The Bra Guru

I have this weird habit of the same week a year, all of my clothes die.  I have no idea why, but I go from having a full closet to having two shirts, one pair of pants, one pair of underwear, and all of the wires in my bras snapping.

 

I blame the bra wires on Alex since he has this nasty habit of not keeping his hands to himself.  To be fair though, I think every man on the planet has this weird habit of grabbing their girlfriends or wives boobs every chance they get.

So after four days when all of my pants got holes in the thighs, the wires in all four of my bras snapped, the dogs ate all my underwear (it was weird, one week they all decided my underwear is delicious), and all of my shirts getting ripped or so worn that they’re see through, when they were never see through before, and all of my socks no longer having a match, I tell Alex I need to go bra shopping.

For anyone who has boobs, it’s very obvious how important it is to have a good bra.  They perk you up, they help your back, and they can give you some confidence.

Weirdly enough, Alex has a really weird talent.  He can find any bra.

He is the Bra Guru.

Let me start from the beginning.

I am a very strange size.  I’m a heavy girl and I have really small boobs in comparison to my body.  Fat girls never have a flat chest.  It just rarely happens, so a lot of the time I have to order bras, then send them back because they just don’t fit right.  Luckily, Lane Bryant usually has my size, but very few and far between.

A little over a year ago, my mom and I dragged Alex to LB and we searched for over 20 minutes to find me a bra and had no success.  We were about to give up and Alex, who had been sitting in the corner of the store watching from afar, offers his searching abilities.

Within five minutes he found eight different bras in my size.  Of course, they were the leopard print with tons of padding that would make me look like Pamela Anderson, because, you know, he’s a guy, but my mom and I realized at that moment that Alex has a gift.

He has the gift of finding the right fucking sized bra.

So last week we walk into LB, and the two women at the front counter thought it was strange that I said to Alex “DO YOUR MAGIC!” and he began to search all of the bras and underwear for the right bra.

These women were confused as hell, and I explained the situation.

“He’s the Bra Guru.  I wear a weird size and no matter what, he can find the size in every style.  It’s a weird gift.”

A few minutes later he has found six bras, all leopard print or racy lace, and these women were astounded.

One of the women even commented that they didn’t even know that they carried that size for that bra.

When in the fitting room, obviously he had to go in with me to make sure that they fit, and every time I’d have it on, he’d conveniently unhook it with one hand and giggle like a school girl because… well… boobs.

Of the six, I found two that were perfect.  I figure two bras will last me for a while, so then I send Alex on a venture to find panties.

Naturally, he put his gift to the test and was rummaging through the panties, throwing all the lacy goodness my way.  You know, stuff a married woman would NEVER wear because I’ve rediscovered granny panties and their glorious comfort.

Image

You will never know such comfort

He found me some cute panties that were a compromise, and while at the counter, the women asked Alex if he wanted to work there to officially put his skill to good use.  He declined, stating that he hated his gift, and we were on our way.

So for any of you who visit me, if you have a weird bra size and need help finding a bra, I’ll send you off with Alex.  He will put his Bra Guru skills to the test.

Do you have problems finding clothes?  Do all of your clothes seem to rip and become unwearable overnight?  Do you have any funny stories of finding clothes?  Tell me in the comments!

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Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

Sugar Coated Moron

So I saw on the news last week that there was a farmer’s market in the parking lot of a mall here in Shreveport, and since I love fresh peaches and melons and all the crafts, I told Alex that we needed to go.  No, I didn’t ask.  I didn’t inform him that I wanted to go, I got home from work and said “Put your pants on, we’re going to the mother fucking farmers market.”

I guess I should note that Alex does not like wearing pants at home.

Anyway, so after bickering for twenty minutes about how I needed to go to the farmer’s market or I would die a horrible death, because obviously I need peaches to survive, he sighs and begrudgingly agrees to go to the farmers market.

After getting lost a few times since it was a part of Shreveport I was unfamiliar with, we finally find this farmers market, and it’s tiny.               

But they had the peaches I wanted, green beans Alex wanted, live music and some pretty awesome food.

Mother Fucking Beignets

Mother Fucking Beignets

While we were looking around, Alex saw a beignet stand.  Now, if any of you have ever been to Louisiana, you should know that a beignet is a type of biscuit that is deep fried and covered in powder sugar, often served with marmalade and honey.  When they’re hot, they’re absolutely delicious.  We got an order and began walking around, looking at the strawberry lemonade stand, when I sneak the last beignet in the paper boat.

