I have a red patch of crusty dry skin growing out of my right eyebrow.
And it’s spreading.
I bought some over the counter cortisone cream in a desperate attempt to get rid of the crust, but it didn’t work. In fact, I think my crust liked the smelly cream because it appears to be thriving. As of this morning, I’ve developed two new patches on my forehead.
I haven’t felt this self conscious about my appearance since that time in grade eight when I cut off all my hair and the boys in my class started calling me Bill.
Where did these itchy patches of doom come from?
And what the crap are they?
And how the hell do I get rid of them?
My co-worker is convinced that the patches are a result of my gluten heavy diet.
A friend suggested that they might be a symptom of stress.
Another friend said that it might be a sign of dehydration.
I was pretty confident that it was ringworm until Google proved me wrong. Now I’m thinking either eczema or mange.
I know I should just go to the doctor already, but who has the time?
An easier solution might be to cut bangs.
Or to start wearing headbands.
Or to get really large glasses.
If you have any crust busting tips, I’d love to hear them.
Thanks for reading and my crust and I will see you tomorrow!
I have no reason to be this bone crushingly exhausted, but here I am, sitting on my couch in my jam jams, struggling to keep my eyes open.
My day at work was pretty uneventful, so I really don’t have any excuse for wanting to go to bed at eight thirty on a Saturday night.
The only exciting part of work today occurred when an older gentleman told me that I should inform all my customers to buy the squirrel socks we sell because his daughter wore them for her government French exam and she passed. I smiled and said “awesome” and then he went on a giant tangent about how hard it is to get a job in the government. I did my best to look busy in an attempt to get away from the conversation, but he wouldn’t stop talking at me. After rambling on for a solid five minutes he told me AGAIN how I should tell all my customers about the magical squirrel socks and then he said “thanks, Buddy” and left.
Buddy? People are so weird.
Tomorrow I have a ridiculous day “off”. A bowling tournament, two hockey games, skating lessons and our crazy annual toy store staff party extravaganza.
I’m going to need a clone, a caffeine drip and a solid eighteen hours of sleep tonight if I plan on surviving tomorrow’s madness.
What’s that I hear? It’s my sweet, sweet couch calling!
Remember when MuchMusic and MTV actually aired music videos?
Oh man, those were the days!
I used to tape Much Mega Hits on the old VCR and replay my faves over and over.
I’d learn the lyrics, memorize the choreography and basically rock out with my totally radical preteen self.
Well hold on to your scrunchies because I recently discovered that MuchMusic has a little program called the Friday Night Dance Party where for a whole, glorious TWO HOURS they play nothing but Top 40 music videos!!!
I could literally sit here on my couch, contently watching music videos for the rest of my life.
I don’t know why I love them so much. Maybe because they’re so freak’n random? And nonsensical? And quirky? And ridiculous? And thought provoking? And confusing?
I’ve watched at least a dozen videos tonight and here are some of the highlights;
-Joe Jonas singing while a group of bikini clad women and one chubby gentleman in a Speedo passionately threw chunks of vanilla cake at each other.
-Zayn, formally of One Direction, crying black tears and making out with a model while their heads swirled around in nausea inducing kaleidoscope patterns.
-A girl sitting on a chair, alone in an empty room, emoting deeply to the camera about an ex-lover. She was really sad and I think all she needed was a hug and a home cooked meal.
-A wedding in a country bar between a bleach blond Barbie type and a man with enormous buck teeth who was at least twice her age. Among the wedding guests were a bald man wearing denim overalls with NOTHING underneath and a K.D. Lang look-a-like who owned the dance floor with some killer line dancing moves.
-A gang of dudes on skateboards who all had their faces wrapped in tensor bandages for some reason that I’m not hip enough to understand.
-Justin Bieber getting his stomach licked and then being kidnapped by some guys in creepy masks who brought him and his lady friend to a skate park where they all danced and did sick skate board tricks together.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some more videos to watch.
In celebration of this holiday that is probably made up, I have compiled a list of twenty-six things I love about my best friend.
She is one of the only people left on the planet who still sends actual letters in the actual mail.
She takes epic chin selfies.
I’m pretty sure that if you asked her who her best friend was she would say her dogs and I’m okay with that because her “pets” have never written her a lovely list. So there, dogs.
She drinks maple whisky out of a glass with a skull on it while knitting and watching musicals on TV. She’s the perfect mix of a party girl and your eighty-five year old Grandma.
Her hair gets disgustingly greasy if she doesn’t wash it everyday. Seeing her in all her oily glory makes me feel better about my own appearance.
