Saturday, July 31, 2010

Summertime & the Livin' is Dewy

Shangela, which is the not to be messed with ultimate combination of myself and my former office partner and still very good-est of friends, Shane, use the word 'dewy' in a multi-purposed fashion.  For example, right now I'm dewy because it's hot and humid and we just took the dogs for a walk and our air conditioning stopped working last summer.  But every time I watch Steel Magnolias or Elf I become dewy at the appropriate times. And if you don't become Dewy when everyone sings 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town' then fuck you.  Don't you know you're fucking with Santa's sleigh and it's ability to achieve necessary altitude?

Point being, I'm hot.  And sweaty.  But? I kind of like it.  Why?  Summer is really finally upon us.  Our 300 year old fan is blowing and making an inordinate amount of noise.  The boys are sleeping only in their underwear.  It's a gorgeous night outside and you can hear the noises of people enjoying their backyards and smell burning wood.  Summer.

Tomorrow is already the first of August.  It will be over before we know it. School supplies are already in the stores as are some odd boxes of Halloween candy. Doesn't life go by quickly enough without the added push from retail?

I was not satisfied with the direction this post was taking and said as much.  My daughter, who is 13, asked me to read it to her.  So I read what I had up until this paragraph, obviously.  She said it was good.  Actually the direct quote was: "It's not fabulous, but it's good".  Thanks.  She's clearly my #1 fan.  I can't even fault her because I enjoy her honesty.  Sometimes though, I enjoy it less than others.  Like when she comments on my hair, my musical ability or lack thereof and my predilection for babying both the puppy and my three year old.

However another strong indicator of summer is camp.  Tomorrow I am taking her and her best friend to camp and will live a solid week free from her helpful hints on how to best handle life.  I will miss her though because as well as being honest, she is funny.  Very much so.  Funny, honest and anal retentive.

That's my girl!

Happy Dewy-Days Everyone! (except for the assholes with air conditioning; you're really missing out on the whole summer experience though so really I'm the winner here too).

Friday, July 30, 2010

My Cat is a Corleone

Before anyone says I told you so, I do not regret getting the puppy.  I only realize I've added one more captor to my small furry brigade of dictators.  And this one?  Doesn't fuck around.  And?  He looks like an Ewok and is therefore difficult to be angry with.  And? he is a sneaky little motherfucker.

To backtrack here for a minute, I do have two cats as well.  Melody, who is a voluptuous lady in her own right, is fairly accepting of our new little furry commander.  She's not doing cartwheels or anything but she's okay with it. As long as she is still fed and her belly is still rubbed, it's okay.  Callie,on the other hand, is not okay.  Callie prides herself on her dignity and role as the utmost lady.  She is sleek.  She is a hunter.  She always looks pissed off.  This has increased tenfold since the arrival of Chuy.  She enjoys hissing at him.  Yesterday she got up on the table (I know, I know) and sat on the corner and glared at me and my daughter.  Then I had Chuy up on my lap so she ever so gracefully sauntered over, got about three inches from his face, hissed and walked away.  He just sat there.  Probably wondering what the fuck her problem is.  I know he's not scared of her because last night he had his third barking session ever while trying to get her to play. He growled and barked and pranced and pounced and she just sat there.  With hatred emanating from her very being.

What I didn't realize is apparently she belongs to some sort of Kitty Mob.  How did I come to this realization?  There is a dead mouse on my patio this morning.  He's just dead.  He doesn't appear to even be very chewed up or anything.  Have I mentioned I'm afraid of mice, rats and rodents in general? Like we will have 78 cats, dogs, fish and what have you before any of my children ever have a hamster as a pet.  Again, I come by this fear honestly.  My little brother's hamster once cornered my mother in her bedroom.  No joke.