Alex saw me grab it, and there was about an inch of powder sugar in the bottom of it.  Seeing as I was tired and not really smiling or laughing too much, he screams “YOU TOOK THE LAST ONE?! NO! GIVE ME THE BOAT! GIVE IT TO MEEE!”

To which he then proceeds to stick his entire face in the powder sugar, dumping it all over his face, neck, and shirt.

He screams “BUH BUH BUH BUH BUH,” shaking his head in the sugar.  Several bystanders just stopped and stared.  And when I say several, it was probably close to 20 people.

I usually don’t get embarrassed, but this time I was a little embarrassed. Alex then decided to tell people that he just LOVES powder sugar.  So much.

 

Also not cocaine.

Also not cocaine.

I put my face in my hands, trying not to laugh my ass off.  Several older women shook their heads, kids laughed, and a woman offered Alex a napkin to clean off his face.  He then bought me a bunch of peaches and we ran the hell out of there.

I went again today, and I brought my coworker with me who had never been to a farmer’s market.  I bought her boudin.  And she didn’t embarrass me.

It was awesome.

 

Ever go to a public event and you were totally and completely embarrassed?  Ever think that you made the best beignets ever?  I want to hear your thoughts.  And if you live in Shreveport and claim you make the best beignets, beignets in my face speak far louder than messages on here.  >:3

 

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How A Scentsy Warmer Broke My Toilet

Okay, to be fair, it was mostly my fault.

This story happened when I was living in Alaska, shortly after I got married.  Alex and I were still in the honeymoon stage, we were just getting to know each other still, and I thought that absolutely nothing could ever go wrong in my life because I’d already survived shit creek in my teen years.

This particular night, it was a little balmy at -45 degrees, and I was tidying up the house.  I had my scentsy warmer filled to the brim with cubes so my house smelled of lavender goodness.  Since I had hardly any furniture at this time, mostly I was just vacuuming.  This was actually before I had Luna or Sahara, so mostly the vacuuming was just getting the dust off of everything because we had nothing but gravel roads in rural North Pole.

I decided that the cubes had used all of their scents and instead of dumping the hot wax in the garbage like I was supposed to, I decide to be a true idiot and dump the hot wax into the toilet.  It solidified immediately, making a huge chunk of cold wax in the toilet.  Since I don’t want to stick my hands in the toilet, I decide to flush.

Now, for those of you who are not engineers, let me explain what happens next.

  1. The flush starts to act funny because the wax gets really cold in Alaskan piping.
  2. The toilet stops working
  3. The Empress Majestic Dodo (me) decides to keep flushing, which it can’t because the giant ball of wax is stuck in the piping.

So, obviously, the toilet begins to flood the bathroom.

And after a few minutes, it starts to flood the hallway.  Then the bedroom.  Then the living room.

Alex was at work until midnight and it was around 8:30 at night.  I start to full blown panic.  We didn’t have a plunger because we never thought we’d ever clog the toilet, so I just keep flushing, hoping that it will start to work again eventually.  When the water is reaching the living room, I know I have to call Alex.

Me: Hey, honey, do you have to stay at work tonight?  Can you quite possibly come home right fucking now?

Alex: No, it’s Red Flag right now, I’m stuck here until probably one in the morning.  Why?  What did you do?

Me: Did you know that you’re not supposed to flush hot wax down the toilet?

Alex is quiet for a few beats.  I’m pretty sure he was banging his head against the wall, considering I heard a few thumps while I was waiting for him to respond.

Me: The entire apartment is kind of flooding right now.

Alex: Did you put towels down?

Me: I honestly didn’t even think of that.  I’ll do that.

Alex: I’ll see if they’ll let me go home since you’re trying to ensure that we never get our security deposit back.

When we got married, we married our towel collection as well.  He had a bunch of pretty, white towels and all of my towels were either a light tan or a dark burgundy.  Since I’d had them for a couple of years, I figured the color wouldn’t bleed at all so I throw every towel we have on the floor to soak up the toilet water.  The toilet eventually stopped flooding, but it still wouldn’t flush.