She swears like a sailor.
She’s so tiny that she can still wear kids sized clothes and sometimes the teachers at her school confuse her for a student. (FYI she teaches at an elementary school.)
She’s going to name her future child Ming Ling because I said so.
When I ask her what I should write about, her standard answer is, “ME! AND MY DOGS!”
We can go from talking about serious life issues to farts in a single sentence.
She holds my hand in public.
Being a vegetarian, she really appreciates it when I text her pictures of meat.
Her first impression of me when we met was that I was a “weirdo”. My first impression of her was that she was “loud”. We both still feel the same way, eighteen years later.
A demolition derby, learning to surf in Costa Rica and acting in a Japanese play are all examples of her random adventures.
She has special seatbelts for her dogs in her car.
She’s a huge fan of recycling, composting, biodegradable household products, the environment, animals and reusable containers. If she hadn’t become a teacher she probably would have become David Suzuki.
Two things that fill her with rage are shovelling her driveway and being stuck behind slow walkers.
She has several friends who happen to be llamas. None of them are her BEST friend…just throwing that out there.
Her eyebrows always reveal her true feelings.
She sing talks CONSTANTLY.
She has a special skirt that she wears when she goes running.
She gets sassy when she drinks.
Her ideal food is dill pickle chips.
Her musical tastes are on point with those of a thirteen year old girl.
Her childhood home strongly resembled a Hobbit Hole.
She uses kindness as the driving force in her life because she’s a nauseatingly good person.
Happy Friends Day everyone and thanks for reading.
Now go tell your best friend that they rock and I’ll see you tomorrow!
When I was a teenager, I had a friend who insisted that wearing sweat pants in public was definitive proof that you had given up on life.
My how times have changed.
Gone are the days where donning your comfiest pair of Cotton Ginny, Beaver Canoe or Coconut Joe jogging pants in public was considered social suicide.
From sweats to leggings, the comfy pants of today couldn’t be more “en vogue”.
I’ve been thinking obsessively about pants since yesterday when I took a giant fashion leap and purchased my first pair of jeggings. I grabbed them off the rack and brought them to the change room on a whim and once I slid those bad boys on, I was sold. They were comfy as shit AND my muffin top totally didn’t spill out over the sides. I’m not sure what kind of witchcraft went into the making of those most magical pantaloons, but I was so blown away that I bought two pairs.
Since taking the leap into comfy yet work appropriate bottom wear, I started reminiscing about some of the amazing pant trends of yesteryear. I want SO BADLY for ALL of these to come back in style.
Stirrup Pants. I’m not even going to lie…I had SO MANY pairs of stirrup pants. They were amazing. There was something exciting about having an elastic loop attached to the bottom of your pants. Did you hook that loop around the outside of your shoe like a rebel or did you neatly tuck it inside of your footwear? I was all about flaunting that stirrup on the outside of my shoe because I was a total badass, obviously.
Tapered Pants. This was by far one of the most ridiculous fashion trends of the early nineties. Who thought it was a good idea to cinch your pants from the knee down? Did you fold your pants around super tight and hold them in place with safety pins? Or did your Mom sew you into your pants to achieve maximum tightness? I was more of a safety pin kind of girl. Sewing seemed like too much of a commitment and made changing into your gym clothes a nightmare.
Tear Away Pants. You know who wore those? Cute boys. One of my first crushes had a pair. I used to fantasize about him ripping off those puppies in acts of both passion and athleticism.
Remember Harem pants? Elephant pants? Bell Bottoms? MC Hammer pants? Carpenter jeans? Button fly jeans that drew attention to your crotch?Clam Diggers? Petal Pushers? Super baggy pants that exposed your boxer shorts? Super low rise pants that exposed your thong? Flood pants? Raver pants?
SO. MANY. PANTS.
Do you have a favourite?
OMG! I almost forgot denim overalls worn with only ONE strap. So hip circa the Saved By The Bell years.
Started off with witnessing an older gentleman lose his shit at Walmart because the lines were too long. I stared from my line as he swore and yelled at his cashier to hurry up. It was spectacular.
When it was my turn to pay, my cashier chatted my ear off about all of the rude and inconsiderate people she encounters daily. We bonded while she rang in my groceries. I told her to keep her chin up and she called me a sweetheart. She might be my new BFF.
When I went to work this afternoon, I had a customer ask me if we sold a particular board game. When I told her we were out of stock but that I could order it in for her, she asked if I could get the Bible version. When I told her no, we didn’t carry the Bible version, she asked me to show her other games. She seemed really into this rad matching game I recommended, until she noticed that there was a ghost involved. She told me that was unacceptable. I showed her a few other things and then I let her peruse the store. She came to my cash several minutes later, pumped to buy a book with dozens of Cootie Catchers (fortune telling game for kids) inside. She made her purchase, said “God Bless You” and left.
