The Lifespan of a Fly


You Look So Handsome
August 31, 2011, 7:55 AM
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Mike and Tannis Get Married

See how handsome he is?

In anticipation of my loving, handsome, amazingly funny husband getting angry with me for teasing him about Planet of the Apes, I’m posting a picture of our wedding day so that the world can see how goddamn great he really is.



Wedding Woes
May 25, 2011, 10:02 AM
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Ok, so I guess these aren’t really “woes” per se, more me bitching cause I’m sorta tired and I’m getting a little freaked out. The wedding is nearly two months away now, and I should be feeling free, flying, golden, any other sort of adjective. That sorta thing, y’know? But I’m not. The closer the day gets, the more I’m beginning to stress.

I’m not stressing about shit like invitations (sent). I’m not stressing about getting a DJ (done). I’m not stressing about the caterer (yum). I’m stressing about the goddamn pictures and my goddamned fat ass. Ok, so I’m not obese, needs-to-be-carried-out-of-their-home-by-a-crane-while-the-bright-sun-bakes-untouched-skin-while-mom-looks-on-in-anticipation, sorta fat. More like the junk-in-da-trunk sorta fat. But still, it sucks. Now I know my mother is probably going to read this and will send me one of her text messages that says “Get working on your weights”, which I should and have been doing.

I’m afraid of the pictures. For years, I’ve managed to either avoid having pictures taken of me, or have managed to screw up my face in some fashion that makes me hilarious and not un-photogenic. Except this time, I don’t really have a choice in the matter. I have to smile and pretend as if I feel like a princess and not someone who’s been put on display. “Photographer you say? I didn’t even notice.”

I know I’m not supposed to whine on a blog that’s mean to illustrate the small, funny, workings of life and my own miserable failure at nearly everything (e.g. The Revenge Fart). But I’m human, I have insecurities, and, well, it’s my goddamn blog and I will blog what I please, goddamnit!

Ah, that feels a bit better. So while I’m worried about the engagement photos I’ve got scheduled for June 11, I suppose it could be worse. I’ve got a wonderful fiancĂ©e/partner/friend in my life. He’s my rock, he’s my balance, he’s my trainer, he’s my lover and my keeper all rolled into one beautiful god of a man. I have a great family who I will miss like shit when they move to Mexico (and simultaneously hate when I’m suffering -40 temperatures). I have great inlaws who for the most part I manage to not fight with too much. And I’ve got amazing friends who are so excited to help out.

It’s just… it’s only…. it’s a lot of pressure is what it is. I wonder… I wonder if I can pick my nose in pictures? And drink beer. Yeah… beer.

Now that’ll feel more like me.



Sometimes it sucks a lot
February 6, 2011, 1:25 AM
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Well because the Internet tubes are all backed up by Black Op-ers on this wonderful double point weekend (time to Prestige boys) I’m going to attempt to write this via another method. Forgive me if my autocorrect starts talking about cucumber dirty shoes.

So, my wedding is in six months or so, and as the day gets closet I’ve been thinking about relationships. In 2010 I wrote a post to Sarah. It’s been over a year since we last spoke and I’m still so angry and hurt. I truly have no desire to resume a friendship with her, yet I still have this nagging voice in the back of my head.

What can I say? I’m an impulsive person. So the other day, while at work, I typed an “s” into my email’s To: field. And then I type an “a”. And then her business email came up on my screen. This is my only line of contact with her. I deleted her phone number, removed any Facebook connection, and promptly tried to forget her address to. I wrote it down and took it home. Since, I’ve unfolded it and looked at the yellow post-it for a while until I folded it back up and stashed it away.

But see, I just want to tell her about it. I want to call her and say, “So we are finally getting married. I just wanted to tell you that you should have been there with me. But you aren’t.”

I told Mike about this urge. I also told him that I had no reason to do this, other than spitefulness. I recognize that I wouldn’t be doing either of us a favor if I did.