Callie has left the odd dead bird in the yard and they are usually pretty dismantled.  And for all you bird lovers out there she has a collar with a bell on it but is a pretty good hunter. Anyway, to me, the mouse is a message to me and my oblivious little pal, Chuy.  If she could have gotten it into the house I have no doubt he would have woken up with it next to his head.  A la the Godfather and the horse head scene.  How she picked up on my inherent and inherited fear of the little varmints is beyond me but I was quite unsettled when I saw it out there this morning and prayed Chuy wouldn't go near it because I'm NOT FUCKING TOUCHING IT. It will be there until my husband gets up and moves it.

Well played, Callie, well played.

As for Chuy, he much prefers to do his business indoors, thank you very much. I swear I can be outside with him for hours on end and he'll hold it until we get in and then disappear the minute I'm not looking and poop in the basement and pee on the mat under my kids' table.  I watched the puppy training video.  I'm following it to a tee.  Chuy does not care.  Chuy prefers carpet based toileting.  Luckily since he's the size of a cat, it's not much mess to clean up.  Toby, on the other hand, our dear sweet Golden Retriever who sheds more hair than anyone or anything has a right to? Had a total of three accidents as a puppy and we were done. He was good.  It should me mentioned though that if he does get sick and has an issue in the house? He does so on carpet.

And I go right around behind them cleaning it all up.  They have to enjoy that a little.

If you'd like to read more about my suspicions of my pets' actions and see photos of our three senior residents, check out Animal Domination.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Friends - Part II

I have heard countless times over the past day that when one door closes and another opens.  I believe this.  And I'm not sure if what I'm about to write about qualifies as a window opening but all the same it's something positive that's come out of a negative situation.

Right now I'm answering 17 questions based on the fact that I drank margaritas tonight instead of vodka.  Everyone should have a 13 year old daughter to keep them real.

Anyway, I have received so much support and so many kind words in the last 24 hours that it again makes me realize and appreciate connections I have made.  Connections made at work (believe it or not); connections made as a teenager; connections made through blogging.  I've had someone from every facet of my life come forward and offer encouragement.  Everything from condolences to congratulations. 

And to be fair, some of these words have come from complete strangers courtesy of Twitter.  Fellow bloggers and tweeters but people that I have never spoken a word to or even laid eyes on rallied last night in support.  How awesome is that?

So right now I'm feeling pretty good.  This may also have something to do with raspberry margaritas but since I only had two and spent the rest of the time talking a dear friend's ear off, I don't think it's the top contributor.  I feel good because people are sending me so many positive vibes and thoughts. I feel good because other people are indignant for me when I am not.  I have slid into acceptance. And I feel good, because I knew that I would. Nananananana!

Sorry. Margarita slipped in there.

Anyway, all is well. I slept like a rock last night.  Had lunch with Stacey and her boys.  Poor pregnant Stacey.  Who is very tired of people asking her if the baby's come yet or commenting on the current station of her abdomen.  Because I love Stacey and this post is about Friendship: How about you people fuck off and if you've ever been pregnant remember what those last few days/weeks felt like and how much you wanted to make small talk about how phenomenally uncomfortable you are? And how you know as well as anyone else you'll feel better once the baby is born but since you are not a wizard or other type of spiritual being, cannot will the baby out and are stuck waiting like everyone else?  I get you are asking out of concern and kindness and good nature but please, for the Love of all that's Good, leave her the fuck alone or at least get her some Creamy Dill Pickle Chips and a Big Gulp of Pepsi (fully leaded) and leave it on her front step and then LEAVE.  She might be trying to sleep.

*Disclaimer: If you take offense to my vehement defence and protectiveness of Stacey, know that she had nothing to do with this blog nor does she know I'm making these statements, so take it up with me. Up for it?

