Category Archives: beer

Frothy Friday


My internet has been totally wonky since yesterday.

It seems to be working just fine now.

I’m going to pretend that it’s still broken and use that as an excuse NOT to blog tonight.

I’m in no state to write anything even remotely intelligent, witty or coherent.

Here are the reasons why;

1. I just spent my evening being on the receiving end of my five year old’s shit list.

2. I am pooped from a long day of work.

3. There is a mass amount of beer in my fridge that is calling my name. It’s saying, NFred! Drink us! Drink us all! We taste so good! We love you! We’ll make all your troubles disappear! Don’t spend your night on the computer! Spend all your time with us, DRINKING!”

You have to admit that the beer in my fridge does have several compelling arguments.

Therefore, I shall choose beer over blog tonight.


I’m working on something that I hope will be ready soon…

I promise that it will be as intriguing as a cat wearing a ball gown.


Now off to beer I go!

Hope you’re all enjoying a Frothy Friday!

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Frustrating Friday



Today was a legendary day in the world of retail.

L E G E N D A R Y.

Every single terrible customer in the history of the universe decided to come shopping at my store.

Here are the top three offenders…

1. Irate granny who didn’t get her senior’s discount. When I refunded her the difference, she complained that it took me too long and put everyone in a bad mood. When I told her I was in great spirits she rolled her eyes at me.

2. Strange french speaking woman who went on and on about how she bought the same product that we sell for $3.49 for $0.99 in the United States. This baffled her to no end. Her mind was totally blown. She might never be the same.

3. Creepy twins with even creepier parents who are regulars at our store and stay there for HOURS. Today they spent a good two hours in the morning and probably a solid hour after lunch. Creepy twin dad even asked us for a chair to sit on and if we could fill up his water bottle. We said no to both because I work at a toy store and not a spa. At one point, creepy dad even asked me to watch his twins while he went to another store. They are five. FIVE. Obviously he thinks we are both a spa and a daycare. 

Now that I am sitting in my cozy house, double fisting beer, I can laugh at the irksome behaviors that I had to endure. 

Deep down in my cold black heart, I feel sorry for these people. Their lives must be so miserable. The only way they can feel better about themselves is to be complete ass-hats.

This terrible day was not a total wash. I came home to a delicious bbq dinner, my son scored a goal at soccer AND there are cookies in my cupboard. 


I wonder what all the ass-hats are doing right now???

Actually, I don’t want to know. I just want to sit here in the beautiful silence of my home and forget that they even exist.


*Serious italic time…I feel bad for writing such a bitchy and unkind post. These people might be swell individuals. Who am I to judge them? I’m just some mom who works in a toy store. I really should try to be a nicer person…I really should. But it’s so easy to hate people who treat you like used toilet paper. I’m sure there’s some good inside of them…deep, deep, deep down. Like maybe they are good at recycling or baking or origami or underwater basket weaving or shoveling snow or breathing.



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More Money, More Awesome!



When my husband and I first moved in together, we were super poor.

I remember not having enough money for bus fare and having to walk to work. 

I remember that a dinner of rice with canned tomatoes on top was considered fine dining.

I remember counting dimes and nickles, desperately hoping we had enough money for a couple of cans of beer.

One time during our days of extreme poorness, something magical happened. 

It was an unseasonably warm day. My husband and I decided to go for a walk around downtown, because that’s the kind of free activity you do when you have no money.

Right before leaving our apartment, my husband decided to change into some shorts. He had to dig around in our closet for a while to find some. I was getting impatient. Finally he found a pair of black shorts and threw them on. He shoved his hands in the pockets to smooth them out and then made a very strange face.

“What”? I said because I’m nosy.

“There’s something in here and it feels like money”, he said with a huge grin.

“Yeah right”, I said not believing him because he was always playing tricks on me.

Just then he pulled his hand out of his pocket and produced a  FIFTY DOLLAR BILL!

We screamed like idiots! Fifty Dollars! So much money! So much excitement!

To this day, my husband does not remember where he got the magical fifty dollar bill from or who gave it to him. I don’t know how a person forgets that they have money stashed somewhere, but this is my husband we’re talking about. Four days out of six, he leaves for work with some combination of his wallet, keys, cellphone or coffee left behind on the kitchen counter.