Alex was home about twenty minutes later, to which we put the towels in a garbage bag and head to Fairbanks to get a plunger.  After the thirty minute drive to Wal Mart, we stop at the laundry room in our apartment complex to wash all of the towels.

Naturally, I am not my mom who is a wizard at laundry and do not think to separate the colors from the whites.

All of our towels turned pink.

My husband declared me the Majestic Empress Dodo.  Never again, am I allowed to fix the toilet.

 

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I Think My Husband Is Trying To Tell Me Something

So I came home to this today.

Not even exaggerated.

Not even exaggerated.

This is my office desk. Underneath the note, Tupperware, dirty dishes, empty bottles and box of vitamins, is my laptop. Alex knows that the first thing I do when I get home is go on my laptop.

These were all of the dirty dishes in my office.

And my mess from breakfast.

Here’s what the note says.

Naturally, it isn't "Clean your fucking mess." that's far too easy.

Naturally, it isn’t “Clean your fucking mess.” that’s far too easy.

In case you can’t read that, it says “Hi! I’m a subtle clue to a complex riddle. ‘Clean your ____ing mess.’ Take your time, it’s a doozy.”

So, naturally, I put all of the garbage, the entire pile, into the kitchen, as I always do, and got on my laptop to explore the internet. Because that’s what he’s expecting, and I would never disappoint my husband by surprising him.

 

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How Marriage Changes Everything In Your Life

I have several friends who are about to get married or who have been with their significant other for a long period of time, and they talk about how excited they are to get married, to which I always say “DON’T DO IT! IT’S A TRAP!” and they laugh like I’m kidding.

I’m not kidding.

It’s a trap.

Run.

I think they have a different expectation of what the reality is, so I’m going to go over some of the basics.

Cleaning

Expectation: You’ll have help and it will get done twice as fast, or your wife will do all of the cleaning because hey! Women LOVE cleaning!

Reality: You’ll be sitting on the couch in your sweatpants, using your sweatpants as a napkin, hopping from one room to the other, looking for pants under a mountain of garbage. Note, this is not everyone, but I’ve met more people who have had this problem than who haven’t had this problem. Also, dishes won’t do themselves at mom’s house. You have mother fucking chores that you don’t get rewarded from.

Communication.

Expectation: Married couples are always friends with other married couples who talk all the time and never have issues telling each other anything! Communication is no problemo!

Reality: Lack of communication causes a lot of divorces. And to be fair, I forget to tell Alex stuff all the time. We talk all the time. He is probably the chattiest person I have ever met. And I talk a lot. But we both talk non stop for hours and don’t say a fucking thing.

Lovin’, touchin’, squeezin’

Expectation: Humping like gorillas.

Reality: You or your spouse will say “Hey, wanna have some fun?” and you’ll respond with “OR… there’s a new episode of Big Bang Theory tonight.”

So then you stay up all night watching reruns of Big Bang Theory to catch up on the new episode. This will go on for six months and then you both will replace touching with ice cream and not care. Note: This can be any show from Dragon Ball Z, to Deadly Women. When you’re married, you can have sex anytime, but reruns may not always be there.

Money

Expectation: Two incomes means we’re rich bitches!

Reality: Two people means twice the bills. Two cars? Twice the gas! Clothes for two! Eating enough to fill a buffet, the works! While I’m technically better off now that I’m married, I have to look like I’m married. Which fucking sucks. I can’t go grocery shopping in a parka and basketball shorts anymore. People won’t excuse it as “Oh she’s just a poor college kid” because they’ll see that shiny little thing on my finger and think “HER HUSBAND ABUSES HER!”

Which he totally doesn’t. I just hate clothes shopping. And washing clothes. And folding. I’m not my mother who is a wizard with laundry and clothing.

Going to the bar

Expectation: Your husband (or if you’re a guy, you) will buy all of the drinks and it will be amazingly fun!

Reality: Alex refuses to go to the bar with me unless I drag him. With a bunch of friends. To which we are both ignored because we have rings on our fingers. Except in Alaska. Alaska men didn’t care if a woman had a ring because there were no women in Alaska. Getting a free drink now is ridiculously hard. I’ve given up.

Work Functions

Expectation: Since you’re married, everyone will think you’re respectable and kind and will act like mature adults.