Okay I got all carried away with helping her out that I've lost my way...bottom line is, Thank You.  Thank You to the thirty-odd people or so who started following me on Twitter last night in response to guiltysquid's request. Thank You to the girls I've known since before I knew myself, (and they know who they are, I hope) for their support.  Thank You to the people I used to work with for their kind words and support.  Oh and one last thing, as good as I'm feeling right now? In a month or two, if I've not found further employment and am eating nothing but various pastas and breads and suffering a slow carb-induced death?  Thank you for the vodka I can trust will arrive to my house by the caseload.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

The Jig is Up

So my more loyal followers, this is the end to a story that began last month. June 28th, to be exact.  I have been blogging since August 21, 2009.  I started over at Searching.  Right from the beginning I made it clear I did not care much for my job.  I also made it clear I do love vodka and chocolate.  PMS is never a very good time for me and as a rule, my patience is limited.  Check out the PMS Chronicles for further 'clarification'.  Then in December, my husband got fucked over with his job.  We struggled for a good three/four months until he got his current job.  My job continued to be hard, get harder and pushed me to my limits.  I blogged through it all.

On June 28th, it was brought to my attention that someone had brought my blog to my employer's attention.  Today, I was fired; talk about your negative attention.

Mixed feelings, to say the least.  I am relieved to be done with that kind of work.  I am panicked in regards to the financial future of our family.  I am nervous at the prospect of starting a new job IF I am fortunate enough to find one.  I feel so very stupid because this could've been all so easily avoided.  Of course I never intended for my employer to read my blogs but there is that stupid saying about the 'road to Hell being paved with good intentions'.  I feel irresponsible.  I am embarrassed.

And? I am free.

It's Official, I'm an Adult

Yesterday I learned of something that has me seething with anger and thoughts of aggression.  I called my husband upon finding out and said 'fuck' about 45 times in a five minute conversation.  Just in case you're wondering and I know you are, it's not him I'm mad at.

Right now I can't say who I'm mad at; it needs to be dealt with first. This is how I know I'm finally reaching some semblance of maturity at the grand age of 33.  Two or 3 years ago I would've gone off instantly upon finding out. I would've raced around trying to get the correct information out there and threatening the life of the person I'm angry at.  I would've called said person immediately, at work. On their cell phone.  And I would've lost my fucking mind on them.

It's so tempting.

However, I have to be rational. I have to be put someone else's needs ahead of my own. Something this jackass of whom I'm referring to has absolutely zero concept of.  I will be dealing with this issue in a mature fashion this very afternoon.  Then? I will fucking go ballistic on the piece of shit douche I'm dealing with.

So yeah..maybe a little ways to go on the whole 'maturity' thing...

If you popped over to PMS Chronicles in recent days you'll know how I feel about gun control and believe me it's never been more relevant than it is right now.

I continue to pay for my lack of judgement as a 16 year old girl.   What's worse, so do my children.  I refuse to beat myself up about it because you really really can't change the past no matter how hard you try.

Today will be a big day all the way around and in both instances, my judgement is at the root of the 'problem'.  I need to work on that.  I am a true Aries; stubborn, impulsive and dead sexy.

Okay, clearly I've gotten distracted.

So for later on today, does anyone have Mel Gibson's number? I could use a few pointers.

Monday, July 26, 2010

My Baby Shits Outside

Not a real baby people, my puppy. My puppy whom I just realized today was spelling his name wrong.  My son named him Chuy because he likes to chew on things (puppy not kid). Give him a break, he's only 6.  I embraced this name wholeheartedly because of it's Latin flair and because of Chelsea Handler and her nugget, Chuy.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, just Google her. You'll thank me, I promise.  Anyway, until today we had been spelling it Chuey. WRONG! Oh the horror.  I hate spelling errors.  So this is my official announcement of the change in spelling. Still pronounced the same.

Now that we got that out of the way let's talk about how fucking tired I am.  I am Facebook friends with a woman who has an approximately six week old baby and she's getting more sleep than I am at this point.  Chuy is an early riser.  I think it may have been yesterday morning that I did actually get to stay in bed past 7 a.m.  And I can't just come down here and relax. No I must take my dear little furry friend outside.  Outside is very important. Outside is where all the defecating and urinating must take place.  And for the most part it has.  He's very very excited to see me in the morning and runs around like a lunatic in sheer joy of his good fortune. "I've been set free again!"  "She came back!" "Woo hoo!"  The way he races around I think if he could talk there would be exclamations such as these.

