My darling hubs surprised me on Thursday night while I was flopped out on the family sofa, eating sunflower spits, drinking red wine (I have such elegant, refined tastes) and drooling in front of the telly. One moment I was watching the newest commercial for cleaning products, the next my husband’s head was leering at me, mere inches away, separated only by the panes of glass that is my window.

Needless to say, I just about crapped my pants. I had spoken to him earlier and he had made no mention of coming home. I was a little surprised. (And a little tipsy.)

Once I got over the shock of having my husband press his face up against the glass (which of course, he won’t ever clean) while making monster noises; and once he got over the shock of seeing his wife shoot sunflower seeds into a spittoon while chugging a cheap red, we had a lovely evening.

We truly are a couple resembling class and dignity at all times. We strive for it, really.

Sitting outside on our deck, he gazed adoringly (snort) upon me until my skin started to crawl.

“What the hell are you staring at? You’re freaking me out. Quit it.”

“I can’t decide what’s different about you. You look like you’ve changed somehow.” He sat there with his eyes roving up and down my body until it started to feel like I was sitting there buck naked. So I slapped him upside the head.

“Quit it. You’re just noticing the elegant demeanour I’ve taken to sporting lately.”

Snort. “Nah, I think I’m starting to notice the scent of my money magically disappearing while I’ve been gone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked indignantly as I carefully tried to cover up my new wrist tattoo. Apparently, I wasn’t quick enough. He snaked my wrist and pointed toward my newly styled blonde locks and replied, “It means you look like my money. As in, I see you’ve spent a lot of it lately.”

“Aw honey pie, you know I only do it for you, to keep pretty so you’ll be proud to call me your wife,” I said in my most simpering voice.

Once we both stopped laughing and caught our breath, Boo informed me that he showed some of the boys up north my picture.

“Oh yeah. And were they duly impressed? Was I a hit? Are you now labelled the lucky bastard on the crew because you have such a fiiiiine wife?” I’m still snickering.

“Actually, T, two of the boys started arguing over who you resemble. One thought you looked like Mina Sorvino and the other insisted you were a mirror image of a young Cybil Sheppard.”

“Were they drunk? Or visually impaired? Sheesh. Men. They see blonde hair and that’s it. They can’t see any further. It’s why Britney Spears is so famous…” I was on a rant now.

“Ya,” Boo interupted, ” I told them they were out of their minds too. I told them they both were wrong and there is no way you look like either of those women.”

“Really? Why not? Are they too good for me? What are you trying to say there buddy?” He was starting to look a little scared, so I took a breath and asked, “Well just who DO you think I look like? After all, everyone has a doppleganger. Who do you think mine is?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I figured that one out months ago. Hands down, no question about it.” (For some reason I neglected to notice the big shit-eating grin he was now wearing. Must have been the cheap red. It momentarily dazed me.)

Waiting for him to continue, I poke him in the ribs, and ask “Well? Who is it?”

“Why, Rita MacNeil of course. After all, you have put on a bit of weight…”

Eyeing him, and wondering just how I’m going to extract my revenge for that asshat remark, he looks at me and grins. “Oh come on. You know I love you. I can’t have you getting a swelled head. Not when everything else is swelling on you at such a rapid pace.”

I hope he enjoyed my swelling. Because it was the only ahem, swelling he enjoyed that night…

You mess with the bloated chick, and you never know. She may just decide to sit on you.

I am not a seasoned traveller. I have never been beyond the invisible line that acts as my country’s border. I keep to myself, my space, my province and never bother the outside world unless it is to pester them on the world wide web.

I’m a homebody. But next week, for the first time ever, I shall grow a set of nuts wings and leave all that is safe and familiar to expand my horizons and leave my mark on the world.

Like a dog marking it’s territory, I’m lifting my leg and getting on a jet plane to pee on the world. Specifically, the United States of America. Our friendly neighbour to the south. Big Brother. The States.

I mean, how different can y’all be? We watch the same television (thank the heavens for that, because Canadian broadcasting is well, fucking boring. Once they took the Beachcombers, the Friendly Giant and Casey and Finnegan off the air, it all went down hill. And I would know. The only channel I get with out any static is our national CBC channel.) We enjoy the same modern conveniences. (How I love my indoor plumbing, my iPod and my McDonald’s drive thru.) We even laugh at the same jokes. (Insert lawyer/political/blonde joke here…)

How hard can it be? At least that is what I thought until I posted this last week. Who knew a whippersnipper could cause such a cultural drift? It’s a fucking weed whacker, grass trimmer, cutter of all green things that shouldn’t be there. (In my case it also operates as an instrument of terror which I chase my kids and dog around with while gunning the motor.)