Reality: Nothing has changed. Except one of you will always be the DD. If you’ve read my blog from the get go, you’ll realize that my husband is always the designated driver. And I am absolutely humiliating at function. As well as nearly half of the people there, because one will drive, and the other drinks for the couple.

So tell me, anything you want to add to the list? Anything you feel should be rebutted? Every couple is different, I want to hear your thoughts! TELL ME YOUR WEIRD MARRIAGE STORIES!

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Why My Husband is the Best Husband Ever, Y’all

This is my husband

Alex, right before he joined the military and got insanely hotter

Alex, right before he joined the military and got insanely hotter

He is a very tall man, standing at around 6’7.  His eyes are insanely blue, and as you can tell, he’s devilishly handsome.

I’ll be totally honest, I do not deserve this man.  He’s fantastic, but let me tell you what brought on this strange blog post.

I have many friends who shall remain nameless who post stuff on Facebook all the time talking about how they have the best husband in the world.  I always smile when I see these things, because it shows that chivalry isn’t dead and that these couples appear to really love each other.

Here are a few examples of my why friends husbands are the “best husbands alive.”

“Hubby called me from the flight line today to say hi and that he missed me, best hubby ever!”

“Hubby came into my work today with flowers just because he thought I’d like them, best hubby ever!”

“Hubby made dinner.  I know it was only take and bake pizza and he burnt it, but he tried, so he’s the best hubby ever!”

“Came home to the hubby having done the dishes!  Yes, he did a terrible job but it’s the thought that counts!  Best hubby ever!”

Now, I see these and I smile, because I think it’s very cute.  But I also know that I totally have the best hubby ever, and here’s why.

 

1.  He doesn’t kill my hair with fire.

I have insanely bushy, thick, uncontrollable hair.  The devil himself decided to punish me by giving me hair that he deemed more uncontrollable than a war mongering a-hole.

Observe.

Me, just after waking up.

Me, just after waking up.

This is what he wakes up to every morning.  First time he saw it he tried not to scream, and when he tried to run his fingers in my hair, we almost had to cut my hair around his fingers because my hair is so ungodly thick.  Hair straighteners tremble with fear at the thought of my hair, and no matter how I get my hair cut, no matter what products I use in my hair, no matter how long or short it is, it just refuses to work with me.*

2. He cleans the house… To military standards

Let me tell you a story.

When I was living on my own, you could not see the floor of where I was living.  My roommates called my bedroom “the pit” because you could get lost from all the crap in my room.  I had two patches of floor you could see and it took a lot of jumping and maneuvering to get from the door to the bed.

Alex, however, is a neat freak, and I mean this in the nicest possible way.  No bedspread would dare wrinkle under Alex’s watch.  When we were first dating, I would go to his dorm room and be afraid to touch anything from how clean and orderly it was.  He cleaned the kitchen floor with a toothbrush for crying out loud.  Everything had a set, exact spot.  The bedspread looked like it was ironed on his bed.  His clothes were organized by color, sleeve length and formality.  I wish I were kidding about this, but I’m not.

So when we got married, he was excited because his thoughts were along the lines of, “Yay!  I’ll have help cleaning!”

My thoughts were, “Yay!  I’m never going to have to clean again or live in filth again!”

As you can imagine, this is really the only thing we ever fight about.

When he cleans, you can eat off the floors. He does dishes so well that they sparkle.  He even sorts the laundry and gets stains out.

This man is a God.

 

3.  He’s hilarious

IF you haven’t seen my Christmas card that we sent out this year, go read this right now.  What was even better about that instance, it was partially his idea and when I said, I would love to do it, he said “HELLS YES WE’RE DOING THIS!”

And so we did.

RAWR BITCHES!

RAWR BITCHES!

In addition he helps me embarrass family members when they visit or when we visit them.  We got our mom to run away from us in Target*

4.  He doesn’t try to stab me with a rusty spoon for messing up the kitchen.

I know I mentioned cleaning and how I’m a slob and how he’s a neat freak, but it is impossible for me to keep the kitchen clean. I try, I really do, but I just can’t do it.  I even worked in a kitchen and all of my coworkers told me that I was the messiest possible cook they ever worked with.

All I made was a bowl of cereal...