Last night he was very cozy sleeping on the couch and when we decided we were ready for bed after numbing our brains with some Big Brother, it was time for Chuy to go outside one last time before bed.  He seemed confused about this. Which led my daughter and I to wonder how we would respond in the same situation. Imagine falling asleep on the couch only to have a loved one wake you up, carry you outside and set you down in the middle of the lawn and say it's time to "Go Outside".  I think I'd be confused, angered and respond with a great big 'What the Fuck?'  Chuy, though, is a gentleman so he just peed and carried on with his evening. 

Last time I had a puppy I also had a three month old baby. This time my youngest child is three. He is toilet trained and he sleeps through the night.  I cannot say the same for Chuy.  At the same time I've purchased him his very own blanket and several toys and speak to him in his own 'voice'.  All of our pets have their own assigned voices. As does my daughter. I'm big on the voices. Blame it on my mother (not lack of meds or Grape Vodka). 

He is, for all intents and purposes, my baby. I'm relieved when he sleeps because I don't have to be on the watch for him peeing or pooping where he shouldn't or chewing something he shouldn't or eating something he shouldn't.  My 'baby' appears to prefer Large Breed dog food or wet or dry cat food to his own $50/bag puppy food.  In turn, he lets us hold him like an actual baby and come Christmas, he will have a sweater.  And maybe, a Halloween costume when that time arrives.

Chuy Alejandro has brought much joy to our lives already as well as a little Cinco de Mayo spirit right here in the middle of July.  Ole! (I don't know how to make the little accent go over the 'e').

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Reality TV is Killing Gender Equality

I know, I know, that's a big statement to make but hear me out.

Case Study #1: Paula Abdul from American Idol/Straight Up/Cartoon Cat in her video Fame.

When I was 12 my cousin played her Paula Abdul tape for me.  She knew all the words.  How come she was so much cooler than me? I did my part though and quickly embraced Paula and set out learning those lyrics.  I paid rapt attention to that video she did with Keanu Reeves. I'm not sure if that was before or after Point Break, but at that time, the combination of the two of them was irresistible.  Then before you know it, Paula was just kind gone. 

American Idol.  She was baaaack.  I'll admit I didn't really watch AI until the season Fantasia Barino won.  Before that I shunned it as I shunned most reality TV.  These days I watch everything from Big Brother to Amazing Race to 19 and Counting. That's just a small sample of the reality TV that guides my life. 

Anyway, back to dearest Paula.  As we all know, or at least those of us with a television know, Paula started getting a little wonky.  I found this amusing.  It was better than when she was actually trying to judge because that was just pointless.  If it appeared she was sober, I usually muted (before I could record) her and later (after recording) I fast-forwarded and went straight to Simon.  Yes, Simon is mean, but 9.8 times out of 10, he's right.  Paula was just pretty much unstable eye candy. Sort of.

But, and there's a big but here, I prefer Looney Tunes to Kara DioGuardi.  That bitch gets under my skin  like nobodies business. When Katy Perry was on this past season and seemed less than enamoured with Ms.  DioGuardi herself, I revelled in it.  I typically fast forward through her too.  More eye candy.  Kind of pasty eye candy, but she's attractive all the same.  No ability, whatsoever, to get to the point.  I. Just. Want. Her. To. SHUT. UP.

For those of you following along, Kara was Case Study #2.

Case Study #3:  Natasha Leggero on Last Comic Standing.  I hate that I have to be negative here because I'm all about the female comic.  However, back when Chelsea Lately was still aired here*, her laugh drove me then and she wasn't overly funny.  So the laugh + not all that funny=(insert buzzer sound).  And her judging ability?  More buzzer.  She's the Paula/Kara of Last Comic Standing.