Bible board game?
Ghosts are taboo but not fortune telling?
Then my work computer crashed and while I miraculously fixed it, my co-worker almost electrocuted herself.
What a weird day.
I’m so thankful that there was beer in my fridge when I got home.
No, it’s not the coach’s job to tell your son that the six-thirty in the morning practices are cancelled because you think it’s too early. You ask him EVERY time to lie to your son in a voice so loud that EVERYONE in the dressing room hears you. It’s obnoxious and you come off as a total asshat.
Why did you even sign your kid up for hockey? You knew what you were getting yourself into. I know this because you talk about your other sons ALL THE TIME to anyone within earshot.
I’ve heard it countless times. They play competitive hockey and they’re super talented and they poop solid gold. Your life is busy. You work full time, you go to school, you have three kids. You love the sound of your own voice more than I love drinking beer. And everything that comes out of your mouth is negative. You should really think about buying the rights to the phrase “it’s not fair”.
I hate when you sit near me at hockey. Listening to the way you talk about your youngest son makes me sick. You constantly put him down. Maybe you think it’s funny but I think it’s disgusting.
You give all the supportive, nurturing, sane hockey moms out there a bad name.
It’s getting increasingly more difficult to keep my lips zipped when you’re running your mouth. I go to hockey to watch my kid and cheer on his team, not to listen to your crap. I feel like you’re taking some of the fun away from the parents who actually WANT to be in an arena at six-thirty in the morning, watching their kids do what they love.
Today I had to tell my eight year old son that he couldn’t be the goalie.
It broke his little heart.
He started hockey in September and has been chomping at the bit to have his shot in the net.
This morning, he finally got his chance.
And he fell in love.
He got off the ice full of joy, flushed cheeks, beaming smile.
He asked if he could be the goalie in tomorrow’s game and I had to say no.
Not because he wasn’t good enough, but because of his stupid fucking diabetes.
Are we being overly protective? Probably. Will he get to be the goalie later in life when he’s got a better handle on his disease? I’m hopeful. But when I explained this to him, it fell on deaf ears.
He just wants to be the goalie NOW.
We’re new to the diabetes game. My son was diagnosed on November twenty-fourth. It’s been an intense two months of ups and downs and math.
SO MUCH STUPID FUCKING MATH.
During any kind of activity, including hockey, we have to monitor my son closely to make sure that his blood sugar levels don’t drop too low. That means, we have to haul him off the ice halfway through every game and practice to test his blood. Obviously, the goalie can’t leave the net unattended for five minutes during a game while he manages his glucose levels.
And that really fucking sucks.
Yes, I try to stay positive. I look at my boy who is feeling so much better since his diagnosis and I’m beyond grateful.
But sometimes I can’t help but be angry.
Today I’m angry.
Today I just want my kid to be happy, to be the goalie, to have no limitations put on him because of his stupid fucking diabetes.
The future will bring more challenges, of this I am sure. This disease has taught me to take life one day at a time and acknowledge the stupid fucking parts of it but also the upside.
There’s always an upside.
The way the sparkle came back to his face after his first dose of insulin, the amazing support we’ve received from family, friends and even strangers, the joy he gets from tucking into a cup of sugar free Jell-O.
Even with that said, sometimes if just really fucking sucks.
Why isn’t the term “Silver Fox” applied to both men and women? I don’t understand. I have grey hair and I’m certainly a fox. I mean, I might not be as dashing as Anderson Cooper but who is, really?!
I think it’s about time that a complimentary term be developed for all the ladies out there who let their grey hair shine.
Fabulously Frosted Females?
Snowy Haired Heroines?
AND look how easily these grey hair positive terms fall into everyday conversation;
“Have you met my Mom? She’s the Fabulously Frosted Female over there drinking wine.”
“OMG! I love your hair. You’re a straight up Grey Goddess!”
“Have you seen NFred lately? She’s totally sending out some serious Silver Sensation vibes.”
“My mother-in-law is a hardcore Snowy Haired Heroine.”
So easy! So fun! So positive!
After some reflection, I supposed it’s okay if the Anderson Coopers of the world reserve the term “Silver Fox” for themselves. Why the change of heart you ask? Because it’s like a million times cooler to be called a heroine or a sensation or a fabulous female or a goddess! (Imagine me dropping a mic right here.)