BlogHer Tarmac

Having just spent five days in New York City, eating, drinking and making merry, all under the guise of attending a blogging conference, I was all set to regale you with the hysterical details of my trip. Why else does one attend a blog conference if not to create blog fodder?

I had it all planned out. There was a story about a boy. And a man. And his mother. There was a goat. And belly dancing. There was a sexy blogger crawling across the floor on her hands and knees purring for me. There were multiple cases of mistaken identity and confusion over whom I am married to.

Hint: It is neither Backpacking Dad nor TwoBusy.

But all of those plans came to a screeching halt when the clouds rolled into the Eastern seaboard yesterday afternoon.

I should have figured the Gods of Travel had something up their sleeves when I walked into LaGuardia airport and my terminal was in chaos because several flights to Montreal were canceled and there were no scheduled replacements until the morning. But I wasn't flying through Montreal; I was heading through Toronto to Edmonton.

After witnessing a woman being arrested at 5 am on Wednesday, then experiencing the joys of a delayed flight, a badly timed connection and the hell that is known as the TSA, I honestly thought the flight home would be cake. CAKE.

I started to get a little twitchy when our gate was late and there were 25 huge airplanes lined up like dinky cars all around the tarmac, waiting to take off. Tweets were streaming in about fellow bloggers being stuck on the runway, in their plane, for hours.

Surely that won't apply to me, I told myself.

It quickly became evident that it would apply to me.

Not happy. Slightly insane. And way gassy.

Still, my friend Zchamu kept me calm. Because that's what friends do. Well that and shove a mitt full of Xanax in your hand before departing for the airport. My friends get me.

Before I knew it, I had boarded the airplane. We were taxiing for takeoff. Or so I told myself. In reality, we were creeping in line with 17 other planes ahead of us, all hoping to be able to take off before the storm hit.

One hour of waiting crawled into two. The storm hit. Thunder. Lightening. Tears. If it wasn't for the hot gay man sitting next to me, cracking jokes and making me smile I may have cried. Dear Anonymous Gay Man who only broke up with his boyfriend 3 days earlier, I'm sorry I didn't get your name, but if you ever go straight, give me a call. I have an unmarried sister I'd like to introduce you to. Also, I love you.

I read one tweet after another, friends stuck in planes in front, beside and behind me. Some were stranded in the terminal, some were sent back to deplane after sitting for hours on the runway. My blood pressure was soaring.

Hour two crept into hour three. I had to pee. Air Canada hates its passengers and won't provide wifi but I didn't even care. I'll have to stand on a street corner in ripped fish nets and nipple tassels for weeks to pay for my US Data usage but it was either crack jokes on twitter or rip the legs off of the kid behind me to beat him to death with them after he refused to stop kicking my seat.

You want to know what friends who are stuck in the same situation but on different planes do to pass the time?

They send obnoxious photos of themselves to each other, in a desperate bid to remain sane.

Portrait of class. Zchammuuuuu!

And then, right before the magical 4 hour mark of having to turn off the runway, cancel the flight and deplane, our pilot announced we were cleared for takeoff. We cheered. Okay, only my new friend and I cheered but whatever. We were getting off the damn ground. We were pointed in the only acceptable direction at this point. UP.

An hour and so later I was back in my motherland. Oh, Toronto, how beautiful you looked. I looked at my watch as we landed and I realized I actually did have a snowballs chance in hell of making my connection to Edmonton and with cheers of "Go Tanis Go!" (Thank you fellow bloggers on my plane for cheering me on,) I was off like a shot.

Racing through the airport like the hounds of hell were chasing me. The travel Gods are cruel masters but they are not without their sense of humour. Just as sweat was dripping out of places sweat should not be allowed to drip I discovered my connection was delayed. I did all that cardio for nothing.

But I was going to make my connection.

I swear I could hear harps and angels serenading me as I plopped my sweaty arse into a hard plastic airport seat and waited to go home.

BlogHer Tarmac has not defeated me, nor did America manage to steal my soul. 

Cackles insanely.

Four hours later and I finally touched down in Edmonton. I was home. Ish. I checked twitter to discover so many of my friends were still stuck in airports, delayed by the weather and I was grateful for my hour-long drive through dusty backcountry roads.

I didn't even care that one coyote, a fox, two white tailed deer, a skunk and four!!!! rabbits all played chicken with me in the dark, under the stars. I avoided them all and FOURTEEN hours after I tried leaving America, I was finally home.

Mah BED. 

Don't get me wrong America. I love you and I am like a dirty trick who can't wait to be in you, but I like nothing better than leaving you.

Next time around let's not be so clingy.

I'll totally get back to regaling you all with the absurdities of a blogging conference but I'm gonna need a day to wipe the stink of America's sweat off me first.

*To all my friends who are still trying to get home from BlogHer and to those who spent even more time in transit than I did? I bow to you my friends. I bow deeply. And I'll bring the Xanax next time.*

So Bright It Burns

So one day last week I was feeling terribly lazy and decided to spend the entire evening watching back to back episodes of one home improvement show after another on HGTV.

I don't know what I was thinking, but if I thought watching three straight hours of home reno shows would inspire me to duct tape the giant rip in our kitchen's linoleum, I thought wrong.

It's like surfing Pinterest and trying not to feel bad about your life. It's not possible.

Side note: Does anyone really need a cupcake that fancy?

Anyways, there I was, acutely aware of my slovenly state and self loathing more than a little when I wandered into the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I looked out my window over the sink, instead of seeing the beautiful vista of trees and horses I've seen for so many years, I saw my husband's ugly oversized man cave garage.