Why is it so hard to find a female judge for one of these programs?  Let me clarify.  Why is it so hard to find an intelligent female judge.  Maybe that's not fair.  I don't think any of these women are actually stupid, per se ,they just cannot make a decent point or really, sometimes, any point at all.  I love Ellen DeGeneres.  I record her show every day.  She makes me happy when I'm at my lowest. Did I love her on American Idol? No and it pains me to admit this.

My point is people feminism appears to be dead.  Well except for Tina Fey and Amy Pohler.  Oh and Kristen Wig. I think that's her name. The new super funny one from SNL.  There are not a lot of strong intelligent opinionated women on television right now.  At least not from what I'm seeing.  And yes, I'm not helping by watching shows like Big Brother where the casting is clearly based on the following formula: everyone needs to be conventionally attractive, one set of fake breasts, one 'elder', one gay and one minority.

And now that I'm an avid blogger in not only writing them but reading others, I know these intelligent, opinionated women exist. And they post pictures on their blogs (some of them) so I know they're attractive too.  The long standing stereotype of intelligent female equals ugly female continues to be perpetuated and accepted by society.  And Sarah Palin.

So come on ladies, and forward thinking men (whom I also know exist), what are we going to do about this? Bloggers (and friends) unite!

*This is my plea for someone somewhere to make E! available to us poor fuckers here in Saskatchewan. Chelsea Lately is one of the best shows ever.  I can't watch it anymore.  I can watch Farm Report.  Doesn't quite have the same flavour though.  Please please help us.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

I was at the local Liquor Board Store earlier this evening.  I purchased six beer.  Not for myself.  I only drink ice cold beer on very hot days.  While at the till though I asked when they might find themselves re-stocked with the ever so lovely Three Olives Grape Vodka.  Patty Persnickety, the cashier, snarkily advised me the warehouse is out.  Apparently there is one warehouse that supplies the entire province. What the fuck?!

She then advised that as soon as the warehouse has it back in stock,  so will they.  Yeah, no shit.

Then? Then she tried to sell me some other vodka.  It was on sale and according to her "very nice".  Um. 1. All vodka is very nice.  2.  That is not the delicious Three Olives Grape Vodka my very soul is yearning for.  3. It's not grape flavoured, never mind the wrong brand. 4. Although a grown women I prefer my booze taste like candy, bitch and if I was just settling for vodka, I would have purchased maybe a nice bottle of Stoli.  Or maybe some Sweet Carolina Tea flavoured Vodka. I know vodka.

Instead I purchased some Raspberry Ginger Ale at Zellers. 


Bare Mattress Martyr

I didn't get much sleep last night.  Part of this is due to being trapped between my husband who was snoring like there was no tomorrow and my three year old who was grinding his poor little teeth. Never mind the cat wrapped around the top of my head.

So by 2:30 this afternoon, after a lunch out with the girls, I was ready for a nap. My family was less ready for me to have said nap. This nearly led me to tears such was the level of my exhaustion.  So I went upstairs and laid on my bare mattress and attempted to sleep. Why was the mattress bare?  Well said three year old had a bit of an accident this morning.  In our bed.  So I had cleaned it and was waiting for it dry and our bedding was in the dryer.  So yes, poor pathetic martyr-minded me laid on the bare mattress lamenting the cruelty of family and their combined efforts to keep me awake.

Have I ever mentioned how lack of sleep and I do not good partners make?

Anyway, I did finally achieve a nap. Which would lead any rational minded person to assume that I , as a rational person herself, would feel better and have a renewed sense of energy and spirit upon waking.  Wrong.  Instead I felt like causing intentional bodily harm to anyone who dare cross my path. Or speak to me.  Which my teenage son attempted to a couple of times.  He should know better after 16 years of observing this particular pattern of behaviour.

Today I didn't even want my typical sugar fix upon waking up.  I only wanted more sleep and or to be left completely alone.  Now. Always. 

Within about an hour of waking up I started to feel a little more like my regular self. I'm still tired but am willingly engaging in conversation with my family members. I have brushed my hair.  I am starting to have some thoughts about chocolate or candy in general.  Ah, the universe has restored itself.

