Temporary Insanity?

I put a question mark behind the title because I'm not sure how temporary this state is.  I am tired.  This is a recurring theme.  I seem to have reached a new level of exhaustion and I can't even blame it on work anymore.  I don't work a 40 hour plus week anymore.  Not outside of the home anyway.  Yet last night I was in bed by quarter after 8.  I read for a little while and then it was lights out somewhere around 8:30 and yet, I find myself fighting the urge to either be-head someone or cry.

This could be due in part to the fact that around 12 a.m. my three year old made his nightly appearance in our bed.  I took him back to his bed by 1 a.m. and roughly an hour later I was on the couch having given up sleeping with fucking Shrek. 

Shrek is my husband.  Who has some serious sinus or adenoid issues because the snoring is getting out of hand.  Yesterday morning I gave up and went and slept in my daughter's bed.  She was out of town so I had roughly an hour of silent sleep there.  I currently roam my house at night searching for quiet and slumber.

My arms are literally tired from trying to hold them up to type this.  I have zero energy.

My husband? Rolled out of bed sometime after 8.  He then huffed and puffed for awhile because the dog pissed on his jacket.  Not good behaviour on the dog's part but at least it saved me from having to do it.

Do I hate him?  No.  But motherfucker if that guy can't sleep his way through life.  There is nothing short of mind numbing pain that he can't sleep through.  Until whatever time he pleases.  You know how a lot of adults say they can't sleep in anymore?  He is not one of those people.

I am.  Although given my current state I think I could actually sleep in.  It feels like I could sleep for days and not be rested.  There are still Christmas cards to mail, presents to wrap, a meal to plan, baking to do and don't forget actual work.  Oh and I'm not done shopping yet either.

This is not a good time to be fading.  Yet here I am.  Faded. 

Shortly I will leave to take my oldest child to the orthodontist and I will be hitting Starbucks first to get a White Chocolate Peppermint Mocha.  Artificial energy is my only friend at present. 

I am considering giving up all together and letting my youngest sleep with my husband and just taking the kids bed.  Why?  Because when I went back to my room this morning they were snuggled up like two peas in a pod despite the fact that my husband continued to sound like he was choking on a fucking chainsaw.  The little man slept right through it.  So perhaps they'd be better off together and I can sleep a whole night through in Jr's bed.

Worth a shot?  I think it might be.  It's that or manslaughter charges...I plan to plead not guilty by, you guessed it, reason of temporary insanity.

A Blast From the Past

Friday, August 21, 2009



Out of the comfort zone


The other day my husband suggested I try something completely out of my comfort zone in response to my 100 millionth bitch about my job... I hate my job. This will be a recurring theme so may as well get it out of the way now. However, I have four kids, a mortgage, a car payment and a husband embarking on a new career so I'm stuck with it. I'm ridiculously envious of him because he's doing what he's always wanted to. And unless someone out there wants to pay me to make fun of others, that's not an attainable goal for me.


 So here I am. I wish, more than anything in the world, to be a writer. Original, I know. However after having just finished another Jen Lancaster book I'm sure this is my calling. Oh, and to write for the Chelsea Handler show and maybe someday make the round table....euphoria. However, when one lives in Saskatchewan and began breeding just about as soon as physically capable and didn't stop until a full 13 years later, my chances are greater that I will be spat on by a client.


I'm quite positive I'm not at liberty to divulge what my current job is but believe me, being spit on is entirely possible.


Posted by 77Cher at 8:37 PM

Out

I was bitchy yesterday. All day.  It had me wondering what was up and if I'm one of those people who'll never be content.  Then I showered, did my hair, put on some make-up and clean, semi-fitted clothing and left the house.  Lo and behold, I found myself in a better mood!

You see, like everything else, slob-ness must be done in moderation.  I spent the better part of my day in my favourite pair of sweatpants.  I left my house yesterday morning and I paired the sweats with a fleece hoody and tucked my hair up under my hat.  I looked like ass.  And it turns out, it meant I felt like ass too.

I'm not placing all the blame on my sweats.  There are other factors at play here.  Like my children.  The youngest continues to be an asshole and this time I'm referring to his tendency to come sleep with us in the night.  There is not enough room at the inn.  So I take him back to bed, and within an hour or two, he's back.  We sometimes do this up to three times a night.  This does not equal a rested me.  It actually itches a very bitchy me.  Especially first thing in the morning.

Christmas is coming and I can't quite decide how I feel about that just yet.  I like Christmas.  However, Christmas requires money.  I don't care you are.  And money is still in somewhat limited supply around here.  Not as bad as last year when the piece of shit my husband was working for stopped paying him, but it's still tight.  On the positive side though I am at home.  I can shop on a Monday morning.  I don't have to cram my baking into the two days before Christmas if I was lucky enough to get them off of work.  I don't have to return to work after Christmas.  I'll be working, but from my home.  So there definitely is an upside.

Bottom line is I need to get myself out of this house.  Not allow myself to be lulled by the promise of sweats and un-styled hair every day.   It just doesn't do this body good.  And as a kind friend warned me, I need to keep an eye on 'things' because sweat pants don't get tight.  Or at least not until a good 20 or 30 pounds has been gained, so jeans, once or twice a week (I'm not going to get crazy here), will serve more than one purpose.

Getting to Know You

So I can't remember what I have and haven't told you about my new career path but it involves working from home.  This is good.  Most of the time.

The rest of the time?  I long for an office devoid of three year olds who have no concept of time but insist on constantly inquiring about the time.  And then arguing with me about it.  A quiet office.  Free of dogs.  Where I don't need to holler "ENOUGH" upwards of nine times a day to no avail.

This is a learning journey.  For instance, my three year old, I've discovered, is kind of an asshole.   I knew this to be somewhat true but when I wasn't spending 24 hours a day with him, it was easy to look past it once you caught a glimpse of his big green eyes and devilish good looks.  Being together, all. of. the. time.  has brought a new truth to light.  He's a true baby of the family which basically translates into he never listens, shuns discipline but is such a laid back and fun loving guy you can't help but laugh at his latest asshole antic.

Today, upon being chastened, he advised he would be leaving and going to his "other home".  I inquired as to where this home might be.  Turns out he's got himself a little getaway pad in Saskatoon.  He's watched a lot of Home Alone lately and this has led to him wishing for me to disappear after again being disciplined.  Unfortunately for him, the likelihood of me going to Paris, with or without him, is about as likely as my being ID'd in Brooks, Alberta.  (read previous post).

So here are the perks to my current occupation:

1) Dress Code:  here at Penny Lane Inc. an elasticized waist is a requirement.  As is an over-sized hoodies paired with an equally over-sized t-shirt.  Socks are optional.  Make-up is even more optional.  Really, clean underwear and brushing one's teeth pretty much qualify one as C.E.O.

2) Commute:  Zero minutes.  No more near-aneurysm causing commutes behind one of our city's fair senior members.  No more shouting four-letter words at Gramps and Grams and then feeling guilty and like Baby Jebus is frowning on my bitterness towards all octogenarian drivers.

3) Co-workers:  Three year old, two dogs and two cats and for an hour at lunch, a six year old.  This is where it starts to fall apart a little.  But it's still bearable as I don't have to make bullshit small talk with any of them.

4) Management:  Technically I am self-employed so clearly the Management is beyond fantastic.  Funny in a cynically wonderful sarcastic manner.  No bullshit.  Doesn't frown upon my bare feet or sweat pants.

There you have it.  It's a pretty sweet deal that will only get sweeter at the end of this week when I get to venture out of the house back into the world of adults.  So I'll have to trade in the sweats for a day or two in exchange for some semi-professional wear but on the bright side, I will not have to bathe anyone midday when a poop has taken an unexpected turn for the worse.  I may have to make small talk but will not have to put my dog on time-out.  It's all about choices and for now, I choose to accept my youngest child, a product of my parenting, is kind of an asshole.  I also choose to recognize this is as close to having the best of both worlds that I've ever had, and for that?  