Here I thought we spoke the same language as you Yanks. Turns out I was wrong. Oh, I get flack from time to time for my spelling words with a U (neighbour, colour, etc) from my American friends. And when I speak on the phone to my southern neighbours I am occasionally razzed that I pronounce my Z’s like Zed instead of Zee and for using the term “Eh?” at the end of more than a few sentences.

(I can’t help it. It’s a conversational device that allows me to turn any phrase I say into an opinion poll without seeming pushy. It’s like breathing air. I can’t. Stop. It. Eh?)

As Canadians spread from sea to shining sea, we are a vast and varied people. But we all have a common bond. We all perk up when we hear the theme song to Hockey Night in Canada, and we all know that shopping in a crowded Canadian Tire store on a Saturday is worse than taking a pack of toddlers into a Toys-R-Us at Christmas time.

And coast to coast, we speak a language of slang Yanks have yet to embrace. My husband fears that while I am walking the slick city streets of Chicago next week, I will need a translator to interpret my speech.

All right, that may have been an over exaggeration, unless of course I wander into a restaurant and ask for some screech or swish, a bowl of poutine, a pike, a butter tart, a glass of homo milk, a two-four and a beaver tail and then complain because they didn’t bring a serviette with it.

(After that meal, I’d be wandering around Chicago, flashing my girls and wandering around asking people how many clicks it is to the nearest Mountie office, while wearing my toque in the dead of the summer.)

Might as well pin a “Kick Me, I’m a Canadian tourist” sign on my back now.

Not that I’m dreading my visit South. As a sports nut (most Canucks are. Afterall, we invented lacrosse, basketball and of course, our national past time, hockey), the idea of being on the very soil that houses Wrigley field is almost too much for me to take in. I dream of being able to break past security, and run naked around the stadium, while imagining the stands filled with screaming people all chanting “Redneck! Redneck!”

(Everyone has to have a dream.)

My biggest fear is my sophisticated American friends will think I’m a hillbilly and believe me as indicative of all Canadian peoples. Classless. (Thank goodness other Canadians will be there to prove that theory wrong.) I’m not. I’m a REDNECK, who lives in the sticks; albeit very close to where the Inuit used to actually live in igloos, and I’m an educated woman.

(After all, thanks to our country I have an extensive education in bilingual cereal packaging. I know the french equivalents for free, prize and no sugar added.)

Just because I have to frequently clean the grease off my barbeque so the bears will stay off my deck and I make sure Nixon the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. stays by my side so as not to get eaten by a cougar does not make me a hillbilly.

We Canadians aren’t so very different from Americans. Sure we think that any beer with less than 6% alcohol is for sissies and the elderly, but really. Isn’t it? Yes, we design our kids halloween costumes around their snowsuits, and we trot them out to go trick or treating in a blizzard, but that just makes us a hardy people.

More reason for the Americans to love us. We’re not sissies nor wimps.

I plan to spend this week brushing up on my American history, and trying to remember to say ‘about’ as ‘aboot’ when I’m next door. After all, I just want to fit in and not cause any kerfluffles.

That’s what a good hoser does.

Ever have one of those mornings when you have somewhere to be and you wake up late, get soap in your eyes, cut yourself shaving, gag while brushing your teeth and the dog pukes on the floor while you are drying your hair and you don’t notice and then step directly into warm, sticky bile?

Welcome to my world.

I’m still wiping the puke out from between my toes. Yummy.

As always in my world, I am brimming with blogging ideas and I have no time to write them. By the time I sit my ass down to this computer later today I just know that I won’t remember any of the quirky ideas that are bouncing inside my brain right this minute.

(I know, I know, this is a piss poor excuse for a post. If you want some good reading go read yesterday’s post. I’m not linking to it cuz it’s easier if you just scroll down…)

I want to let you know that my good buddy R, formerly known as CrankMama has reinvented herself. She is now known as Redsy and if you haven’t had the opportunity to read her and her snarky ways, then go on over and tell her I say hi.

And if you are looking for a little more um, thrill to start your week, you may want to hop on over here and have a gander. Racy Red is back and she’s got something to say.

Now I’m off. Enjoy the linkage and try to avoid the dog vomit.