Though I can help but think, is it bedtime yet?

Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave

More than one too many times I have verbally abused myself, based on my weight, in front of my children.  Made jokes about being fat; always looking about three months pregnant, hated myself.

I have spent time always on a diet and punishing myself at the gym in the quest to have a figure similar to Brooke Burke's.  She's had four children, so have I, but why don't I look like that?

See how this line of thinking and behaviour as come back to bite me in what I now realize is a fantastic ass!


Thursday, July 22, 2010


Today my grandma turns 87.  Turning 87 and still living on her own, drinking nothing but Barq's Root Beer and eating Popcorn Twists (Corn Twists as I believe she calls them) and watching a ball game.  My Grandma is not perfect but she's pretty great.

Why would I even bother mentioning she's not perfect?  Because I seem to have inherited some of her imperfections and so I'd like to blame her.  The choking issue I mentioned a few blogs ago? Totally her.  My addiction to all things sweet and bad for me?  Her.  And my mother.  Although they both eat vegetables more willingly than I.  I? Eat corn. Cooked peas and carrots.  Raw cucumbers.  Red peppers.  And that's about it.  Salad makes me want to puke. Unless it's Caesar and then I only eat it for the croutons. Which is probably why my kids refer to it as "Crouton Salad".

My mom and I lived with Grandma and Grandpa for the first few months of my life.  And if you asked any of my cousins (the ones old enough to remember), I was their "favourite".  And for this, I paid.  I was the youngest of the four oldest cousins and though the memories are vague I do remember telling on them for not 'playing nice'. This did not help my cause.

Grandma used to take myself and two of my cousins to Bible Camp every summer. Sometimes before or after camp we spent time at our grandparents house in Outlook.  And then we were often treated to one of Grandma's special hair washes.  For whatever God Forsaken reason, she preferred to bend us backwards over the tub and scrub our tiny scalps til they were raw.  And our backs ached.  You did not complain though.  Nor did you ever nod in response to a question because "Grandma can't hear you nod your head".

What did you get in return?  Oreos.  Chocolate Milk.  Lucky Charms. Zoodles and Kraft Dinner.  Things that were expressly forbidden in my home.  My dad was the reason for this.  Us poor kids got nothing but freshly baked goods, homemade french toast and pancakes for breakfast in the winter and a variety of homemade meals (all made by my mom,except for the French Toast).  I wanted Kraft Dinner.  Grandma gave it to me. This could have something to do with her stunning inability to prepare anything edible on some occasions.  Anyone who can cook in this family? Inherited it from my Grandpa.

She taught us to say bedtime prayers and to sing "Jesus Loves Me".  She traced our feet.  She drove us lots of places. Slowly.  And stopped so we could look at cows. We all grew up in Saskatchewan.  We were all quite familiar with livestock but this fact seemed to escape her on those particular occasions.

When I had my first son, at 16, Grandma came and stayed with us. We lived with my mom but she was going to school herself at the time, so Grandma came.  And drove us to our first baby check-up.  We left an hour early and drove to the other side of town for no apparent reason, but she was there. 

She loved driving.  Which is probably why we took the long way. She was likely jonesing for a fix of 8th Street. Which if you don't live in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan or have never been there, this means nothing to you. 

All in all, while I may have not had an abundance of 'traditional' male role models in my life, I can't say the same when it comes to the womenfolk.  We are not without our differences but it's what makes us who we are.

My Grandma is, some might say, devoutly religious.  I think my mom believes in God but that's where it ends.  I don't mind attending church on the rare occasion I have, but can't bring myself to say I believe in God.  My Grandma? Is not a fashion plate.  My Mother? Is.  I am? Somewhere In Between.  We are all blessed with the beloved 'apple' shape which means tiny limbs and thick middles.  We are also blessed with the love of music.  And my mother and grandma, with the gift of it.  I am, on the other hand, blessed with the innate ability to take the Lord's name in vain in front of my grandmother...because I'm an ass.