Well, for that, I am grateful. 

Hiatus Interrupted

So I've been fielding a few complaints about the lack of blogging.  Well, I think I'm back.  I've had a number of interesting and fun occurrences happen as of late and so I shall start to share.

First of all I went to Bassano last weekend to visit some family and put on a jewellery show.  Had a lovely time visiting with the ladies and such.  Then, my cousin took me out for a night on the town.  In Brooks.  For those of you not familiar Brooks is in Alberta.  It's not a large place by any means but is fairly close to Calgary.  I was not at all prepared for the diversity Brooks offers....

Everything from minorities to the inbred and one Lonely Lesbian.  I loved every minute of it.  Moose Jaw, the bustling metropolis from which I currently hail, is lacking diversity in a very real way.  This town couldn't get whiter and furthermore, that's the way the majority of the population prefers it.  This is Redneck Utopia.  People are openly racist and homophobic without any real fear of backlash.  And maybe the minorities living in Brooks face racism as well; in fact I'm sure they do, but that being said, the night was beautifully diverse. 

People were dancing.  Men were dancing with each other because they simply wished to dance and no one with breasts were available.  And the best part was, they didn't get beat up or mocked for it!  In Moose Jaw, I cannot guarantee the same would happen.

Usher was there.  Okay, so he's not actually Usher but this man has clearly spent some time admiring and modelling Usher's moves and did so with style and aplomb last Saturday night.  His Asian counter-part for whom I have no nickname, strutted his stuff in a cage at the second bar.  Yes, a cage.  No, I did not get in the cage.  I did however offend a shorter 'stockier' lady who seemed to think I had my eye on her man.  This man is a friend of my cousin's and I did indeed dance with him.  In a totally platonic, non-sexual manner.  There was no grinding.  I'm 33 and a married mother of four.  I don't grind.  There was more than respectable amount of space between us.  However, Mama Cass Jr. suspected there was more to it than met the eye and started throwing herself at me on the dance floor.  With that, I let my dance partner go and he was promptly embraced and ground upon by this woman.  She even treated him with a little booty shaking and displayed one of the biggest tramp stamps I have ever seen.

Lucky man.

So not sure if I mentioned it or not but my cousin is beautiful and has a body most woman would kill for.  She is also THREE WHOLE MONTHS OLDER than I am.  Still I found myself waiting inside the first bar while she ran back to her vehicle to get her ID.  She was actually ID'd.  I, however, WAS NOT.

That's all I have to say about that.

I made earlier mention of the inbred and a Lonely Lesbian.  The inbred boy bore an eerie resemblance to those mutants from The Hills Have Eyes.   He seemed comfortable enough with his lot in life though and made up for his unfortunate DNA by sporting a nice big belt buckle.  The sensibly dressed woman who moved from table to table in an effort to make friends?  Struggled but was soon accepted by some Trailer Park Boys-esque looking folks and all was well.  I have no confirmation she is indeed a lesbian but in any event it appears being a minority in Brooks is slightly more acceptable than being a gay woman.  This is unfortunate.  Is there any place in this world that is entirely inclusive?  Is there any society that supports such a thing?

This is a more serious topic for another time.

And in other news:  I quit my job!!  This is fantastic and I believe now that I quit I can divulge where I worked...Superstore.  For those of you not familiar, Superstore is a grocery store but with much more than food and I was lucky enough to work in the Electronics Department.  My supervisor has one of the tightest mullets I've seen in some time and a strong love of all things Disney.  I worked with a multitude of asshole adolescents and illiterates.  The best part of this job was the mindlessness of it and one of my co-workers who is an exceptionally hard worker and a great lady.  I'll be sad to say good bye to her but the a-hole teens and even more ignorant customers?  So long fuckers.

And now?  Well now I have a lovely new opportunity.  And that's all I'm going to say about it.  Well that and I'm extremely excited and thrilled.

So blogging will resume on what I hope is a fairly regular basis.  I'm also looking for any takers on a road trip to Brooks...

Hiatus

I'm taking the smallest of hiatuses from blogging.  This makes me sad.  For the last year and a bit it's been one small (actually large) ray of light in my sometimes otherwise challenging life.  Right now though, there absolutely is no time. In fact, I should be in bed right now because I have to work at 6 a.m. tomorrow. 

There is another job on the horizon that I very much want but my chances are a little less than what I originally want; should the planets align and I do get that job?  Relief, happiness, excitement, nervousness...these will be the many feelings ruling my world.  And what else? I may have time to blog again.  No longer will I be at the mercy of shift work being treated like a moron in a vest.  If I don't get this job?  I will survive and continue to rock my vest and work on the other ventures currently stealing my time.  Not to mention my family and Christmas bearing down on us.

Blogging?  Well that will depend on many things.  I'm feeling very uninspired.  Discouraged even. 

Well, that's enough of the Pity Party.  Stay tuned because I will be back.  Please don't say that to yourself with a Schwarzenegger accent...I did, but that's beside the point.

Take Care Friends.

Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms

So for anyone not in a helping profession or related field, the title makes little sense to you. However, if common sense is your friend, and obviously it is because you're reading this blog, then you can figure it out...

This has been a busy week.  Our vehicle has been giving us trouble, yet again and this sends my husband into a flurry of activity that involves test driving numerous vehicles.  He acts like this is a chore but he likes it.  The beauty part of it is, I refuse to enter the dealership he's been frequenting because their customer service is perhaps among the worst in the free world; so he goes and deals with them face to face, brings the numbers and the vehicle to me and they I give my yay or nay.  Except tonight I might have to break down and go to the actual dealership with him.  This is where most likely the salesman (and he is indeed male), will begin by largely making eye contact with Ryan and directing the sales pitch at him.  Then I will start talking and eventually he'll realize that despite the fact I have a vagina, I am capable of math, decision making and speaking out loud.

Is this unfair of me?

No.

In the time we've been together we've bought two homes and a vehicle among other things.  Typically when we deal with males sales people this is how they begin.  Like it's 1946 and Ryan only brought along the little woman to get her out of the kitchen for awhile.  Then I start talking.  At first they can't figure out why I haven't been trained to keep my mouth shut, but eventually they realize I am indeed making sense and we work from there.  It's tiring getting them to that point though.  Even when I ditch my skirt, heels and pearls for a pair of pants and runners.  Maybe it's my 'up-do' and red lipstick that throw them off...

In any event, life continues to be busy and fraught with stress and worry and general somewhat organized chaos.

So what 'self-care' practises do I utilize to make sure this mommy is a happy one? 

Well, right now I have a box of Halloween candy beside me.  And a glass of milk in front of me.  So far I've eaten roughly seven 'Fun-Size' Twix bars and four Snickers.  And I'm not done.

I fed my children pizza pops because I didn't take anything out of the freezer for supper and the dishes didn't get done last night.  They followed up the pizza pops with pudding and are now on to cheese strings.  I attempted to sneak some grapes into the equation, under the pretense of being a good mother who provides her children with choices from all four food groups, but they politely declined. 

I am not setting a good example at present but due to their under-developed observational skills they have yet to notice mommy is gorging herself on candy as opposed to eating an actual meal. 

Do I feel any better?  More relaxed?  In control of my life?

No, kind of, and no.

Will I regret this binge later?

Yep.

Will I choose exercise instead next time?

Likely not?

Alcohol?

Should the opportunity present itself.

For now though, I gotta go.  I'm almost out of milk.

L'Amour

We left off with the story of my fairytale romance and I'm here today to cause further swooning at the magic that is my life.

So as we've covered, yesterday was indeed my anniversary.  My Eighth.  And apparently the Eighth is the least significant of all.  Or at least we treated it as such.

Ryan went to work and I had a day 'off'.  My day 'off' was spent doing laundry, cleaning our disgustingly filthy vertical blinds, and doing other household chores. We had a gourmet meal of mini meatloaves and 'Sidekicks' after which my husband retired to the basement to play XBox with our six year old and I did the dishes.  We had talked about maybe going to Jackass 3 after Justine got home from Drama Rehearsal.  Let the swooning begin.

