Good idea, bad idea. Potato, potaahhto.

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I’m in my mid 40’s a few years ago.  This means two things for sure; impending menopause and retirement.

Menopause, the bat signal into the sky that my cooler has run out of eggs and in celebration, I will be made to experience vast temperature swings and a catatonic metabolism.  And lo, the time of regret for my years of Dorito enslavement shall be upon me.

Retirement is a little trickier to navigate right now.  You may have read, or at least skimmed for dirty words, my last post about working from home.  Home, however, does not provide the promise of a good retirement.  It’s more of an idea than a practice.  I’ve secretly replaced home’s sense of security in retirement with crippling self doubt and 3am wakeful periods wondering about black market kidney sales. Let’s see what happens!

I’m not completely unplanned.  I have lots of great ideas just waiting to happen which will either propel me into a comfortable retirement or a suitable sized box with enough room for my home dialysis set-up.

Investors, I urge you to read through and pick the one best suited to your diverse portfolio.

Carb Block
Couples who limit carbs together stay together. No couple is immune however from the ‘cheat day’ or donut fuelled meeting at the office. Carb Block to the rescue!
A quick spray of Carb Block before you walk through the door of your home promises to erase the telltale scent of carbohydrates, sugar, and fun. Carb Block replaces the scent of delicious sugar and white flour with the pungency of single malt scotch. Your partner will be amazed at your dedication to the low-carb lifestyle you have agreed upon, wondering instead if your drinking is related to the children you feel you were tricked into having. Try Carb Block today and commit once again to your mid-life crisis/back-on-the-market-rapid-weight-loss life while you scroll through the hundreds of singles also looking for new love.

GreasyTint
Embarrassed of everyone judging your plastic wear and its lingering tomato sauce based staining and ‘barely clean’ feel? GreasyTint makes the haters stop hating.
A few drops of GreasyTint in your sink or dishwasher enhances the orange sheen on your plastic wear into a uniform coating onto all your dishes, removing the “look at me” singularity, replacing it with a distinctly unclean feeling to everything. Created with the same distraction techniques used by the military and the inventors of Spanx, GreasyTint will turn the haters into believers who won’t likely darken your doorway for another judgemental dinner again!

Whass’that?
Making a birthday cake? Pancakes? Scrambled eggs and toast? A dash of Whass’that promises to elevate your dish…with delicious mystery.  Nature, in her keen evolution over a couple of years, has designed the perfect containment system which illustrates how nature protects itself by saying “don’t touch”. Like the porcupine and the mullet, the egg has devised a protective shell around it which indicates it does not wish to be bothered or considered for a serious relationship. When cracked, the egg relies on its evolutionary safety net and deposits tiny bits of shell into the intended recipe, thus rendering the final product a disaster. But wait! What if I told you evolution could be circumvented with Whass’that? With just a few shakes into anything containing eggs, your final products will consistently be described as having “something small and crunchy” in them, changing the “don’t touch” into a “yes please”. How delightful!
*product usage may be extended to bathmats and guest bedding for that certain je ne sais quoi that leaves your guests anxious for a return visit.

The mullet is cautionary, but it’s the air-punching that should be taken more seriously.

I’ve got a million of these gems in my head.  My reluctance to start the entrepreneur process lies in my fear of getting TOO involved in it and missing out on fully enjoying menopause.

*A full prospectus and available schematics will be available for suitable backers.

 

If Vin Diesel and Kathleen Turner had a baby…

My name is unusual. Not unusual like being named after fruit (I’m talking to you, Gwyneth) but unusual enough to make it stand out in a crowd.  In a room full of my age cohorts, there will be a 27% Karen, 19% Scott, and 38% Erin/Aaron mix.  My name lingers around the .07% saturation, with more than three-quarters of THAT insignificant sum replying ‘Male” or “yes please” to the check box question of sex.

Boys are so immature.

My name is not only a conundrum of assumed gender, it is also wrapped up in the bonus of tall stature, a deep voice and an aversion to traditional feminine roles.  I cannot count how many times I have been mistaken for a man.  I also cannot count how many times I have posed as a man.

I’m sensing a need for some additional information right about now…

Besides my gender neutral name, I was also blessed with a deep voice.  Imagine warm dulcet vocal honey evocative of Lauren Bacall, or James Earl Jones when I have a chest cold.  Although unable to harmonize or match any tone occurring in nature, it is often suggested to me that I must have a beautiful tenor singing voice, or that I should consider a career in radio.  I like to think that last one isn’t a “she has a face for radio” veiled insult. Haters.

So what is a girl to do about having a neutral name that swings wildly to the male side when she speaks?  She poses as a man, of course.

Now, I probably shouldn’t be telling this story, but seriously…who is going to read this other than a few friends and maybe a bot wanting to sell me advertising banners on this blog for Ensure?  My secret is possibly safe with you.

On more than one occasion I have posed as a man on the phone. Not in a dirty, predatory, prosecutable way of course.  Rather, in a prosecutable, assumed identity way.  BIG difference.  Some would insist on the word “fraudulent” here.  I prefer “dramatized”.