All I made was a bowl of cereal…

This is my kitchen.  This picture isn’t even staged (except the chair, I put the chair there on purpose).  When he saw me taking this picture, he got pretty mad.  Something along the lines of “WHY ARE YOU SHOWING THIS TO PEOPLE?!”

I dunno, I wasn’t really listening.

5.  He cooks… better than me

When I first got married I gained over 30 pounds in three months.  Now, everyone says that this is your “happy weight” from when you first get married, but I blame his cooking ability.

You see, he’s a culinary school grad.  He’s a mother fucking chef.  For Christmas he’s cooking a Christmas Goose.  Goose.  Who the hell makes goose?  This guy does.

6.  He’s weird.

I know this is a weird reason, but hear me out.  I’m borderline crazy with how weird I am.  I moved to Fairbanks, AK, willingly.  And I stayed up there after two years of college.  I decided I’d rather have dogs than kids because I like dogs better.  I have no filter when I talk.  I’m educated and I’ll still take the cheap whiskey over a fine wine.  When I shop, even when I could afford it, I went straight for the clearance rack at Walmart and I have shoes where the soles are literally falling off and broken, but since they’re comfortable I still wear them.  I wear mens clothes half the time because they’re comfortable, I curse like a sailor, and I’ll go grocery shopping in a parka, slippers and basketball shorts.

I’m very weird.

And he’s weirder.

He’s awkward, which is what I love about him.  He’s a dungeon master, a nerd through and through.  He likes anime, talks in movie quotes, owns 30+ board games, and always challenges me to be weird in every aspect of my life.

And he doesn’t care that I’m weird, because he still loves me.

Thanks Alex, for being the best husband ever.  Here’s to three years together!

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*I don’t give my hair enough credit.  I know how to kind of put my hair in a pony tail and I forget to brush it half the time, but even when I do my hair is like NOPE YOU SHALL DIE!

* I’m giving my mom far too much credit, she always ditches us in the store.  However, the last time she did it, Alex and I decided to run up and down the aisles while screaming “MOOOOOOOOOM!  MOOOOOOOOOM!” in a very nasal voice, to which she magically appeared behind us, hissing, “What?  Shut up!” It was awesome.  She doesn’t ditch us anymore.

How The Hunger Games Saved my Marriage: Part 1 (the drive from Alaska to Louisiana)

Just to warn you, this is going to be a loooooooong post.  And it’s only part one of probably three or four parts.

Can’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

I think I’ve mentioned how Alex and I drove from Fairbanks, AK, to Shreveport, LA, over the course of two weeks.  My husband is an enlisted man, and we adopted two dogs, as I’ve mentioned on several occasions.  They’re fantastic dogs, and I did not ever have the intention of giving them up once laying eyes on them. In addition to this, military families have a horrible reputation for giving up their pets after leaving a base, and considering my dogs had both been abandoned once before, I knew that they would have broken hearts if we left them.  So because of this, when we found out that we were getting stationed in Louisiana, I had eight months to figure out exactly how we were going to bring the dogs with us.

My husband briefly mentioned how we could find new homes for them considering how expensive it was to ship them, to which I told him he would be divorced and die mysteriously if he ever suggested that again, to which we both looked into the two options of moving our pups.

The little devils

The little devils

The first would be flying them from Fairbanks to Shreveport, to which the military would not help us with, and it would be over $1,000 per dog.  When told this, my first question was “Are they riding in first class?” and when the woman said they’d be in a kennel next to each other in the cargo area.  Apparently they would have a layover in Minneapolis and Houston, then from there in Shreveport.  They would not be flying on the same planes as us, possibly getting there hours before or after us.

This was basically a hell no.

We considred flying to Minneapolis for a few days to visit my family and from Minneapolis, driving down to Louisiana, but flying a dog to Minneapolis from Fairbanks cost about the same as flying a dog to Louisiana.

Once again, this was a hell no.

My husky mix Luna is… special.  She’s way too smart for her own good, and incredibly beautiful for a dog.  As my vet in Alaska put it, “She’s perfect and emotionally damaged.”  She’s afraid of her own shadow, and took six months to be able to approach us in the house for belly rubs. While she’s much better than she was when we first got her, she’s a very skittish dog.