Happy Birthday Grandma!

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Wendy's So Fucking Useless

Okay so I'm watching The Shining which is one of my all time favourite movies. It upsets me I forgot to add it to my Favourite Movie List on my Profile.  I have loved this movie ever since the first time I saw it.

I am annoying when watching it because I quote it and for two or three days after I go around with finger bent shouting random things at Mrs. Torrance.

Who am I less annoying than?  Fucking Wendy.  Someone should cut that bitch.  Well I guess Jack tried, didn't he?  Seriously poor Danny. I'd fucking let the boy who lives in my stomach take over too if she was my mother. She cannot get shit done and spends far too much time hyperventilating and flailing her limbs.

She gets that nice crack in at his head with the bat and then instead of just taking care of business then and there she fucking drags him to the freezer.  Dumb.

Jack though?  Jack is fucking fantastic.  A little Hair of the Dog that Bit Me. Bourbon on the Rocks.  I'd like to take this moment to send out yet another futile SOS for the location of Three Olives Grape Vodka.  Anyway Jack is bang on with his "All Work And No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy" because I'm telling you right now, all work and no play makes me a crusty bitch.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm glad Wendy and Danny are safe in the end and feel like shit when Mr.  Halloran takes one for the team.  I just can't cope with Wendy and her corduroy dress and boots and handling that knife like it's a feather duster.

Grady is a bad ass motherfucker.  He's so cutting but elegant in his condescension of Mr. Torrance.  I wish I had that accent and way of speaking so I could tell people off at Wal-Mart or where ever the mood may strike.  Mothertrucker rolls his R's like nobodies business.


My Name is Angela and I Blog

So there is no longer any reason to continue to be anonymous on this blog. Although if you found me through Twitter I wasn't all that anonymous to begin with. If you know me and what's been happening in my life over the past three weeks or so, don't panic. That is not the reason why I don't need to be anonymous anymore. I simply will only, from now on, blog about my personal life and the poor fashion choices and ignorant behaviour of other individuals encountered on my own time.

Like in line at a store.  I hate the people who don't put their purchases down on the belt thing-y. I like to put my things down. If I have a lot of stuff I want to start unloading. If I don't have a lot of stuff but more than I thought I was going to get meaning I'm trying to carry it all in my hand, get the fuck out of my way so I can put this shit down.  Arggh. So frustrating.  Some of you are now concerned about my need for control and OCD.  You probably should be.  My home calendar is color-coded and no one is allowed to write on it but me.  It's only right.

I am by no means a neat freak but there are certain things that have to be done a certain way. Oh and I have recently discovered that if I'm wound up, angry or concerned about something, I like to organize. It seems to be an attempt at controlling anything when really I'm in control of nothing.

Did I mention I like control?

And last but not least, please head over to

This is where the madness started in August of last year.  I stopped posting on that blog at the end of June, although in hindsight I could've continued. Whatever. I feel some of my better posts are over there though, so if you are so inclined, please head over and have a look.  You can check out PMS Chronicles while you are there too.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010


I am having trouble blogging as of late.  Coming up with things to write about.  Things are pretty relaxed right now with the exception of yesterday morning.  Low key even.  We have ants in the house so I got some ant baits that are working well.  Shoot. me. now.

Due to the unattainable-ness of the Three Olives Grape Vodka (maybe if I mention them enough times they'll send me a case) I have not been under the influence for some time, so nothing fun to write about there.

Yesterday I took my oldest and youngest sons out for a bit.  We stopped for a snack at Tim Horton's and we were amidst several senior citizens.  As much as I fear aging, the one nice thing will be able to take the 'guessing out of dressing' and just wear one color head to toe.  There was one table with three ladies at it; one in pink, one in blue and one in green.  And I can't quite remember but I bet there pants were all elastic-waisted.  I love an elastic waist. 

