The Diaries of a Fat Chick

So life’s been a little crazy lately.  So much so that the other night when Ben finally made it home after being at work for, oh I don’t know, 15 hours or so, and crawled wearily into bed beside me I rolled over and said sleepily, “Ben?  Is that you honey?” 

To which my beloved replied, “You were expecting someone else?”

Between my 12 hour shifts and seven days a week schedule and Ben’s in general busy schedule we haven’t had much time to spend together.  And when we do manage to both collapse on the couch in the living room at the same time, one or both of us is wrestling a hyper-active chihuahua into submission while he merrily chews a hole in our ottoman.  (In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best time to get a puppy, but who the hell knew I’d be working this many hours for the past month and a half?)  Or we’re just too tired to talk.

TOO TIRED TO TALK.  Can you believe it?  I am also too weary to (in no particular order):

• write blog posts
• clean my bathroom
• wash floors
• vacuum
• visit with friends
• trim my cat’s toe nails
• shave my legs
• dust
• clean my fridge

You’ll note that most of these items are related to general housekeeping.  You can imagine exactly how my house looks right now; we’re not condemned yet but we’re about one candy wrapper away from it.  I was talking to the mumsi entity the other night and invited her to come over for an evening of re-organization and house cleaning.  She was more than up to the challenge, unfortunately a little thing called, living in Colorado, made it impractical.

In conclusion, with the whole working insane hours, too tired to talk and not actually seeing that much of Ben, when he mentioned in casual conversation a few weeks ago that he had an opportunity to go on a mission trip to South Africa, I nodded distractedly and said we’d talk about it later.

And then, due to seat sales, he suddenly had two days to decide whether he was going or not.  We made plans for an emergency sushi date on the Friday night and over the most delicious sushi in the entire universe we came up with a pros and cons list.

Ben:  Well, money is definitely a con.  Can we really afford for me to go to South Africa?

Me:  Are you kidding?  With the overtime I’ve been pulling in lately, we could buy South Africa.

Ben:  Well, it still doesn’t seem right to use that money to go to South Africa.  You earned that money, you should use it for something you want to do.

 Me:  Oh for the love of … listen, the only thing I need to do with the overtime money is pay off the vet bill from when we tried to save Cassie and Cuda the Cancer Kid’s lives.   And even with paying off that bill, there should be enough for you to go to South Africa.   So go.

Ben:  Eh, I dunno…

Me:  Forget money for a second, what else would be a con.

Ben:  Well, it’s pretty hot in South Africa.  I’ll probably get heat rash.  And with the time change and having to go right back to teaching, I’ll be suffering from a massive case of jet lag.

Me:  Anything else?

Ben:  Um no, I can’t think of anything else. 

Me:  So, let me get this straight.  You’d give up a trip to South Africa because you might suffer from heat rash and jet lag?  Seriously dude?

Ben:  Well…

Me:  You’re just grasping at straws now.

Ben:  I am not.

Me:  You are too.  Nut up or shut up buddy.

Ben:  Well, it would be the chance of a lifetime.

Me:  Yeah, yeah, I think we’ve already decided that you’re going.  However, I would like the record to show that while heat rash and jet lag ranks high on your list of cons, not once was I’ll be away from my wife for three weeks brought to the list. 

Ben:  That’s a given honey.  I didn’t feel like I needed to mention that.

Me:  Oh of course.

Ben:  You know, spouses are welcome to go too.  We wouldn’t have to be apart for three weeks.

Me:  Really?  So in the 10 years that you’ve known me, what part of you actually believes it would be a good idea for your “curses so much when she walks into a bar, sailors come running out” wife to go on a Mission Trip to build an orphanage for *shudder* children?

So, Ben’s going to South Africa in March.   As well as building an orphanage for *shudder* children he will be visiting Victoria Falls and going on a safari.  I’ve already warned him that if he should be eaten by a lion while on said safari I will be extremely displeased with him.