Luna is not amused by your shenanigans.... ever

Luna is not amused by your shenanigans…. ever

So after much fighting and debating, we decided we were going to drive the 4,200 miles across North America.  Luckily, we were driving in early August so we hoped that the roads wouldn’t be too horrible and we thought, for sure, it would only take two days to get through Canada.  We were planning on driving at least 700 miles a day, just trying to get through Canada as fast as we could.  Maybe stopping to take pictures.  We were going to camp out in a tent every night to save money, bring our miniature gas stove so we could cook eggs on that in the morning and we got a small cooler and I spent two days making sandwiches and getting freezer packs so we wouldn’t have to eat out.  Ever.

Of course this didn’t happen, but we will discuss that later.

Luckily, the military will pay you for driving down, so we bought an SUV, hearing of how the mountain roads are a little rough, loaded up the back, got all the doctor appointments out of the way, got seatbelts for the dogs, and bought The Hunger Games Series audiobooks to listen to throughout the drive.  Thank you Suzanne Collins.

Now, if anyone has ever met me or my husband, you would probably wonder why we would ever need audiobooks.  My husband is the chattiest person I have ever met.  He will talk for hours upon hours and never quiet, and while not as chatty as him, I’m pretty chatty.  My mother has commented how there is never a quiet moment when we’re in a room together.

But when you spend ten days in a car together, there’s a chance that you’ll run out of stuff to talk about.  To ensure that we didn’t stab each other on the drive, we bought the audio books, thinking that those books would be more than enough for the drive.  We even got The Hobbit audiobook to ensure that if we did run out of the first choice books, we wouldn’t be totally at a loss.  We had lots of Christopher Titus on our phones, nearly memorized, and we commented that NOBODY can ever get tired of Christopher Titus.

So my last day in Alaska, I went to my work, hugged all of my previous coworkers, cried a little bit, tried to see all of my friends before I went (and failed miserably, I’m sorry Marissa), and cleaned our apartment to within an inch of its life.  Seriously, I mopped the walls so nobody could say I didn’t wash the walls.  Only to find out they were going to paint the walls and I didn’t need to do that.  We got our full deposit back, and our Landlady hugged us and told us that if we ever moved back to Alaska, we could rent from her again.

We got the dogs in their seatbelt harness, told them we were going for a car ride, and we were off.

We had sedatives for them, but we wanted to see if we could go without.  For you see, they are usually excellent car dogs.

The first two hundred miles in Alaska went very smoothly.  The roads were uncongested, our cooler was fully packed, the windshield didn’t have any chips in it, the tires weren’t flat.  Really, you couldn’t ask for more.

But the dogs were a little miserable.   You see, whenever we took them on a car ride, they expected the dog park for an hour and a twenty minute drive home, followed by a giant rawhide and belly rubs for the rest of the evening.  After two hours in the car, seeing terrain that was unfamiliar to them, Luna looked like life had totally and completely defeated her.  Sahara was in a full blown panic.  She was whining and shaking and trying to crawl into my husband’s lap.  She hated her harness to the point that she twisted herself in her seatbelt so badly that she was stuck and howling.

Oh, no dog was more miserable than Sahara.  Hell hath no fury like a Sahara who is tangled in her seatbelt and homesick.

 

Don't let her misery fool you, she's just looking for attention

Don’t let her misery fool you, she’s just looking for attention

So we decide it’s time to give them the sedatives.  Luna reacts very well to the sedative, being asleep for 12 hours from it, or waking up with hazy eyes and curling on my lap, her face similar to “I love you so much mom.  You’re so awesome.  I love belly rubs. And ears.  My ears are awesome.”  Basically, Luna was stoned out of her mind.  She even had the munchies.  While Luna didn’t really need the sedatives, we knew she was scared and wanted her to feel relaxed and realize that it was just a very long car ride through Canada.

Sahara was not so lucky.  The sedative worked on her for a half hour.  Then she was whining even more.  Being even more miserable than before.  Her expressions were more like “I took a nap, TIME TO GO INTO BATSHIT CRAZY MODE!  WHERE ARE THE BEARS?!  THEY SHALL BE MURDERED BY MY RAZOR SHARP PAWS!”

When we got into Canada, the roads went from smooth and pristine to pothole city.  We went over one pothole, causing the service light to go on in our car.