Just before 9, when I was off to pick Justine up, Ryan asked if I still wanted to go to the movie.  I asked him the same question in reply.  He stated he did but that he was really tired, as was I.  So we decided to forgo the movie.  He said we'd go on the weekend.  Friday night will be our date night.  Yeah, except I work at 6 a.m. Saturday, therefore have to get up at 5 a.m., so nope, that won't work.  Saturday night would maybe be an option but I have a party (I hawk jewelry on the side), so nope that won't work either... 

Instead, we settled on a run to the local 7-11 and a recorded episode of Criminal Minds watched with our two oldest children.  Nothing says passion like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and serial killers.

When it was over I went to bed.  Ryan did not.  He likes to watch SportsNet after we've all gone to bed because it's really the only time he can.  I read for a bit and fell fast asleep.

Read between the lines people...can't you just feel the heat?

At about 3:30 a.m. our three year old came to sleep with us.  I let him for a bit but ended up wedged between him and Ryan.  Ryan who was snoring. Beyond loudly.  So I got up and sent the little man back to his own bed and climbed back into bed with Ryan.  He continued to snore.  I shoved him and he responded with a grunt.  I advised him he was snoring quite loudly.  He said I had been too and promptly went back to sleep.

I admit, I may have been snoring but here's the difference, he can sleep anyway.  He can sleep through anything.  I know for certain he can sleep through crying babies and three year olds who climb into our bed in the middle of the night.  He can sleep through two little boys making a train wreck of our house in the morning (this is on the mornings when he gets up with the boys so I can sleep in; these are few and far between.  And basically he just falls back asleep on the couch while they run roughshod over our home).  Anyway, I decided my best bet would be to sleep on the couch.

So I did.

Happy Anniversary.

That being said, he literally just called to let me know he put the window scraper in my vehicle for me in case I need it later.

Maybe that's what eight years means.  It might not mean fancy dinners or evenings out.  It might not mean a night of unbridled passion.  It might mean knowing who we are and what we are and knowing it's okay to celebrate with junk food, our kids and network television.  And I think it definitely means taking care of each other.  Making sure we have our window scrapers should we need them, on this first snowfall of the season.

Mostly it means we've made it eight years after deciding just short of four months after meeting that we would get married, and doing so a mere six months after that. 

It means we are lucky.

White Trash Wedding

Tomorrow is our Anniversary.  As of tomorrow we will have been married for eight whole years.  I know in the grand scheme of things, this is child's play; however, marriage is never as easy as that.

We had a storybook beginning....or at least I wish we did.  We actually met in a bar.  A bar called 'The Pump'; that in and of itself reeks of romance and class, does it not?  Anyway, that fateful January 4th, I went out, when not really even in the mood to, with two of my best friends at the time.  I say at the time because even though I still think one is a super person, we have mostly lost touch, so best friends, I no longer think we are but there was a time when we were bestest of friends.  The other chum?  Well that would be my most ignorant of all slut friends, Jane.  Jane is not her real name but in keeping with the grand Saturday Night Live tradition, she shall henceforth be known as Jane, the Ignorant Slut.  If you don't get that reference I feel sad for you.  Google it.

Anyway, out Jane, the Tex Pistol and I went.  It was only three short days after New Year's.  I had gotten beyond drunk that New Year's Eve and rang in 2002 by puking my guts out until about 9 p.m. January 1.  I wasn't really in the mood to go out on the 4th, but as Tex and I hadn't spent much time together, I figured what the hell.  My kids were with their dad and it would be a quiet night.

Or not.

We began by drinking wine and engaging in some witty political banter with the cab driver on the way to the bar.  We entered The Pump and it wasn't long into the evening when Tex ran into some people he knew.  People he knew, but Jane and I did not.  So while he was visiting we were left at a table with veritable strangers.  One of the strangers then asked who would be interested in doing a shot?  I figured what the hell and with that we all downed a shot of Baja Rosa. 

And that my friends, is it where it all began.  Is anyone really surprised that my husband was able to pick me up with the offer of a shot?  I mean, that's not all it took.  We talked and danced and even discussed our respective views on marriage.  I'm not sure how or why we even got on the subject of marriage and he stated when he got married it was going to be for keeps.  Duh.  That's what most people plan on.  Not many get married with the intention of 'giving it a whirl' for a year or two and then parting ways. Not unless you are being sponsored by ABC, anyway. 

It was then I shared with him that I was in fact divorcing my husband and had two children. 

It was then that he began back pedalling.

Obviously successfully.

The next night I dragged another good friend out to the bar with me.  She did not want to go out either but because she is one of the most loyal people I have ever met, and a very good friend, she came.  And I met up with Mr. Baja Rosa again.

Mr. Rosa actually lived in Calgary, Alberta at the time.  This was roughly seven hours away from where I lived.  The ironic part was he was born and raised in Moose Jaw, which was a mere forty minutes away from where I was living.

A long distance relationship began.  He liked to talk on the phone.  A lot.  And because I was smitten and falling in love with him, I thought this was fucking fantastic.  I remember boasting to friends that we'd spent six hours on the phone in one sitting.  Cut to eight years later and his love of phone chatter is no longer as fantastic.  It is nearly impossible to get off the phone with the man.  Although, after eight years, he is quite tolerant of my phone abruptness and charming way with words, as in: "I'm done talking now. Bye."

We met on January 4, 2002 and married on October 25, 2002.  Between the two of us we did not have a great deal of money and in a fun turn of events, we currently do not have a great deal of money.  However at that time we were full of hope and optimism and whimsy.  We decided to elope.  We told our families we were getting married but advised they would not be made aware of such until after the fact.  So on October 24, 2002, Jane and I made our way to Calgary for the wedding.  Ryan (Mr. Rosa) was working there at the time and his best friend lived there and was going to be our best man.  I looked after the rings; Ryan looked after the ceremony.

At the time the Dixie Chicks had recently released a CD with the song White Trash Wedding on it.  The chorus goes something like this: You can't afford no ring...you can't afford no ring...I shouldn't be wearin' white and you can't afford no ring.  Jane and I laughed it up all the way to Calgary at the irony in that as Ryan had not given me an actual engagement ring due to limited funds.  I instead wore his Grandpa's Shriner's ring and we were going to be exchanging simple gold bands at the ceremony.  Little did we know how much more irony would present itself during the days to come...

You see neither of us are religious people and so were going to have a JP marry us.  Ryan was in charge of that.  We were getting married at 7 p.m.  The five of us: myself, Ryan, Jane, Jason the best man and his wife, Karla, left at about 6:30 p.m.   The first address we pulled up at was a trailer.  Everyone was silent.  Then Ryan realized it was the wrong address and nervous laughter broke out.  Nobody really wants to get married in a trailer.  Or at the very least, I didn't.

So we carried on and found the correct address.  Ryan had only spoken with this woman on the phone and she assured him her home was a lovely setting for a wedding.  Her home, was indeed, a trailer. No joke.  So, with little choice we went in.  And true enough, her living room was nice.  She had a fireplace and it was in front of that we exchanged our vows.  During which the toilet flushed.  I'm assuming that was her husband.  Upon leaving she asked us to close the gate to make sure not to let the dogs out.

Fairy tale romance, I know.

We followed this high class ceremony with a drunken tail gate party on the Sunday where my new husband challenged a self-proclaimed former heroin addict to a beer chugging contest. My groom was victorious and I was again swept off my feet.

Yet here we still are, eight years later.  I had two kids coming into the deal and now we have two more.  I had two cats coming into the deal and now we have two dogs as well.  We both had stable jobs coming into the deal and now neither of us do.  Yet, in terms of our White Trash Wedding, I have no regrets.

You see, he thinks I'm funny.  And even when he doesn't think I'm funny, he enjoys how funny I think I am.  Most of the time, anyway.  He tolerates my tendency to break out into song at any given time.  For as much as I'm negative, he's positive.  And we have fun together. 

