The Hot Doctor Law

Something embarrassing is about to happen to you.

You are in the doctor's little room, or perhaps at the hospital. You are naked from the waist down - not by choice, but because the nice nurse told you to, and you don't want to mess with her, because as nice as she was, she could do horrible things to you - and you are covered with the flimsy paper sheet so you don't accidentally flash your goods.

Perhaps you are naked, and wrapped in the cotton hospital gown, the one that you don't know how to close properly so you keep inadvertently showing your goods to unsuspecting nurses and people in the bed next to you.

What matters is this: you are vulnerable somehow, naked in a place that you only show to your lover, or to family members when you ask questions like: "Does my new tattoo/piercing look infected?" or "Is that a lump or an ingrown hair? I can't tell," or to strangers when you've had too much to drink and you flash this particular piece out of a car window screaming "WHOOOOOO!" as you hurtle past them at 80 kilometers an hour. But you've come to grips with this. You know what is happening to you is a necessary evil, like reality t.v. or Taylor Swift.

Soon, there is a knock on the door. In walks a middle-aged doctor, a genial-looking man wearing sneakers, jeans, and a lab coat with his name stitched over the pocket. "This isn't going to be so bad," you think to yourself. Suddenly, the door opens again and in walks a Hot Doctor. Your blood runs cold. "This is Doctor Hot Doctor," Doctor Nice Doctor tells you, "He's/she's a student doctor interested in this field. He/She assisting me on my rounds today." You break out in a sweat. You have immediately have forgotten Hot Doctor's name because you are FREAKING OUT.

You had forgotten about The Hot Doctor Law.

The law is as follows: The more vulnerable or naked you are, the hotter your doctor or assisting doctor is going to be. Hot Doctor is always of the opposite sex. If you are female, Hot Doctor is going to be male. If you are male, your Hot Doctor is going to be female. This law never fails.

Here are my suggestions if you are heading to a doctor's office:

1. Dress nicely. Hot Doctor is going to be seeing you from the waist down; at least make an effort to be attractive from the waist up.
2. Groom, and not just your head hair. Nice Doctor may see a bajillion jillion of what you have below the waist, but Hot Doctor may just be a student starting out. Keep his or her experience in mind.
3. Don't refer to your significant other as your boyfriend/girlfriend and then mention your upcoming wedding. Nice Doctor may not say anything, but Hot Doctor will correct you, and then you will look like a desperate creep.
4. It doesn't matter if you follow any of these rules. You will end up being embarrassed. Just be as nice as you can, try not to stutter too much, and don't make direct eye contact.

If you are in a hospital situation, just follow rule number four.

When your appointment is finished, and you've apologized to both Nice and Hot Doctor for crying/puking/accusing them of sorcery, you get dressed and walk out of the doctor's office as quickly as you can, not making eye contact with the receptionist. Nice Doctor wanted you to make another appointment, but you're confused, angry, and just a little bit sore. You'll call tomorrow because you just want to get the hell out of there and warn others of The Hot Doctor Law.

Heed my warning. It shall come to pass.

The Rules of Engagement

I became engaged on February 29th, 2009. I asked Jeff to marry me. He said yes.

If you didn't realize, that is a significant day for unmarried woman. It's a day when they are allowed to chase after unmarried men and propose to them. In the United States and Canada, it's know as Sadie Hawkins Day.

It all started in the 5th century, when St. Bridget was angry that women had to wait so long for men to propose. St. Patrick said, "What the heck. Desperate ladies can have this one day every four years so that they can propose the the man of their choice." In Scotland, a law was passed saying that women could ask for a gentleman's had in matrimony on this day. If a man refused, he was given a fine. Mind you, the fines weren't that severe. It could as strict as a kiss! In these enlightened times, we don't tend to look down upon a woman who proposes marriage to her significant other. Or do we?

I have never been a conventional person. One could say that I tend to march to the beat of a very different (but kick ass!) drummer. I sometimes enjoy turning an ideal on its head for re-examination. I like to make people scratch their heads and say, "Huh. I never expected her to do that." Right now, I have that reaction in abundance, some in a good way, some not so much.

Here are a few rules that have been passed along to me by people who shall remain nameless:

1. My engagement isn't real. Why? Because I asked him, not the other way around. Apparently, it's only official if the man pops the question. Where's this rule?


2. Because I do not sport a diamond ring that costs 3 months salary, my engagement is a sham. Excuse me?


3. The fact I do not sport a diamond ring at all, but instead a lovely silver ring, is a testament to the fact that my fiancee is "just not that into me". Um, he said yes. I'm pretty sure he's into me or he would have said no.


4. I paid for my own ring. Yes, I did! I'm not ashamed by this. Why should I be? If you have a good reason, let me know.


5. The idea I want to use my ring as my wedding ring (thus only having one ring) sends some people I know into a tizzy. There's no crime in only having one ring. It'll make it easier to keep track of it.

I didn't know there were rules. I didn't realize that getting a diamond ring was a prize after a long, complicated game. I didn't know I was supposed to win. The ring or the execution of a proposal is not the thing that matters. What matters is that the man I love is going to marry me.

What matters is that he said, "Yes, Anglia. I'd love to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you."

If that's not better than a diamond ring, I don't know what is. I think I'm a winner no matter what.