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Dear Ben,

Five years ago today we stood in a church in front of a small group of friends and family and promised to love and cherish each other until death do us part.   At my request we did traditional vows, although I refused to put the “obey” part in and you, bless your little heart, didn’t blink an eye at that.  You gave me just five days to prepare a wedding and when people ask why we did it so quickly I never hesitate to confess that if I had been given more time I would have totally backed out of the whole damn thing.   I would have too; it didn’t seem to be in my nature to live with someone else, to have to think of someone else’s feeling before my own.  To realize that I wouldn’t always get to watch what I wanted on tv, or do what I want when I wanted.  If I’d had more than five days to think about that; you would have found yourself waiting at the alter while I snuck out of the country to explore South America with a van of hippies.

Luckily I married you instead.   And I know on the outside we look like we couldn’t be a worse pair and I’ve lost track of the amount of people who, with the best of intentions, express their shock at our relationship.  I talk a mile a minute and tend to speak before I think.  You’re quiet and introspective and give an inordinate amount of thought to what you’re about to say.  I’ll hug anyone who needs it or requests it; you apparently give a “closed for hugs” vibe to most people (but not to me baby, I know what a huggie-bear you really are!). 

I’m an Aries, all fiery temper and passionate outbursts.  You’re a Taurus, unexcitable, calm natured and stubborn.  Did you know that according to these horoscopes, you and I are the absolute worse match ever?  According to them, you and I shouldn’t come within 20 feet of each other, let alone marry and co-habitate. 

Yet here we are, five years later, still trucking along.  And I know we’re both kind of shocked (you because you won’t believe I actually remembered our anniversary) and me because I would never have believed anyone could survive being married to me for this long. 

And, in honour of the last five years, I present a list of all the reasons why I love you and am so thankful I married you.

- you’re my best friend

- you make me laugh when I want to cry

- you’re an excellent kisser and you give fantastic hugs

- you like to cook

- you don’t care if the house is messy

- I can bring home any type of stray animal and you never bat an eye

- it doesn’t bother you that I’m independent

- you always forgive me when I say something mean

- you’re patient and even-tempered

- you’re the funniest person I know

- you’re supportive of everything and anything I want to do

- you think I’m sexy

- you secretly love my bitchiness

- you’re smart

- you’re the kindest person I know

- you love going to the movies

- you can’t resist kittens

- you love your children

- you’re very unselfish

- you’re always willing to help out a friend

- you’re a fantastic teacher

- you’re compassionate

- you laugh easily and often

- you love me.

Thank you honey, for the last five years.  I thought I loved you five years ago but it’s a shadow compared to how I feel about you now.  And I know, at our 10 year anniversary, I’ll look back at how I felt for you today and it too will be a mere shadow of what it will be.  And I can’t wait for that.

Happy Anniversary honey, I love you.

Oh and Ben?  In the last month, my heart was not just broken by the death of two of our dogs, but shattered.  And with one simple gift, you mended it.

Dexter is, and always will be, the best anniversary gift you’ll ever give me.

Love K.

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When the mumsi entity was here for the great renovation project of 2009, she took a couple hours off to go and get herself her very first tattoo. Now, I won’t say how old she is because she’ll beat me with a stick but she’s definitely old enough to know better!  Crazy tattooed woman…

She got herself a Canadian flag with mine and George’s birth years tattooed above it.  Below are the pictures of her at the tattoo parlour.

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A recent phone conversation with my big brother:

Me:  Hello?

George:  Sheila!

Me:  George!  What’s happening big fella?

George:  Not much; just got back from a date.

Me: Cool.  How’d it go?

George:  Eh, not so well.  Didn’t feel a spark.

Me:  That’s too bad.

George:  Yeah.  She was feeling the spark a little too much though.  She was already calling me “baby and sweetheart”

Me:  Weird.

George:  Um, yeah.  She asked if I did anything for mother’s day.  I told her I had sent flowers to my mum with my sister.  Then she wanted to know if I had sent her a card.