So how did we spend the money? We bought bus tickets and groceries and put the remaining money towards an outstanding bill.


Because we were such responsible young adults, we used the money to buy a couple of cases of beer and drank our faces off.

Imagine if every time you put your hand in your pocket, you pulled out a fifty dollar bill???

Here is a list of things that I would do with my magical money…


1. Get a haircut. Not very extravagant, but if you could see my hair right now you’d understand. It’s pretty much achieved mermaid status. A few more inches, and I will no longer need to wear a shirt.


2. Buy some NEW clothes. Not clothes that someone has worn before me. We’re talking clothes with the price tags still attached. I’d buy some expensive jeans that would shield the world from my butt cleavage, bras that actually fit and t-shirts that don’t have sweat stains in the armpits.


3. I’d so go to Ikea and buy matching dishes and funky curtains and meatballs (not the ones made from horse meat) and a bunch of random kitchen gadgets that all have crazy Swedish names.


4. Buy a lot of Blizzards.


5. And finally, for my splurge, I’d take my family to South Africa and we’d get on a boat and watch great white sharks leap out of the water!


I do not believe the line, “more money, more problems”.  

I have never once heard someone complain that they have too much money. If I did, I would slap that person and then make them buy me a dozen donuts and a fancy iced coffee.

I think it should be changed from “more money, more problems”  to “more money, more awesome”. 

Think about it!

You could take more awesome trips, eat more awesome food, wear more awesome clothes and have more awesome parties. 

From this moment on, “more money, more awesome” is my new mantra! 


Anyone know where I can get my hands on an endless stash of fifty dollar bills???






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It’s almost ten o’clock at night, which is like three a.m. in mom time.


I’m on my second beer, which is like six beers in mom drinking.


I just watched an entire kids movie and did not fall asleep, which is legendary in mom endurance.


I have two school fun fairs to attend tomorrow, which are like the freak’n Oscars of mom outings.


I’m about to scarf down some cookies and watch the Food Network, which is like eating a chocolate souffle while having an hour long massage in mom indulgence.


*Time for the serious italics. This is a terrible post. TERRIBLE. But I am committed to writing something EVERY FRIDAY, even if it’s just a jumble of words that lack any sort of creativity or continuity or coherence. I apologize with all my heart. I shall now crack open beer number three. That’s right, THREE. Shit’s about to get real…and by that i mean, I’ll be fast asleep in my bed within half an hour.

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Fatigued Friday


You know when you’re so tired that your eyes burn? And you feel like someone plucked out your brain and replaced it with Styrofoam? And you just want to crawl into a hole and cry? This, along with being abnormally sweaty, is how I’ve felt all day.

I wish I could say that my condition is due to being out all night at an amazing party with rich and famous people. Sadly, it was my almost two year old daughter that decided to include me in her solo party girl antics for the better part of last night. She got just under three hours of sleep and is all ridiculously bubbly and precious today. That girl can par-tayyyy. I don’t even want to think about what shenanigans she’ll get into when she’s a teenager…

My late night rager with my daughter has gotten me all nostalgic for the carefree, alcohol soaked nights of my youth.

Actually, I should use the term “nights” loosely…

Tonight, I’d like to share another one of my favourite losing stories that I have ever entered in a writing contest.

If you’re a fan of drinking, hockey and shenaniganizing, then I think you’ll enjoy this non-fiction anecdote. And if you don’t like those things, read my story anyways because I used the word foodstuffs.

Bonne nuit.

The Heckler

 One of the best days of my life started with a craft fair and ended with my best friend heckling the captain of the Ottawa Senators.

 Sallie and I have known each other for well over a decade. She is a world traveller, a teacher and a magnificent knitter. Sadly, Sallie is vertically challenged. Standing at only four-foot-ten, she compensates for her lack of height with an abundance of personality. She makes her presence known and is not one to shy away from voicing her opinion. She’s also witty, sassy and all around awesome.

 For one magical year and a half, Sallie ignored her itchy feet and made Ottawa her home. Sunday was our day of the week. We dubbed it Skiddy Sunday because just like Mary’s little lamb, everywhere we went, beer seemed to follow. If we went for a walk downtown, we’d end up in a pub. If we went shopping, we’d break for lunch, and beer. We even mastered the art of knitting and drinking simultaneously.