My Dad

My Dad died on October 7th, 1991 between 3:15 and 3:20 pm. I was 13 years old.
Cancer took him away very quickly, in about 6 months.
There are so many things I remember about the summer before he died. I can recall most of the campgrounds we stayed at, especially Glowing Embers. We stayed there while Dad was having chemotherapy. He had to drive himself to and from these sessions because my Mom couldn't drive.
I don't ever remember him complaining about this.
I remember when Mike Johnson and his dad, Dave, took me to a Edmonton Trappers baseball game. They were down because Mike had to have his wisdom teeth removed. I'll never forget when I turned to Mike and said (and I don't know why), "Wouldn't it be funny if they played The Beverly Hillbilly's theme song during the 7th inning stretch?" And lo and behold, they did. Poor Mike, with his cheeks swollen like a squirrel's. I'll never forget the kindness Mike and Dave showed me that week.
I don't ever remember my Dad getting so thin.
I remember swimming with Chris and Laurie and walking through a field full of bees and not getting stung once.
I don't remember when my Dad got so weak, he couldn't go to the bathroom without help.
I remember my 13th birthday, when my Dad got so mad at me, he yelled at me and called me a horrible name. I don't remember what I did to make him so angry. I recall my Mom telling me three years later that my Dad was so out of his mind with pain that day, he just lashed out. When he remembered what he said to me, he cried like a baby for a half hour.
I don't remember the day he went into the hospital, but I do know he never came back out. I remember that he wanted to die at home, but I don't remember why the hospital wouldn't let us take him there.
I can recollect everything I did the day of October the 7th, 1991 up until 3:25 pm. After that, I don't remember a damn thing.
For that, I am forever grateful.

Paris Hilton Went to Jail and All I Got Was This Smug Satisfaction.

So, Paris went to prison.
I think I peed a little with sheer joy. Of course, she's out now, but the point is : PARIS HILTON WENT TO JAIL!!
HA HA!
I hope this is the start of a new trend where celebrities are held accountable for their actions. Just because they are famous does not mean they get to follow a certain set of rules. They break the law, they get punished.
Why is it so hard for us regular folk to punish the famous? Do we fear them? I mean, celebrities can't love us any less. They don't even know us. Are we scared that they might get angry? What could they possibly take away from us? Are we frightened that they may not like us? Is that why we bow and scrape and let them do whatever they want?
I just don't get it.

Facebook Freakout!

Oh, the wonder that is Facebook! I can talk to people I saw just five minutes ago, or chat it up with someone I haven't spoken to since before I could walk.
It sort of freaks me out a little.
I mean, I'm sort of a social retard. I don't work well with others and tend to get a wee bit shy speaking with someone I hardly know or remember. Okay, that's a lie. I tend to dominate any conversation by speaking very loudly over top everyone else. Get a few Brown Cows in me, and I think that everyone around me within a 3 kilometre radius is hard of hearing and needs me to talk IN MY LOUDEST VOICE IN ORDER TO HEAR MY CLEVER QUIPS AND WITTY REMARKS!
So, I guess that still makes me a social retard...or a very fun drunk. I haven't decided yet, but I'm leaning toward the latter.
Maybe I'm just a computer retard. Yeah. That seems about right.

Jet

I saved a life today.

My sweet doggy, Jet, ran onto thin ice and fell through. Not all the way, but enough that she couldn't get pull herself up onto the frozen floe.

I thought she was going to die.

The ice was moving quickly down the North Saskachewan. I really thought she was going to die. The water was deep. The water was cold.

I know, because I went in after her.

I threw myself onto the floe, grabbed her harness and pulled her up. She was shaking, and quickly put the brakes on as I tried to push her towards Jeff and stable land.

She was scared. I was too. The funny thing was, when Jet first fell through, she kept her cool. She didn't start panicking or trying to swim away. She just held on to the ice, like she knew one of us would come for her. She trusted that one of us would save her.

I almost hesitated. I almost didn't do it. I almost thought that the floe would break under my weight.

It didn't.

I managed to coax her to jump to Jeff. Then I jumped.

The ice broke under my feet as I landed. I went in the water. Just like Jet, I couldn't pull myself up. I remember Jeff screaming my name, then his strong hands gripping mine as he pulled me to safety.

We're okay. No injuries save a few bruises and one dog's wounded pride.

We came so close to losing a life today. I'm glad we didn't.

The Gayest Love of All (Is Happening to Me)

Okay, I'm super excited. A few weekends from now, my best friend and I are going to have a Gay-A-Thon.

Yes, you read correctly. A Gay-A-Thon.

These are not for the faint of heart. I believe Jen scraped the bottom of the barrel on some of these. Mind you, we do have a few gems and some of them look fairly promising. (Revisit some old "Queer As Folk"? Don't mind if I do, Emmett!)

However, there is bound to be some crap. One such item is "Dante's Cove". From what I've gathered, it's about a young man who moves to a cove (Really?) with his boyfriend. He manages to release another guy (who has been imprisoned in the basement of some mansion for a few hundred years) with a kiss. (What?) This newly freed guy somehow falls in lust with Mr. I -Kiss-Strangers-Even-Though-I'm-In-A-Committed-Relationship (Of course!) and goes about wreaking general havoc.

Did I mention that the guy who had been trapped in the basement was imprisoned there by his wife? Who was a witch? And she spelled him there because he was having a gay affair? And she's also still alive after a few hundred years? And it was on cable because of its soft-core porn tendencies? Of course I didn't. That would ruin the fun of it all.

The tag line of this show? "Possessed and Undressed." Look, you can't make this shit up! Well, except for the people who came up with this idea.

Oddly enough, I'm looking forward to this show. There is only one thing I love as much as good t.v.... and that's bad t.v.

We all have our guilty pleasures. The television show/movie/song/band that if anybody found out we secretly loved, we would kill ourselves or others or possibly just die of embarrassment.

I'll go first.

My name is Anglia. I still love The New Kids on the Block. There. I said it.

What's your guilty pleasure? Don't worry. I won't tell anyone......but my blog might.