’t really have much in common.

And that’s probably a good thing. If it was up to me we’d blow off that whole exercise thing each week and go for beers and nachos.

The only problem I do have working out with Trainer Lady is that I totally SUCK at pretty much everything she asks me to do. I have no strength, I get winded after 30 seconds and I have the balance of a toddler.

I’m not really one of these people that needs to be good at everything - I suck at tons of stuff and I’m pretty much okay with it.

I can’t parallel park to save my life.

The best round of golf I shot ever was a 75. For nine holes.

It took me an hour and a half to ski down a 20 minute run while on vacation in February.

People know these things about me, and it’s all just fine.

The problem with Trainer Lady is that she ONLY sees me when I’m sucking at something. She doesn’t know me as anything other than the chick who she trains that sucks at everything.

But I’m good at stuff, Trainer Lady!

I would kick all y’all’s ASS at Donkey Kong (the Colecovision version circa 1985).

I can sing the entire harmony part to Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Trouble Water.

I almost always win at rock, paper, scissors. BAM! How to do you like me NOW? That’s what I thought.

It’s okay if she doesn’t immediately recognize my mad skills.

I'm a ninja.

A chubby ninja with no balance and limited cardiovascular ability.

I am going to keep going to Trainer Lady. And try this whole business AGAIN.

How else will I be able to eventually realize my dream of becoming famous hand-bag designer?

Exactly.