When he met me, I had The Boys.  There are not many men who would've been comfortable with their girlfriend being seven hours away and spending most of her child-free weekends with a group of guys, drinking and hanging out.  And while he may not have been entirely comfortable with it, he never let on to me. He was amazingly cool about it and I'm a big enough person to admit had the tables been turned, I would not have been as cool.

Don't get me wrong, he's lucky too.  I am, after all, quite funny and have impeccable taste in music.  I'm a great time after a few drinks and even without.  I can hang with the guys but dress like a girl. 

We're a good match and better yet, despite being married in a trailer, we don't live in one.

Yet.

Happy Anniversary Ryan!

Raising the Roof

This will be short people because I have to be at work in less than an hour and am currently wearing my favourite sweat pants (shocker, I know) and am sans make-up.  It is best if I try not to leave the house too often without make-up for the general good of society. 

Anyway, it's on like Donkey Kong (whatever, I know it's lame, shut up).   It's fundraising time again.  For those of you who've known me for a little while now, you'll remember the bitterness creeping up on hatred-kind of feelings I have for fundraising.  However when the little darlings wish to go to Europe and Mommy got her ass fired for writing mean things on line, then fundraising is a must.

Just so we are clear on my previous fundraising experience check this out over on Searching.  I do believe it speaks volumes.

Anyway, last night marked the first meeting into the 7th Circle of Hell that is Fundraising and I bit the bullet and volunteered to help run one of the groups.  Why would I do this if I hate it so much?  Well because then I have some actual control.  Then I won't have to listen someone sound out the word 'Memorial' ever again.  At least not a grown woman.  And yes, this happened during my previous experience.  There will be actual minutes.  There will be a level of organization.  Hopefully, and I say this with careful optimism, I won't want to scrape out my eyeballs with a melon baller during each and every meeting.  The meetings will have purpose.  They will not drag on unnecessarily while we discuss wait times at the local Emergency Room (also happened).

Basically I am a person who is short on patience (I know, again, you didn't see that one coming) but will work hard when there is a purpose and will do my best.  It's hard for me to do those things when saddled with illiterates who have nothing but time on their hands for idle chatter and plain old dumb-assed-ness.

I will keep you posted on this journey.  A journey that starts now but will not end until roughly December of next year.  This should provide a decent amount of fodder for your entertainment.

Now who wants to buy raffle tickets?  Chocolates?  Volunteer their garage for a bottle drive?

God help me...

Frustration

I am becoming increasingly bothered by my lack of time to blog.  I've taken the last half an hour to get caught up on my email and such and in that time, I realized how out of the loop I am.  I can't remember the last time I read Pretty All True which became glaringly evident when I noted today, via Facebook, she is having a contest of sorts and posting her favourite blogs.  Guess who's not even in the running?

Me.

Why?

I didn't know about it because I don't have time to read it and when I do get any down time, as of late, I use it to either a) sit like a zombie in front of the TV or b) eat something not good for me or c) both of the above.

This sucks ass.  For any of you who've been around for any length of time you likely have caught on that I idolize Kris over there at PAT and it would be the ultimate validation or reward to have her recommend my blog and post it right there on hers. It would be akin to Jax from Sons of Anarchy showing up at my house on his Harley and declaring his love for this mother of four who has neglected the gym for quite some time now while at the same time paying extra-special attention to cookies, chocolate and ice cream (in no particular order).  He'd be all like, "Oooh, it's so sexy they way you're all nice and soft and squishy; I hate women with flat stomachs and pert breasts".  Then he'd tell me I'm insanely sexy not only because my roots are showing and that the white patch of hair at the very front of my head is driving him wild with desire but that he also can't get enough of my sweat pants.  He's wax on poetic about the wiles of women in elastic waisted pants.   Then he'd throw me on the back of his bike and we'd ride off into the sunset (Charming) where I'd become Gemma's protege, because I'm seriously more bad ass than Tara, and his old lady for keeps.

Or something along those lines anyway; I really haven't given it much thought.

For the time being though, I need to finish making supper, feed these people, drive my daughter to Drama rehearsal, make a couple of work-related phone calls, bathe some of these people and then work on a my other website.  The only chance of any part of the above fantasy coming true is the fact that I am currently wearing sweat pants and my roots are showing.  I'm not expecting Jax; instead my own husband, in a Chevy half-ton, who never appreciates my sweat pants for their hidden sex appeal.

Jerk.

I Hate Jersey Shore

At the urging of a most trusted friend, I watched my first episode of Jersey Shore last night.  She is no longer trustworthy.  She is still my friend only because this is her first real slip of any kind.  Where do I begin?  With why I hated the show or how this has cast a dark shadow on a once pristine friendship?

Let's begin with the sheer hatred I have for the cast of Jersey Shore.  They sweat profusely.  They are not fun to watch party while intoxicated.  They are the kind of people I would steer clear of at all costs if I actually had a social life and didn't spend the better part of my days cleaning up after the five ungrateful a-holes I live with.  The Situation is a fucking dink.  Seriously.  The episode I watched had him trying to steal his friend's ultra-hot Romanian model girlfriend and smacking Snooki on the mouth when he was ready to leave the bar and she didn't want to.  And Snooki looks like a Troll doll.  A slutty little Troll Doll.

Exhibit A


Exhibit B


Now the Troll doll is incapable of eating or consuming alcohol so it doesn't have quite the same level of curvaceousness as Snooki but take note of the wide eyes, unnatural skin tone and clearly inspiration for the 'pouf'.

She seems like a nice enough girl but I need her to do a better job of keeping her ass and va-jay-jay under wraps.  I don't want to see it.  I also am tired of looking at her tits and I've only watched one episode; watched her on Leno once and laughed at her on Ellen when she guessed one of the 12 Original Colonies was Canada.  She also dances like a whore and did I mention the profuse sweating?

Back to the Situation.  Douche.  The End.

They are all so unbelievably unintelligent and vapid and while I loves me some Reality TV; I can't stomach this.

Back to the damaged friendship; I gave her Sons of Anarchy.  Which includes Jax.  The mother trucking hottest bad ass biker there ever was.  He's smart.  He's tough.  He rides a Harley.  Pauly D has fucked up  hair and  a bad tan.  SOA also has Gemma.  She's smart.  She's got biker chick down to fine form and she will cutabitch, if the situation presents itself.  Gemma and Jax are both in possession of a natural skin tone and anti-perspirant. 

So where will 'Stacey' and I go from here?  I'm not sure but it's going to entail drinking our calories, chips and dip, five cent candies, chocolate and Season 2 of SOA.  It's the least she can do for taking away approximately 40 minutes of my life I will never get back (thank God I recorded it and could fast forward through the commercials).

What I don't get is the huge following Jersey Shore has?  What is wrong with you people?  I am committed to, in no particular order, The Biggest Loser, The Amazing Race, Big Brother, 19 and Counting, Hoarders, Intervention...it's a long list.  I like reality TV.  If Jersey Shore is to be categorized as such, and I believe it is, who the fucks reality is that?

Who?

Yesterday, before watching Jersey Shore, I was feeling all grateful and in a Thanksgiving-y kind of mood (for my American friends, it is Thanksgiving in Canada today).  Then I watched that and spent the better part of today cleaning toilets and doing laundry so gone is grateful and here is bitchy.

Happy Thanksgiving Mother Truckers and a solid set of Double F's to Stacey...with Love.

Edgy Mama

Raawrrr.  That's not a sexy roar either.  I very rarely do intentional sexy.  I'm not sure how often I even manage unintentional sexy but intentional sexy?  Never.

That's a bitch roar.  One that's making my husband eye me up and continually ask: "What's wrong?"  Um, you and your easygoing ass self.  He never worries. He's as laid back as they come whereas I'm wound up like a fucking clock.  A clock on the edge.  Tick tock tick tock tick tock BACK THE FUCK OFF tick tock tick tick tick.