How we looked and felt considering we were only three hours into the two week drive

How we looked and felt considering we were only three hours into the two week drive

We stopped the car, looked around the car and saw nothing wrong, but the words “Perform Service” kept popping up.  The road was bumpy, we were terrified that we’d get a flat tire, and we were slowed down to a crawl because of all of the potholes.  But not to worry, the potholes turned into GRAVEL ROADS WITH BIGGER POT HOLES with around 80 miles between towns.  Yukon Territory really believes in spacing out their towns.  Occasionally we would see signs for Pie and Coffee, to which we never turned down.
We stopped driving around midnight in Whitehorse, Yukon Territory.  A beautiful little town, we stopped at Takhini Hot Springs, and spent ten dollars on a tent site, tied the dogs up outside, blew up the air mattress, and curled up.

To which the dogs began to bark and cry, freaking out that they were being forced to sleep outdoors.  Sahara was a rescue who spent, likely, several months in the Alaskan wilderness with her puppies, so she always liked to sleep inside, on the bed, head on the pillow, between my husband and I.  She’s very particular like that.  Luna tends to sleep on the couch with one leg straight up in the air, tongue hanging out of her mouth, sometimes with a blanket on the lower half of her body.

No spoiled dogs of mine were going to be forced to sleep outside!

Afraid of waking up other campers, we brought them into the tent with us.

Now, please keep in mind, my husband is close to 6’7” and he’s pretty solid.  I’m round, and it was a “4” person tent. The queen size air mattress took up most of the floor space in the tent.  The dogs, of course, had to be in the bed with us.  So a blow up queen mattress, which is actually a full size, a very tall, solid man, two german shepherd mixes, and myself on this TINY air mattress.

Then there was thunder.

There is no such thing as thunder in Alaska.  At least not in Fairbanks.  My dogs had NEVER heard thunder in their short lives.  So they go into a full panic.   Not only did they puncture the air mattress, they almost destroyed the tent, attacking the side while howling and snarling, trying to scare the thunder away.

We were awake at 7 AM, having only gotten a couple hours of sleep, smelling awful from not being able to take a shower.  We decided to not go to the hotspring to soak, and we found a truck stop to have some breakfast.

The story will continue in part 2 of this epic tale of traveling through Canada.

What are your thoughts so far?

You Can Never Have Too Many Blankets (My husband disagrees)

After telling this particular story to my mother in law, she said to me, “You can take the girl out of Minnesota, but you can never take the Minnesota out of the girl.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

There has always been a million one thing Alex and I fight about on a regular basis, and it started when we were dating, and we will most likely fight about it until our dying days.

Blankets.

Maybe it’s because I’m from Minnesota, maybe it’s because I hate paying the heating bill, I have no idea.  But I believe there are a few things that make a house a home.  Pictures of family together on the walls,  the smell of food, and blankets everywhere.

Alex believes in lots of food and pictures, but the blankets he just doesn’t get.  To be fair though, he organizes everything in the house and was giddy when he got a label maker, and I believe everything should be thrown in a pile and forgotten about, so I figure this is his little revenge.

I have around twenty blankets, and I’m always scavenging thrift shops for more.  When we were in Alaska, he didn’t really fight me too much on it.  There was one day though, where we had a very thorough discussion on my “blanket hoarding,” or so he calls it.

Alex: Why do we need so many blankets?  We have the down comforter and we have two blankets on the couch, we don’t need anymore. We’re in Louisiana, nobody has this many blankets here.

Me: What if we get cold?

Alex: We have a blanket for each of us.

Me: What if the dogs get cold?

Alex: They have fur.

Me: What if people come over and they get cold?

Alex: YOU DON’T LET PEOPLE COME OVER!

Me: So what you’re saying is, we should be prepared in case I ever change my mind?

Alex: NO!  I’m saying we should get rid of all the damn blankets to make room for stuff we actually need, like new towels that match and aren’t falling apart.

Me: We have tons of towels, you told me not to get anymore.

Alex: I told you not to get anymore if you’re going to keep the old ones.

Me: And there’s no reason to get rid of the old ones.

Alex: YOU’RE MAKING THIS IMPOSSIBLE!

Me: No, you’re making this impossible.

Alex: WE LIVE IN THE SOUTH! IT WILL NEVER GET COLD HERE!

Me: YOU NEVER KNOW!

The next day it dropped to 40 degrees in the house.  And with the wind and humidity, it was actually miserable.

I think I won.