Me:  Uh oh.

George:  I told her I was anti-card; she didn’t understand it.

Me:  Not a lot of people do.

George:  Then the waitress came up and I asked her, “How do you feel about greeting cards?”  And the waitress says “Um…, what do you mean?”  And I said “Greeting cards, how do you feel about them?”  And she said, “I like them?” and I said “Wrong answer.  Anti-card:  join the movement”

Me:  Laughs hysterically

George:  Then the waitress wanted to know who else was in the movement and I said “Me and my sister.  I just turned my sister to the dark side.  Join the movement.”

Me:  Laughs hysterically.

George:  You’re my first-in-command Sheila.  I told my date, “Just wait, in 20 years, you’ll see me on the news and you’ll be all “Hey that’s George.”  I’ll be the guy who took down Hallmark.  And Shoebox.

Me:  Laughs hysterically.

George:  I don’t think she’ll want to go out with me again.

Me:  Yeah, probably not.

George:  I called her after the date and told her I didn’t feel a spark. 

 Me:  But she felt a spark.

George:  Sheila, she was on me like a fat kid on a smartie.

Me:  Laughs hysterically.

George:  Oh well, better luck next time.  Hey talk to Ben about the anti-card movement, tell him he can be my second-in-command.  Then the next time someone asks me about the movement I can say there are three of us.

Me:  I’ll do my best.

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This morning I dropped Ben off at work just like I do every morning.  The only difference was that I had slept maybe half an hour last night and had a wretched headache.  You know the kind?  The headache that makes you want to puke or at the very least, curl up on your bed in the fetal position and wait for sweet, sweet death?  No?  Just me?  (my mama always said I was a drama queen).

Where was I?  Right, dropping the boy off at work.  As is our usual custom, I stopped in front of the school, he gave me a kiss and began to gather his stuff together.

Ben:  Bye dear.  Hope you’re feeling better soon.

Me:  Thanks, bye honey.

Me:  Have a good day.

Ben:  *grabbing his lunch bag*

Me:  I said, hope you have a good day.

Ben:  *opening the car door*

Me:  Geez, have a good day for crying out loud.

Ben:  *gets out of the car and opens the back door to get his computer bag from the back seat*

Me:  HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY HONEY

Ben:  Huh?  What? 

Me:  I said I hope you have a good day but you know what?  Considering this is the fourth time I’ve repeated myself, I don’t really hope you have a good day afterall.

Ben:  That’s just the headache talking dear.

Me:  Shut it.

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This is one of my favourite pictures of when I was a little girl.  I don’t know my exact age…2 or 3 maybe? 

I was born smack dab in the middle of the 70’s.  1975 to be exact.  And doesn’t the decor absolutely scream 1975?  Looking past the fact that I was an adorable child with my blonde hair (thanks to my dad’s side of the family… too bad I also inherited the gene where it gradually darkened) and dark brown eyes and chubby little body (at this point the mumsi entity would be quick to point out the old saying… “Pretty in the cradle, homely at the table darling.”), check out the decorations and furnishings.  They are incredible.  The retro couch, the crocheted granny square afghan with matching pillows.   And the lamp!  THE LAMP!  I would kill to have that lamp now. 

Also, I don’t know how she did it but mum totally matched my outfit to the afghan and pillows.  The woman can do no wrong.

Bonus picture:

How freaking cute was my big brother?

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The other night the boy child and I were sitting in the living room watching tv.  The dogs had been put to bed and my two cats, Smokey and Ebony, deeming it now safe to leave the bedroom, were roaming the living room.  Ebony was making a nuisance of herself, as she is wont to do, while Smokey cuddled up to me. 

After observing my behaviour towards Smokey for a few minutes (i.e. me saying in a ridiculously high pitched voice ”Who’s my big Smokey Bear?  Who’s my ittle bitty man?  Who loves his mommy bear?  Does his mommy love him?  Oh yessum she does.  Smoochy, smoochy…” while Smokey did that thing cats do where they rub their face and body against the person they love and flop down and show their bellies.  All in all it was a disgusting display of mutual love and adoration between the cat and I.), the boy child says,

Boy child:  Smokey’s your favourite isn’t he?