Just like that.

Why?

Because I'm having one of those days where it feels like there is never enough time and my house is messy and fucking Mork is on the couch watching SportsNet.  If you don't get the Mork reference, please Google.  Again, time is a factor here people.

His mother, equally laid back but somewhat more inclined to understand, was here watching our children today and did the dishes when she was here.  I pointed this out to him and said how grateful I was but also somewhat perplexed as to why they hadn't been done prior to her arrival.

Well, friends and neighbours, Mork unexpectedly had to work this afternoon.  This does not account for the hours between 8:30 a.m. and Noon today, but all the same he did put in a load of laundry and get his truck washed in that time.

I'd like to fucking saw that truck in half.

He likes trucks.

Like non-stop talk about a new truck even though he bought his current one three years ago after I explicitly asked him not to because I was on maternity leave which means tight finances.  Taking some sort of torch to his truck and sawing it in half would provide me momentary relief of my current bubbling rage.  And would create a less than laid back reaction from him.  Or I could just ask him to clean up the kitchen which is in a current state of disarray.  This would also upset him.  Unless I was his relative or friend.  If our kitchen was in someone else's house entirely, not only would he wash their dishes, he'd replace their cupboards and clean the stove if asked.

Anyone else have this problem?  He is the most generous helpful energetic guy the minute he leaves our driveway.  There is not enough he can do for his aunts, uncles, parents, friends and acquaintances.  I'm considering starting to dress myself and the children in disguise to get a little help around here.  I do a mean accent;  the kids will learn.

Sigh.  Stupid thing is, for whatever God forsaken reason, I love Mork.  This month will mark our eighth wedding anniversary.  Eight years, gone just like that.   We married ten months after we met.  Stupid ass Mork makes me laugh sometimes.  Fucking Mork.

So how's this for relationship management; instead of snapping on his happy-go-lucky ass, I simply call him out on-line and provide him with a nickname to amuse myself, and hopefully you my lovely Internet friends.  Although Mork sometimes had some frenetic energy.  My husband does not.  The only thing he gets 'frenetic' about is trucks.  And the Oilers.

What he does not get frenetic about?  Is this blog.  So I can pretty much write whatever I please and he's none the wiser.  When people comment on him not reading it, his stock reply is : "I don't have to read it, I live it." 

tick tick tick tick tock.

Shitty Spirits

Let's begin with a small bit of good news:  Driven is at #14 on Top Mommy Blogs!! Keep up the good work people.  However there is a nasty rumour being spread by Kris over at Pretty All True that they are going to re-set the counters or whatever.  So keep voting, please.

Or in true Driven fashion, consider this: You'd better fucking vote, mother truckers! tee hee (you know what's even funnier is my fingers have a mind of their own and automatically typed out the real word, if you know what I mean.  If you don't, please leave, I don't have time for you).

Yes, I'm feeling a little full of piss and vinegar tonight.  Not sure why.  I've had about seven mood swings since I got home and it appears I'm on an upswing.  Partly because of the 14th place shit and partly because I've turned to my dear friend, music, to lift my shitty spirits.

Why did I have shitty spirits in the first place? Well I'm tired.  What else is new.  I had to do some mundane cleaning at work today and that always kind of sucks.  My son lost his starting position on the football team and my daughter is yelled at constantly by her soccer coach and I'm at a loss as what to do.

I never ever want to be one of those parents who is every coach's nightmare.  I don't turn a blind eye or sugarcoat shit, never mind the behaviour of my children.  Case in point:  my son had a shitty game Saturday.  He did.  It's a fact.  But the rest of the time? He's a solid player. Starting Center.  I couldn't be prouder.  I still am proud.  However the head coach appears to be having some kind of power trip issue and stripped him of his position to which my kid replied: "Whatever's best for the team."  And meant it.

My son.

I think those of you who know me well know what I would've done in that situation;  it would've involved nicknames and getting fired.

He is a good kid.

As is my daughter.  She is a good soccer player. It is her first year playing high school soccer.  The coach likes to yell.  Justine feels she is being singled out with the yelling.   I don't know what to tell her.  I've watched enough sitcoms to know it is not a good idea to ask the coach not to yell at my child but at the same time, she needs to shut the fuck up.  These are 13-17 year old girls.  Screaming at them about soccer is stupid.  I can appreciate competitiveness.  I myself could be considered slightly competitive.  Which is why I do not coach.  Which is why I try to bite my lip at my children's sporting events.  I'm also slightly passionate.  About nearly everything.

So earlier this evening, before Fleetwood Mac, Ray Charles and the Black Crowes, I had a small rant.  Then I drove Justine to drama and listened to Fleetwood Mac on the way home.  Is there anything better.  'Rumours' was no joke.  That album came out the year I was born.

Ooo, and currently my six year old is smacking his ass with an empty granola bar box whilst dancing to 'Jealous Again' by the Black Crowes. 'Shake Your Money Maker' came out when I was 14 and has been one of my all time favourites since.

My point, and I do have one, is music makes me feel better, I was in shitty spirits but now I'm not, my kids are fucking awesome and those coaches might be douche bags.

And finally, I'm number fucking 14 on the Top Mommy Blog list in the humour section so get your asses over there and vote some more.

Thanks Mother Truckers.

No More

I think I've written about this before but given my life as of late I think it bears further discussion.  Whatever happened to feminism?  Seriously.

Most of my University career was spent examining the perils of a patriarchal society.  Study of how women fought for the vote; for the right to choose; for equal pay for equal work.  I have a friend who often laments the feminist movement because in her eyes, if it never existed she would not have to leave the home to work and could happily spend her days homemaking.  However I don't think feminism is to blame.

Many women prefer to work outside of the home.  Some have very little choice in the matter based on financial need.  Feminists recognized this and the Women's Movement, in part, was in effort to ensure these women were/are being properly compensated for their work despite the fact they don't have penises.

So why the history lesson? 

Here's why...people have been writing about the Double Day or the Double Work-Week, in reference to women, for at least thirty years now and yet nothing has changed.  Nearly all of the women I know work a full-time job and still do the lion's share of the house work, child rearing and cooking.  And on top of that, are now mired in trying to attain nearly impossible standards of 'beauty'.  Booking waxing appointments, working out in their free time and condemning themselves time and time again each time a cookie or chip passes their lips.

I'm not suggesting Feminism means not taking care of ourselves, but more often than not, the appointments and work-outs are geared toward attaining these unattainable standards and less about self-care.

And men?  Men will help when asked and expect a certain amount of acknowledgement (preferred 'acknowledgement', for most men means more than a hug or a simple Thank You, but that's what most of them can expect). Yet when we clean the house from top to bottom, chauffeur our children to their 17 different games and meetings, it is more expected than acknowledged.

 Men, whether they are 98 pound weaklings or 'big boned' fellas, could not be prouder of their physiques (penises) and feel we, as women, should be equally enamoured.  Most of the time, many of us would prefer to 'enamour' with the lights off and shudder at the thought of full nudity in broad daylight in front of anyone, even our husbands who take such pride in their less-than-perfect bodies it usually requires dancing when coming out of the shower.

Men do not understand what our fixation is on our weight and assure us we look 'just fine'.  If they are convincing enough this may be believable for a moment.  Until a size 6 walks past in tight jeans and Bubba nearly loses his balance and suffers from whiplash trying to take in her ass as she saunters past.  And we admonish him for looking, lament our love handles and storm off tearfully at his failure to understand.

Then later, make-up-less and in sweat pants, enjoying our evening snack, we veritably howl like she-wolves at our favourite leading man on the television.  And God help him if he says anything. We are entitled, he is not.

It's all pretty fucked up, if you ask me.

Back to feminism...it's dead.  Posh killed it.  So did Brooke Burke.  And any other celebrity who has four, three or even one child and then poses in a bikini within weeks. Heidi-fucking-Klum ring a bell?