 The most legendary of Skiddy Sundays began in a rather sophisticated manner. A craft sale was being held at Landsdown Park. Being crafty nerds, Sallie and I eagerly attended. The best part of the sale was the free sampling of various foodstuffs. Unfortunately, there was nothing available at the venue to wash down the tasty treats. Luckily for us, Bank Street was lined with pubs.

 Two pitchers of beer later, Sallie and I rolled out of an Irish pub with full bellies and light heads. It was early spring and a perfect afternoon for a stroll in the Glebe. We giddily held hands and perused shops. We even stopped in at a yarn store and asked the elderly proprietor several knitting questions. I’ve since wondered if she knew of our inebriation.

 We continued on our walk, chatting and giggling as drunk best friends do. Bank Street was a sea of red, black and white. The Ottawa Senators had made the Stanley Cup Playoffs that year and the city was engrossed in complete hockey madness. I’m not a hockey fan myself, but I’m married to one. My husband was constantly hijacking our TV to watch his beloved Sens. Some hockey knowledge must have seeped into my noggin during those endless televised games because I instantly recognized Daniel Alfredsson as he walked past Sallie and I. He was wearing shorts and pushing a child in a stroller. His shaggy red hair flowed in the breeze. In my drunken state, I called out to him, “you’re doing a great job”! He turned and smiled. I giggled like a school girl with a crush and grabbed Sallie excitedly.

 “Who was that?” she asked. Sallie was probably the only person living in Ottawa who didn’t know that he was the captain of the Senators. When I divulged this information, she stopped, turned around and without hesitation yelled, “GO LEAFS GO” as loud as her little frame would allow. Sallie has done many things to shock me during our friendship; extreme haircuts, random piercings, sudden plans to travel to far away countries. To say that I was shocked by her hurling an insult at someone whom she has never met, would be an understatement. Sallie is a person with no enemies. To know her is to love her. She’s kind and smiley and gentle and compassionate. She’s a vegetarian, for crying out loud! It was completely bewildering behaviour. You think you know someone inside and out, and then they heckle a professional hockey player and blow all your preconceived notions about them to bits.

 I’m not sure if Daniel Alfredsson heard Sallie’s harsh words, but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. Being a life long Ottawa resident, I knew how passionate hockey folk could get about their hatred of the Toronto Maple Leafs. I feared that Sallie’s loose lips would garner us some negative attention. My alcohol muddled brain made me certain that some random Senators hockey fan was going to beat us up. My fight or flight instincts kicked in as I grabbed Sallie’s hand and forced her to start running. Up Bank Street we went, running wildly. We must have looked like total maniacs. Finally feeling confident that we were out of harm’s way, we stopped. We slowly caught our breath and then we laughed. We laughed so hard that our insides ached. It was the kind of laughter that is impossible to control. The kind that makes your eyes water and your nose run. I believe I snorted several times. When we finally spoke, our conversation went something like this;

Me – What the hell were you thinking?

Sallie – I don’t know!

Me – I can’t believe you just did that! You’re a total jerk!

Sallie – I am? It wasn’t that bad, was it?

Me – Umm…yes ! You just insulted Daniel Alfredsson. What did he ever do to you?

We stood in silence for a moment and then we laughed all over again.

 Some might think that I would have been angry at Sallie for her actions that day. Nothing could be farther from the truth! I admired her moxie, even if it was alcohol induced. She momentarily got swept up in hockey fever and heckled someone famous. Someone who was probably more than twice her size. No big deal. I wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed of my best friend. I was ecstatic to discover another trait in Sallie that further emphasized her awesomeness. And the fact that I’m willing to defend her behaviour is a testament to our friendship. I will always have her back, even when she makes terrible, drunken decisions.

 Sadly, Skiddy Sundays are long gone. Sallie and I may not live in the same city anymore, but our friendship is as solid as ever. Since that epic Sunday, Sallie and I have enjoyed both craft fairs and beer, just not on the same day. Daniel Alfredsson is still the captain of the Ottawa Senators and my husband still hogs the TV on game nights. I can’t help but feel awkward whenever I catch a glimpse of Mr. Alfredsson on the tube. I get a small twinge of guilt and feel like maybe he hates my best friend.

 Maybe Sallie does have one enemy after all.

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