It’s not like I want to re-build what’s gone. I don’t have the time to invest in friendships that are scrapped. I have a great supportive group of friends I like better anyhow. But it doesn’t change the fact that I just want to say it; for no other reason then because sometimes being the bigger person really, really, sucks.



Jumping Jacks – Your Arsenal in the War of Love
August 18, 2010, 1:46 PM
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Every single couple fights. It’s that simple. From the most romantic, loving couple to the completely dysfunctional (I’m not sure where we fall in, but I’m thinking it’s the latter). When I think about the fights that I had with boyfriends when I was a lot younger I realize that those little squabbles are nothing compared to what a long-term partnership holds in store for you.

I love the women I work with; absolutely, unconditionally. Most mornings contain a narrative of the previous day’s grumbling and grouching and in the end we all roll our eyes and say “men” in the universal language of attached women. Jean and Jane and I all seem to be with the same type of man. Our stories overlap and we wonder what would happen if we put them all in the same room to be “friends”. Likely we’d end up with a Disgruntled Husbands’ Club and some reality TV show would shortly follow.

Jane and her husband fight nearly every morning. Mike and I fight mostly in the mornings. After much consideration, I have suffered an epiphany. I KNOW HOW TO STOP THESE FIGHTS!

When you break everything down to a simplistic level, men only care about three things:
Their Mothers
Food
Sex.

That’s it. Sure, on the surface, the argument may seem complex and unresolvable. Don’t worry, I have the solution:

If you can’t get their mother on your side, or feed them, than distract them with sex. Yes, you read right. Next time Johnny starts in on you about something, hold up one finger and say, “Just wait a minute while I do jumping jacks in my bra”. I’ve tried this. It works.

Your fight can wait ten minutes (it IS the morning after all), and after jumping jacks are completed, your partner will turn to you and say, “I think we were fighting. I guess it doesn’t matter”.

BOOBS! I HAVE FINALLY FOUND A PURPOSE FOR YOU!

~Distracting men with boobs since 2009~



If I could relive any day of my life
July 12, 2010, 7:40 AM
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It wouldn’t be one from my childhood when I always felt awkward and too tall. It wouldn’t be my highschool years, full of misunderstood anger and frustration. It wouldn’t even be last week, dragging myself through the monotony of a day job. It would be May 11, 2008 and it was in Venice.

We had spent a week travelling through Italy, drinking wine and eating pasta and tomatoes. At nights we’d grab a few bottles of wine, and there is no bad wine in Italy, and position ourselves around the fountain in the square. Munching on freshly baked breads, we would people watch, completely secure in our ignorance of Italian. The type of security foreigners feel. We are untouchable, we are distant and separate.

It was our first night in Venice. Mike and I were tired after a day of travelling by train and spent the afternoon in the sweet embrace of sleep. Once it was dusk, we rose and travelled into Venice for dinner and to enjoy the night life. We were enjoying our cheese and poppy seed gnocchi and our litre of wine (which for some reason, we thought was smaller than a bottle. Which it wasn’t), and I became aware of a breeze against my back. The zipper in my dress had split open and my backside was exposed to the garden conveniently placed behind me. I did the best I could with absolutely no instruments to save me. Which is to say I put a cardigan on and hoped it covered it up.

Tipsy from our litre of wine, we set out among the labyrinth of stone walkways and canals. All of which look exactly the same. The night was closing in and the sun had gone to bed when we arrived at San Marco’s Piazza. The moon and stars reflected off of the waterfront. Gondolas and speed boats made their way along the highway of sea. It was magical to put it lightly. We were leaned out against the water, enjoying the sights and the smells that comes with a city shrouded in legend and mist.

He pulled my hand out and looked me in the eyes. I could see tears reflecting the light of his blue and yellow eyes as he asked me for my hand in marriage.

If I could capture the essence of any day, if I could re-live any moment, it would be the one where we pledged ourselves to each other, under the light of the moon, shrouded by our foreignism, protected by our love