And we fall for it, time and time again.  Berate ourselves, beat ourselves up for not looking like that within weeks, months or ahem, years, of birthing the little monsters ourselves.  And our husbands look on, blase, scratching their bellies, think about losing five pounds and drop 10 after a brisk walk with the dog, and we are left bitter, bloated and bitchy.

Or it's the friend who appears to be some strange breed of Super Mom.  She's thin.  She always looks perfect. Hair done, make-up done.  Her children are clean and well-behaved. Her home is immaculate.  And again, we beat ourselves up for not being as efficient or as "good" as her.  What we forget, is that she, is busy beating herself up too.  For likely a multitude of reasons.

This is where the death of Feminism and current pop culture has gotten us.  Self-doubting and self-berating our inability to measure up.

Today's most relate-able television character is Frankie Heck on The Middle.  Their house does not look like it was decorated by Martha Stewart herself; they eat fast-food; their children are not perfect.  Yet, the show loses some of it's effectiveness in terms of social consciousness by the sheer silliness of it.  Yes it's entertaining, but real?  Not quite.

So where does this leave us?  What's the answer?  I think it hearkens back to a post by Single Dad Laughing on perfection.  We speak up.  We no longer apologize for the condition of our home, no matter how clean or dirty, when a friend pops by.  We ask for help.  We stop berating our bodies and ourselves for not attaining perfection.  Perfection is boring anyway.  Perfection does not leave work two hours early without any other explanation than a misunderstanding of military time.  Perfection does not leave the house with two different shoes on.  Perfection?  Does not laugh.

And above all, I think we need to laugh.

We need to laugh and we need to value ourselves enough to tell Bubba what he needs to do to demonstrate how much he values what we do as well.  Time and time again the 'experts' on marriage say the best way to get a man to help around the house is to show gratitude and appreciation for his efforts.  Well guess what mother truckers, maybe it's time the tables were turned.  Maybe it's time we take the wheel on that one and starting asking for the same.

Maybe it's time for us to proudly strut our stuff upon coming out of the shower...

Too far?

Well whatever the case, this will not be the last you'll hear from me.  I have much more to say.  From my sons already taking me for granted to my sometimes wish, on particularly bad days, that my daughter will never marry or have children.  Simply because I shudder to think of her someday burning her candle at both ends in this miserable search for perfection that doesn't exist.

Like I said, those are particularly bad days.  On the not so bad days, I wear my slippers in an effort to avoid crumbs on the soles of my feet in the kitchen; I make grilled cheese and french fries for supper and I wear sweat pants and eat chocolate sans guilt.

Maybe instead of labelling this all as Feminism,which I know sometimes puts people off for a number of (stupid) reasons, let's focus on less guilt.  No more feeling guilty for a less than immaculate home.  No more guilt for enjoying a treat; whether that be chocolate, chips, a beer or a pop, or all of the above.

No more.

Sleep

I am starting to really worry about money.  Which therefore means I am not sleeping worth a fuck and my neck and shoulders are killing me.  And because I spend the better part, if not all, of my working days on my feet?  My back and feet are also killing me.  Which again does not help with the sleep.  I also have a bitch of a time with sciatica and my hip is killing me.

I'm aware of how much I sound like the senior citizens I proclaim to 'hate' anytime I have to drive somewhere in this city overrun by them.  Keep in mind my affinity for grape flavoured vodka, Sublime and Jax from Sons of Anarchy.  I'm hoping this speaks to my innate bad-assed-ness. 

All of this on top of my three year old's nightly jaunt to our bed is wearing me down.  I worked at 6 a.m. today and when I spoke to my husband around 9 a.m. and told him how I had to go sleep in another bed last night, due to said three year old's intrusion, his reply was "you should've taken him back to bed".  Thanks Tips.  Number one, he'll just come back.  Number two, it's warm in the bed and whether I am sleeping or not, I don't want to get out of bed.  Number three, that kid is incredibly cute when he's sleeping and I like to snuggle him.

Number 4:  Maybe, one time, you could fucking wake up and take him back to bed.  Maybe.  You think?

Nope.  My husband is blessed with the gift of sleep.  A knack for it really.  For the sleeping, for radiating an obscene amount of heat while doing so, and on occasion, gas; and then there is the fucking snoring which would wake anyone and anything except for him, apparently.

He says I snore.  I beg to differ; if I do snore, I'm sure it's a sound akin to that of kittens purring.  Soothing and sweet.

My husband would like to maybe go out tonight.  I've been up, officially, since 5 a.m. but didn't really sleep between roughly 2:30 a.m. and 4 a.m.  I had to get up and go sleep in our daughter's bed.  She was gone for the night.  She has this funky green shag sort of blanket. It's fuzzy on one side and smooth satin-y material on the other side. The smooth satin-y bit is the part that's against one's body when sleeping. Or in my case, the smooth satin-y part is what my sandpaper like heels caught on about 17 times when I was trying to get settled.

All in all, I just want to sum this up with saying I've never felt more alive, sexy and energetic in all my days.  There is nothing more I'd rather do than go out tonight.  There is no way I'd rather just stay put here in my elastic-waisted pants, with a blanket and copious amounts of junk food...Nope. Nuh-uh. Not me.

Bring on the party.

Yawn...

Worth the Wait

This is my third attempt at writing this post.  The first one I deleted accidentally, the second one was too whiny and self-serving.  So here I go again; Round Three.

I want to start by saying how frustrating it is for me, personally, not being able to post daily as I did for most of the summer.  I am exceedingly grateful to all of you who follow me and comment and have stuck with me through thick (this summer) and thin (the present). 

So I no longer work full time but cannot find the time or energy to post daily.  What I neglected to account for was the full tilt schedule our family runs on September through November.  There is football, soccer, swimming lessons and hockey.  I am also running a bit of a home-based business.  So between that and the kids' extra-curricular activities, every evening and weekend are currently spoken for.

At times I'll start writing a post in my head and then abandon it because I either don't have the energy and/or the time to get it down 'on paper'.  For instance, I took part in a Bridal Show this weekend and that would've provided some great material but now, it's gone, lost in the abyss of the twenty million things I have running through my mind at any given moment.

Yesterday was my day off from my part-time gig.  You know the one where I wear my uniform, stand for the entire shift and negotiate the strange and mysterious workings of the 24 Hour Clock.  That job, turns out, while easy-peasy brain-wise, is beginning to wreak havoc on me physically.  Sore feet, sore legs, sore hips...no fun.  Then to top it all off, my first day off, Sunday, I spent at the Bridal Show, also on my feet, in heels, assaulting women with jewelry.  That did not help the sore-ness factor. 

And yesterday, my second day off, was spent trying to save our home from being featured on an upcoming episode of Hoarders.  So now my back, neck and shoulders hurt too.  I am not a neat-freak.  I may have mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) but trust me, this house needed cleaning.  I was merely trying to achieve a state of cleanliness that would allow me to walk barefoot in my home comfortably and enter a bathroom without gagging.  No search for perfection here, just livability.

I know I'm not alone.  I know there are a number of you who are in the same boat. Running from one day to the next; eating standing up if you're eating at all, washing floors when you'd much rather be either playing with your kids or napping.  Or maybe even eating a warm meal while seated...

I've heard it's possible.  Sometime after your youngest child moves out and the oldest one moves back in. 

For the time being, I'll settle for the fact I got to watch a full episode of Ellen this morning and the shared memory of my daughter and I, both belly up to the counter last night (I've taught her well), eating freshly baked (by her) peanut butter chocolate chips cookies.  Not speaking but instead standing side by side staring out the window basking in the perfect combination of cookies and milk.  It was a mere five minutes that made the day a little more bearable.

And today's measure of bear-ability will be somewhat improved upon knowing I got a small piece of the day to write.  For me.  And for you, but mostly for me.

Hopefully it was worth the wait.

Ego Check

For those of you who have been reading for awhile now, you may have noticed I have a tendency to label myself as 'intelligent'.  I purposely choose to use 'intelligent' over 'smart' because I think the first word demonstrates said level of intelligence.  Ego much?