Me:  Yup.  I love him most of all.

Boy child:  And then Ebony?

Me:  No; then your father.

Ben (very faintly from the bedroom):  Hey!

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The boy child is living at home again and Hannah couldn’t be happier.  She always did love the boy child.

 His father and I on the other hand:

Ben:  I’ve decided the only way to get the boy child and his friend to move out is to have loud boisterous sex as often as possible.

Me:  Oh yeah?

Ben:  Preferably in the living room.

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It’s that time of the year again.  Ben’s had the entire summer off to do what he pleases but now?  Now he’s back to work like the rest of us schmucks.  In honour of this important occasion Ben said I could give him a brand new back-to-school hair cut. 

Normally I give him a boring hair cut but this weekend I decided to give him a bold new look. 

I decided to go with a short clipped mohawk but got a little crazy with the scissors.  Hence the bald patches in the mohawk. 

Frankly, I think it’s not half bad for my first attempt at a mohawk.  Give it a few months to grow out and I’ll be cutting better and faster.  Also, I’m thinking the mohawk would look even better if it was blue….
 

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So last night around 9 I was watching the end of American Idol, doing a little miniature knitting and idly wondering when Ben was going to get home from taking year book photos when the doorbell rang.  I opened the door, expecting to see Ben with his hands full and instead saw three police officers standing on my doorstep. 

And just like that there was ice water in my veins. 

I’m not sure I can even explain how it felt to be expecting your husband to walk through the door but see three members of the RCMP, hats in hand, instead.  In the 5 seconds between opening the door and having the senior officer speak, I tell you people that I didn’t just see Ben’s funeral in my head, I fucking attended it. 

I found myself in the grip of such monumental terror that I couldn’t speak.  I stared dumbly at the officers as the one asked if Cassie was friendly before giving her a pat.  I nodded mutely as the other two took turns petting her (As a completely unrelated side note, it’s funny how often Cassie has that affect on people.  Rarely can we take her anywhere without people stopping to touch her or ask us about her.   I assume it’s because bulldogs are so rare around here.).

I wasn’t even aware that I was holding my breath until the officer looked at his clipboard, mumbled something about looking for Dustin and then asked me if I was Carolyn.  I took in a loud whooping gasp of air and shook my head weakly.  Only then did my heart decide to crawl back to my chest from it’s current position somewhere between my knees and my ankles.

Apparently there was a mix up in the addresses, I’m still really not entirely sure what it was.  All I know is that when he asked me to confirm my address, I was still so terrified/weak with relief, that I stared at him blankly for about 30 seconds before I could even remember what the hell my address was. 

Once it was confirmed, they thanked me for my time, gave one last final pat to Cassie (who thankfully, did not do her usual trick of attempting to sexually harrass out houseguests!  How on earth would I have explained to Ben that Cassie was in the drunk tank for dry humping that nice officer’s leg?) and left.  I closed the door, took a deep shaky breath and immediately picked up the phone to call Ben.  Unfortunately my hands were shaking so badly from the rush of terror-induced adrenalin that I had to wait to dial the phone.  And it still took a good ten minutes for the shaking to stop, even after I had verified, via cell phone, that Ben was perfectly fine and on his way home.

I tried explaining to him later that night, the mind-numbing horror and dread that had instantly come over me the moment I saw the officers but despite his best effort, I don’t think he really understood.  I’ve decided it’s a girl thing because every single female I told the story to at the office this morning all confessed they would have had the similar reaction whereas the few males I shared the story with all made comments such as, “Wow, you must have assumed they were there about your illegal drug use right?” and “You tried to move provinces and change your name but they finally caught up to you huh Kelly?”

And thus concludes the story on how to give a fat girl a heart attack.

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