Tell me this though, oh ye of higher moral standards, wouldn’t you want to use it for un-indictable fun on occasion just because it had been naturally happening to you for years?  Confuse children at the park as to my gender based on my voice and unfortunate haircut?  Done it.  Be in a long term phone relationship with a co-worker who had never met me but assumed I was a man, yet I never had the nerve to come clean, instead waiting until she retired to tell this story?  Done that too.  Negotiate with the Government of Canada about repayment of my husbands student loans while posing as said husband on the phone?  Challenge accepted!  Have a birth certificate that identified you as male until you’re 4, so your dad had to make you wear a dress to go plead your case to be registered as a girl at Vital Statistics?  Surprisingly…did that too***

Sure, it sounds like fun, but there is a dark downside to this curse.  I have also been asked to meet after work to go “be men and shoot some guns sometime” by a business contact at a huntin’ and fishin’ outlet.  I’ve been asked IN PERSON once if I was a drag queen.  Yes.  IN PERSON.  In his defence, it was 1990 and we all kind of looked like that guy from Dead Or Alive.  Also I was hanging out at a gay bar at the time, but still…

The eye patch was for protection from all those extra arms of mine.

Over the years I have become more dedicated at inserting the pronoun I identify as into mistaken identity phone conversations.  Sometimes someone has to do it for me though. Shortly before I remarried, my soon-to-be husband and I were taking care of some housekeeping/life joining administrative things and having my email address added to his internet provider account.  I was on the phone with the ISP, detailing my request, when I was asked if my fiancé was there in order to confirm and accept the change made to the account.  This was what I heard when I passed him the phone;

“Yes….yes…..OK….no…he’s a she.  She’s my fiancé.”

That’s why I love him.  My husband, not the internet service provider.  He can bite me. Although again, in his defence, I should note how wonderfully accepting his tone was when he THOUGHT we were a same sex couple.  Little steps towards progress…little steps.

I keep saying I won’t purposely do it again, but just yesterday I posed as my 82 year old dad on a phone call to his cellphone provider.  The necessity of the ruse was to protect both my dad from age-ism judgement, and to protect the service tech from having an 82 year old yelling at him for using words like sim card and tower. Dad would have torn that young whipper snapper a new one for using that kind of talk around him.  The call went well, and I was addressed as Mister or Sir in a respectful, appropriate manner.  My dad didn’t bat an eye through the whole thing, because I’m his little girl.  Mostly.

*** these examples are 100% the truth.  The 100% tragic truth.

Vital Stats agreed I was a girl in 1975, while the sun didn’t give a shit and seared my retinas anyway.

The Rule of Three in regards to my pants.

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Easter is my favourite of all the candy holidays.  I am told that candy was not the intent of the day, but I’m not sold on the other story either.  I have also been told that the actual Easter story is much more serious and 97% less filled with Peeps, therefore I won’t bother sharing it with you. It has no place in a story of truly the most wonderful thing about Easter:

Creme Eggs.

Much to my confusion, new packaging was unveiled last year for this precious cargo.  I was surprised that they looked so much smaller in their little plastic space modules, but also kind of relieved that my tin foil consumption would be cut by at least 73% this candy-season.  Worry not, dear reader, I’ll make up for that during the bleak candy time between Christmas and New Year’s when only the crappy, foil wrapped chocolately Santas remain.  Tucked into the tree and meant to be decoration, they will subsidize my required yearly intake of foil.

I was recently asked by a curious no-good-nik if, within that new packaging, the egg was still the same.  Was it still chocolate goodness with creme filling?  Hell yes.

No. Mister Science was wondering if there is still a star embossed on the egg, like he’s suddenly some sort of Creme Egg anthropologist.  My response was “A star? There could be a small child strapped to it for all I know.  I don’t chew the first one.”

The first one.

I’m about to blow your mind and share with you my secret steps to succeed in life!  There is a system I have that revolves around threes.  The number three has a long history of being a magical, wondrous number throughout time:  The Three Wise Men, The Back To The Future trilogy, Three’s Company, the Mmmm-bop Hanson brothers, Three Sheets to The Wind.  Three has long been the only way to get what you want in life.

No pants! The solution is no pants!

Here’s how it all shakes out…

Delicious Egg #1 – A primer for the sugars to follow – sets a nice base level of glucose and high fructose corn syrup in my gut, accommodating an easy entry for the next two.  The first one is rarely chewed more than 2 times.

Health Risk Egg #2 – A palate cleanser – gets me ready for the real flavour and soaring blood sugar.  Think of it as a sorbet to allow me to truly enjoy the next course.  The second one is chewed more and made to linger in the mouth for a while, allowing for a uniform dental cavity creation.

Shameful Egg #3 – the real one.  Tastes like new pants because my current ones are not long for this world at this rate. This one sometimes tastes a little salty, having melded with the tears of gluttony and shame, emulsified with just enough chocolate to make it worth my while.

Please have a happy Easter, and remember to eat responsibly.