Not anymore.  The other night I left work promptly at 7 p.m.  I was kind of annoyed because the shift itself was from 4 to 7 p.m.  I muttered and complained to a few people about how I'd have to miss my son's swimming lesson and my daughter's soccer game and that it was right over supper time.  Weird shift.  Crappy shift.  However, it went quickly enough and at 7 o'clock I trounced out of there without a care in the world.

You should know they run things on a 24 Hour clock before we go any further.

Yesterday I showed up promptly for work at 11:30 a.m.  I checked the job list and noted my assigned work and then my eyes travelled to the bottom of the page where the following note was written:

'Angela, why did you only work until 7 p.m. when you were scheduled to 21:00 (9 p.m.)?'

Well, that's a good question.

So I re-checked the schedule and sure enough, there it was, plain as day, 21:00.  Somewhere in this incredibly intelligent brain of mine, I turned 21:00 into 7:00 p.m.

I had noticed my co-worker, who had just arrived at 19:00 (the actual 24 hour equivalent of 7 p.m.) for his shift, looked somewhat confused when I wished him a good night and bade him farewell.

Shit.

So this was my reply:

'Sorry!! I read it wrong!!'

Obviously intelligent, am I.

Luckily my supervisor was able to laugh over it and I still have a job.  Short two hours pay this week that I wasn't aware I was entitled to, but that's what you get when you're as smart as I am.

Further to my intelligence and self-proclaimed maturity level, my daughter and I attended a meeting last night.  In the Spring of 2012, she will be going on a trip to Europe. Germany, Italy and Switzerland to be exact.  At one point, the man in charge of this excursion spoke of the 'Rathaus' in Germany.  I can't even remember what exactly it is.  Probably because I spent the next five minutes whispering to my daughter about how I did not want to go to the 'rat house'.  And how scared I would be of a house filled with rats.  And then giggling quietly to myself.

Later I proceeded to check Facebook on my phone as the meeting carried on.  I am not good at sitting still and paying attention to only one thing for any length of time.  I didn't have a pen and paper so I couldn't doodle, which is my usual go to activity.

So this is me, the smartest most growed-up blogger on the block, filling you in on my week so far....

Assholes & Butt Cracks

What to write about today?  Well, I did take my two youngest children to see Toopy & Binoo at the Mall today.  Is everyone familiar with Toopy & Binoo?  If not, good on you.  I am jealous.  If so, you know what kind of day I've had.

For clarification purposes, some of what I will comment on today is based on the T & B experience and the rest are just general observations made as of late.

First of all, people are typically stupid on an individual basis but get a whole group of them together like that and the stupidity increases exponentially.

Issue #1:  When did butt crack become a universally accepted accessory?  Buy bigger pants. Get a belt.  I loves me an elastic waist and by now this has been firmly established.  That being said, I make sure, at all costs, that my pants fit.  I would rather go on a fucking date with Toopy & Binoo than join the ranks of the Ass Crack Crusaders of Canada (they shall now be known as the ACCC).  Or if it's not ass crack, it's underwear.  Big fucking underwear.  Which is better than catching a glimpse of someone's thong.  Thin or not, it's just not all that appealing, but if you're not thin?  It is obviously your choice as to what kind of underwear you wear but that being said, it's my choice to preserve my eye sight and help you preserve your dignity.
 
This is why I don't wear a bikini.  Never mind how ridiculously self conscious I would be, I am thinking of you, the people, when I make the smart choice and cover up all evidence of my Vodka and chocolate binge-based activities.

Issue #2:  Other people's kids are assholes.  I don't think they intend to be assholes or realize that's what they are; it's simply behaviour that's been modeled for them by their asshole parents.  Seriously.  And yes my children can be assholes too, but in public they're generally pretty good, as they were today.  They sat and patiently waited.  We got there about forty minutes before the show started.  Our friends we were meeting were there waiting for us.  So we got our seats.  (Our seats on the mall floor, I might add; sitting cross legged on a cement floor stops being fun or easy once one reaches age seven).  Our collective children sat nicely.  Only  to have some other assholes (which is how their children ended up that way) show up five minutes before show time and seat their kids in the two inches of space directly in front of ours.  I, with my own asshole-ish tendencies, tugged on a little girl's shirt toward the end of the show as she was standing right in front of my friend's child and said child's two year old cousin.  Standing kid's mom, Asshole Sr., was oblivious.  The child, was more than a little alarmed and surprised.  To clarify I wasn't mean.  I simply asked her to sit down. She looked puzzled and slightly annoyed but did sit down.  Unless a child knows me well and/or I've made it clear I would appreciate interacting with them, I tend to intimidate them.  I'm not proud of it, it's just a fact. 

A fact that may not only apply to children, actually.  Plus today I braved the world sans make-up so that always adds an edge to my ever-present charm.

Issue #3:  When one knows they are going to be spending a portion of their day in public, it's wise to bathe and/or tend to other necessary and appreciated hygiene practises such as brushing one's teeth.  We are in close quarters here friends. 

And that is all I have to report on today.  Unless someone can tell me how to get my 16 year old to stop 'horking up' phlegm and touching his 13 year old sister.  No he's not touching her inappropriately or with the phlegm.  He has a cold right now.  So it is pretty disgusting.  He simply has perfected the art of driving his sister mad with the slightest look, heavy breath or even by his very presence.

Sometimes it's funny.

And I laugh.

Which makes him happier and infuriates her.  Especially if she can't help herself and laughs as well.

Sigh.

At least all of our butt cracks remain un-exposed to the general public.

Sometimes it's the little things that get me through.

I Throw Like a Girl

I'm a bitch.  I don't like it if other people call me this unless we are acknowledging it together and laughing about it as I often do with my friend 'Stacey'.  However, this whole bitch business started waaaayyyy back in the day.

Like in Grades 1 through 6 (and beyond) where some exercise or another prompted the teacher to make everyone take turns reading out loud to the class.  I read like a motherfucker and always have.  I read fast, I can spell, have spectacular pronunciation and enunciate like nobodies business.  Since I was 6.  I'm not making this up.  Now other kids may have lucked out more in the athletics department, common sense or even looks but when I was 6? Or any age since then?  I lack all patience for those who can't read well.  So as a little bitchy elementary student, when those kids who could kick my ass on a volleyball court, stuttered and stumbled over their assigned reading? It was not beneath me to sigh loudly or glare or make fun of them (behind their back like all good bitches do) afterwards.

Now as a mature woman; a kind woman; an empathetic woman, I would never do such a thing.

Well, never may be a bit of a stretch. 

I had training, again, last night and it was decided we would take turns reading sections of the manual out loud.  It was not pretty.  And because I would choke and be just as uncomfortable if someone asked me to skate as part of anything anytime? I  can empathize because I skate like a two year old.  Legs stiff and straight, arms out.  It's not pretty.  And it makes me self-conscious.  Now some of these people who may be able to skate like Nancy Kerrigan before her knee was bashed in, or maybe sing like Susan Boyle or whatever that chick's name is from Britain's Got Talent, cannot read out loud.  Not well, anyway.  Do you know how tortuous it is to listen to someone read out loud badly?  Do you know how tortuous it must be for said person to realize they suck at this but are being forced to do it anyway?  It would be like the time I had to fill in during a Slo-Pitch game for my husband's team.  I literally wanted to puke but more than that?  I wanted the game to be over.  I am the definition of "throws like a girl".  I wanted off the field and safely back in my lawn chair with a drink in my hand. 

So here's what I think:  After one is finished with, at the very least, elementary school, where it makes some sense for the reading out loud business, no one, who is not comfortable with it, should ever have to do that again.

And in reference to my inherent bitchiness, at the very least, even if you can't pronounce words like 'innovative' or what have you, you should at all costs, be able to pronounce the name of the company you are now working for.  It's spelled phonetically (which means you can sound it out and be exactly right).  That's all I'm saying.