Also known as my nightmare.

Suddenly, I was no longer thirsty. I was enraged. And inspired.

Sure the garage is bigger than my house and is the size of a giant barn. Sure I am not overly happy with its existence or the fact it blocks my beautiful view of pasture and trees.

Sure the entire yard is destroyed right now due to the construction process.

Still. All I needed was a distraction. Something to pull the focus from the 35-foot tall towering airplane hangar parked in my front yard.

Something bright and cheerful to help see me through the unending construction process.

Something to distract the eye.

Something I saw on HGTV.

And in that moment I was decided.

I was painting my front door. The very next day I went to the store, bought the primer and paint and got to work. Once I was done priming it, I stood back and looked at it, alongside my children.

"It's really bright Mom," Fric winced.

"Dad's going to murder you," Frac offered.

Ya, I thought to myself. Boo is not going to like it.

And then I grinned and started applying another coat of primer.

The primed door, viewed at night, with an instagram filter. Which didn't dull the brightness at all. Like I had hoped it would have.

Of course, my plan to have the door primed, painted and perfect before my husband came home was foiled by rain.

So instead of seeing the perfection of a beautiful yellow door, my husband saw the blotchy primed and taped door.

"What the hell woman?" he gaped as he walked in the door.

So I did what any self-respecting, loyal wife would do.

I lied.

"Oh I know! It's hideous! But don't worry. The primer is way brighter than the paint I chose. It's a little ridiculous really. I hope it doesn't wreck the paint I chose."

My husband gave me the side eye because he's many things but stupid isn't one of them. But just as he was about to question my statement the Jumbster distracted his father for me.

He's a loyal kid, that one.

The stars aligned, the weather cleared up and Boo had an appointment all at the same time, leaving me free and clear to finish painting our door.

I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth so I grabbed my paintbrush and went to town, determined to finish the deed before my husband could get back and pry the paintbrush out of my hand.

It was really bright. But I kinda figured it would dry a bit duller. I mean, I was aiming for bright, not fluorescent.

The paint dried and yet my retinas were still burning.

Oops.

This is not filtered. THIS IS WHAT YOU SEE WHEN THE SUN IS SHINING.

I should probably mention I didn't just paint my front door. I painted our garden doors too.

Apparently I wanted to ensure that the aliens in outer space would be able to identify our house upon invasion.

See the quilt my mom made for one of my kids? When you look at that you totally don't notice the yellow, right?

My husband, well, he did what he always does and he came home. His reaction? Well, it was kinda like this:

Only, imagine more whiskers and shorter blonder hair. 

He's a tad annoyed. I guess yellow isn't his favourite colour. I can honestly blame that on Mr. Lady. I was planning on bubble gum pink and she talked me out of it. So really this is all her fault.

When all is said and done though, the giant oversized, half constructed man cave is not the first thing you see when you drive into my yard anymore. No, that honour belongs to my doors. And after seeing those bright babies you will never notice the construction mess. You'll be too busy blinking away the spots my doors burned into your retinas.

I'm considering this a win.

I Swear I'm Not an Alcoholic. I Only Appear To be One

It started about a year ago, when my husband sent me to the liquor store to buy mix for an event we were hosting.

I walked into our rural liquor depot and there it was, sitting on a slightly dusty shelf, staring at me.

A crystal skull filled with vodka. It could have been filled with the slobber of a rabid goat; I'd have bought it anyways. The Bloggess buys metal chickens, I buy skulls. We all have our things.

My husband rolled his eyes at my new shiny cranium and asked just exactly what I wanted to do with it once the bottle was empty. I rolled my eyes in return and replied, "Put my mouth wash in it, of course." And so I did.

The obsession begins...

I've since bought another for mouthwash in my husband's bathroom, another to contain hand soap at the kitchen sink and heck, I'm contemplating purchasing yet another to collect the tears of unhappy children every time I take away their video games.

My husband, while not understanding my near obsession with such items of awesomeness (I mean, it's part crystal ball, part cranium, part creepy and completely cool) decided to stop rolling his eyes at me for a second and instead indulge me on our fifteenth wedding anniversary earlier this year.

He came home bearing a slew of liquor filled skulls for me. Which just proves his love for me is more powerful than his tendency to be a stodgy fuddy duddy. Our love is true and strong and now, partially inebriated. Whatever.

Crystal Head Vodka, alongside Kah Tequila. Not to be confused. Two separate companies. 

But you know what happens when you write about your love of big shiny empty heads on the internet? No, you don't get a slew of emails from hot girls with big boobs and no brains, although don't tell my husband that otherwise he will remain convinced I'm just wasting my time out here. No. Someone will read your post and decide to help you take your obsession and turn it into a collection.

By mailing you Crystal Head shot glasses.

Mini skulls.

Booze for brains!

Even my husband had to admit the power of their collective awesomeness. So now not only do I have a collection of big and little empty heads dotting the nooks and crannies of my house, but now I have a FAMILY of them.

A momma and a poppa and tiny little babies, with a bunch of empty aunts and uncles lying around my house.

I've named them all. Much to my husband's dismay.

No one will ever believe I'm not a lush and that I rarely ever imbibe. But that's okay because I am surrounded by crystal magic. And possibly filled with good booze.

Big thanks to Breanne and the Crystal Head Team for making my day.

*And no, this post was not in anyway sponsored. I'm sharing because I care. Or I'm drunk. Possibly both. I just really dig this brand and darn if they aren't more awesome than the crystal heads I keep draining.*