One more thing (you knew I couldn't leave it there, right?):  adults being trained by reading aloud to one another is, in my mind, a bit of an issue in and of itself but that's where I'll leave it for today.

I've learned my lesson...for the most part. ;)

Roseanne?

I am neglecting this blog and not by choice.  My life, despite working only part-time, is chaotic at best.  I feel like a hamster on a wheel.  Racing, racing, racing and getting nowhere fast.  Tis also the season where my children's lives take over.  It's not a matter of over scheduling.  Each child is in one activity and that's enough to tip the scales in dramatic fashion.  Today in and of itself will be a balancing act by day's end.

Yesterday I made a little road trip and listened to the radio on the way home after enjoying some classic Elton John on the way there.  And I happened to be listening to a country station.  Don't judge.  I'm just as likely to listen to Eminem or Jimmy Buffet or Ray Charles; depending on the day.

Anyway I was listening to this song that is actually pretty good.  I really like one specific part at the end.  Then I got pissed.  Because the message of said song is: we don't have a lot of money but we have love and that's all we really need.

Fuck off.

I love each and every person in this house more than I can possibly put into words but oddly enough, love doesn't actually pay bills.  Try as I might, the phone company is not moved by my fierce love for each of my children.  And I'm sure my husband and I could perform a...ahem, 'demonstration' of our love for one another right in the middle of the grocery store and I think all that's going to get us is arrested.  For a number of things, including blinding patrons.  We love each other but we also love food.  Like McDonald's and anything sold at 7-11.  Brad and Angelina, we are not.  If I put on another hundred pounds or so the resemblance between us and Dan and Roseanne would be striking.

Speaking of which, a dear friend of mine often says I remind him of Roseanne.  In attitude and life alone, not physically.  Otherwise we would not be dear friends.  And last night, that couldn't have been more true.  You see last night, I received a bit of training at work from a 16 year old boy.   For those of you familiar with Roseanne, remember when she worked at the chicken place and that high school kid was her manager?  It was like that.  Almost exactly.  Except this boy was nice and pleasant and meant well.  Oh, and my uniform is nicer.  And smaller.  Don't forget smaller.

I was angry.  Talk about swallowing your pride.  Which is probably why when discussing future plans with him and another adolescent male co-worker, I felt the need to throw out that I have a Bachelor's Degree.  Which what the fuck was the point of that?  Hey kids, this is where post-secondary will get ya'.

Fuck.

And despite my best efforts to keep my chin up?  It's starting to drag.  We still are not making enough money.  I really have doubts about returning to my previous field of work and whether or not I'll even be able to get a job in said field, but it may be a necessary evil in order to make these far reaching ends meet.

In the meantime I am trying my hand at anything and everything shy of prostitution and porn. Which is really only because I'm already tired and I'm not sure what my 'draw' would be.  Maybe free laundry service on top of, um, well... you know.   Or maybe I could organize something for them. Because I'm more of a homemaker at present than a porn star.  I feel I should clarify: I've always been more of a homemaker than a porn star. 

Much like Roseanne.

I Will Not Make the Same Mistake Twice

I really will not make the same mistake twice but it's so tempting.  What mistake am I speaking of?  You know, the one where I got fired for blogging about work.  I have a new job now.  And man, there is some good material there.  It's like when I used to blog about the other place I would essentially write the blog in my head throughout the day as it transpired. 

That happened to me today at my new job.  I felt a slow smile creep across my face as I thought of the title and content of this blog.  And then, the smile, slowly crept away.

Sigh.

There are new characters screaming for nicknames.  They are scenarios begging to be written about.  Laughs to be had...and yet here I am; blogging about my unwillingness to sacrifice another job. 

But...

This job literally pays one-third of my old one.  Losing it would not be the end of the world...think of the material.

I better not.

So what to write about instead?  Pedestrian happenings of every day life like the food caught between my teeth that flossing was unsuccessful in removing?  How tired I am?  Bad reffing at my son's football game?

Nah. 

See besides all the great new characters and scenarios at my new job, it's not pissing me off. Unfortunately anger seems to be one of my greatest inspirations for writing.  At present I'm not angry; I didn't fall down today; Rhett continues to be joyful about his penis but that's nothing new.  And for any new readers Rhett is my three year old and this is developmentally appropriate behaviour; I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea.

I'm reluctant to publish it because it is so mundane but more reluctant not to publish because then I'll have gone *gasp* two whole days without blogging!  I shan't do it.

So here it is...I can't blog about work because the other place took all the fun out of that.  I'm not angry and therefore am ill-inspired and I have something caught between my teeth.  That is annoying but not enough to fuel a rage-y but humorous rant.

So I'll end with something equally commonplace and call it a night...Have a Good Weekend.



anyone interested in pissing me off so can write???

Mitigating Factors

As we all well remember, and for those of us who don't, head back to the beginning and read 'The Jig is Up' and you'll be caught up to speed; I was fired.  Or in their terms, 'terminated' on July 27.  However I had one final meeting last Friday as to the state of said termination and any potential wiggle room regarding acceptance of a resignation as an alternative to being terminated and thereby completely fucking up any chances of me working in that field again.

There is no wiggle room.  There is not even any tight shuffling room.  And this?  Made me angriest of all.  Of all the meetings I've been involved in since the end of June in regards to this blog and that career, this is only the second time I've had to fight back tears.  The first meeting I was less successful.  This is likely because that meeting was spent voicing my concerns and frustrations within said career.  Because hating aspects of it or not, I cared, a lot, about what I did.  And I'm afraid that's what did me in.

When I was terminated though?  I was cool, calm and collected.  Unfazed.  Not even slightly rattled.  I was polite and professional.  I flashed them my winning-nest of smiles and thanked them for their time. 

However this last meeting when we discussed non-existent flexibility in terms of my job loss status?  I fought a good fight and did not shed a tear in front of them.  Why was I emotional?  Because they decided there were no mitigating factors in reference to all that has taken place.

And that is where I beg to differ.

Never mind I worked there for ten years and was held in pretty good favour by co-workers and community members alike.  Never mind I worked ridiculous hours and fought with all my heart to do what I thought was in the best interest of others and put my self and my family on the back burner.  Never mind I ate shit day after day because I thought that what I was doing meant something and was for the greater good.  Let's leave those things right out of the equation.

What should we talk about?  Lack of direction given?  Or lack of support provided?  Should we talk about time-owed or time stolen?  Or should we talk about plain old insubordination and the consistent clean up of others' work time and time again?

No.

Why aren't we talking about any of these things?  Can someone tell me why?

Never mind.

I think I know the answer to that question.  Nobody wants to look at the bigger picture.  I was made an example of.  A good one at that.  Often known for working hard; again the long hours, lots of travelling, the tendency to get worked up when fighting the 'system' on behalf of someone else.  I had been there for ten years.  Generally had a good reputation.  On the other side of that?  I am opinionated and passionate.  Those two things when combined with frustration do not an easy employee make.  I am also intelligent.  Add that into the mix and it's a great big bowl of Shut the Fuck Up from their point of view. 

I was reprimanded at this final meeting for posting about having been terminated.  Funny, because I assumed once my ass was fired I could pretty much do whatever the fuck I wanted because they do not own me anymore.  For the first time in, at the very least, four years, my mind, body and soul are again my own.

I sleep at night.  I speak to my family members instead of barking at them or asking them to just "please (not to) talk to me".  I have trouble, at times, blogging because I'm not angry all of the time anymore.

I'm just me.  The girl with a Bachelor's Degree that is pretty much useless at present.  The girl who had a career but now has none.  The girl who now punches a clock, wears a uniform and a couple of times a shift, sweeps the floor.  A girl who, when done sweeping the floor and punching the clock, walks out without a worry on her mind.  A girl whose marriage is improved and whose husband is adamant she should never go back to work there even if it were an option.  A girl whose children are again her priority and don't have to complete with a job for my attention, my energy; for me.

A girl.

And if my one anonymous follower is them?  It's time for you to leave now.  We are done.