I am pondering getting a puppy.  Those of you who know we well just did a double take and said: "WHAT?!"  And you would be saying that because I have made it clear on more than one occasion that I am not a dog person and the dog we have right now, the ever laid back Toby, is the only dog we'll ever have.  Why?  He's a Golden Retriever and does nothing but shed.  Being at home right now has afforded me the opportunity to stay a little more on top of the housework and the hair removal efforts and the production of those efforts, daily, is astounding.  Aside from that he is a very good dog.  The other downside of dog ownership is if going away, one has to find someone to watch the dog.  We are generally hard pressed to find someone to watch our children which is why our last night away together happened some fourteen months ago thanks to some good friends.   Actually, we generally have better luck finding a dog sitter.

Anyway, on Sunday my oldest son and I saw a dog at Petland that I have not been able to stop thinking about.  My husband tries to pretend he doesn't like this but I know if/when I bring this guy home, all bets will be off.  On the other hand, he says if I get the dog, which is rather pricey, he's getting a new toolbox for his truck.  Sometimes, it's like being married to a teenager. Tit for tat is his biggest obsession.  Don't be dirty people.

And due to the current uncertainty of my future, this may not be the time to spend frivolously.  But I deserve something fun, right?  Plus as I will be home for this week and next, and kids being out of school, someone will always be home for the next six weeks...nice transition time for puppy.  I'm pathetic, I know.

So we are off to Regina today for an orthodontist appointment. Me and my three boys. Will I come back with one more?  What do you think?

Monday, July 19, 2010

I Wanna Get Off

Mind out of the gutter people. I'm referring to the veritable roller coaster of emotions I've been experiencing yesterday and today.  Case in point: while watching America's Funniest Videos last night a video was shown of a little boy crying out of sheer love for the movie 'The Water Horse'.  It was supposed to be funny.  And it was, but by the end of the clip, when I was back in the dining room sweeping? I fought with every ounce of self-dignity I had not to break down in tears.  I was precariously close and I knew my husband would either be worried or appalled should AFV send me into an ugly cry.

Irritable, weepy, angry, giddy, shitting myself silly.  These are just a few of the moods/conditions I'm currently up against. Oh and my neck and shoulders feel like a fucking rock.  Just one big flat rock.  And no, not from 'pumping iron'.  Tension, kids, just plain old tighten til it hurts tension.

And the stupidest or maybe saddest part of it all? I basically brought it on myself and today I face the consequences. 

So what have I done to prepare? Painted my nails.  Fingers and toes. 'Cause guess what?  If I'm going down, I'm gonna look good doing it.  Oh again, with the dirty connotations.  Stop yourselves.

Oh and one more thing, if anyone gets their hands on some Three Olives Grape Vodka which apparently is the new Holy Grail of booze, could you drop a bottle or two off at my house?


Saturday, July 17, 2010

The Master Bedroom

When I was a child we never dared to enter our parents' bedroom before they got up in the morning.  There was no cavorting with mom and dad in bed in the morning. No tickle fights or telling anyone to "scooch over".  If it was a Saturday we made our way to the living room to watch prized Saturday morning cartoons.  On a weekday, more often than not, one or both parents were up before we were.  Plus my parents had a lock on their door and they used it.  I just think it was understood we were not to come in without invitation.

My children do not need an invitation.  They'd scoff at the suggestion.  If I did attempt to make it an invite only sort of situation I think they'd just assume I was kidding and RSVP at 6 a.m. by fighting with each other on top of us and then feigning hurt when we asked them FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TO STOP.

Then there is the cat.  We have two cats.  Callie & Melody. If you head over to Searching you can read more about their ownership of this household and see photos of the divine beings themselves. Melody, whom we lovingly often refer to as 'Fatty', also scoffs at the notion of the bedroom belonging to us.  Nothing infuriates her more than when I make the bed thereby disrupting hour 11 of her typical daily 22 hours of sleep.  She, I am convinced, fully assumes the bed is hers.  Which is probably why she vomited on it that one time. 

My husband and I are waging a losing battle.  Yes we have a lock on our door but it seems barbaric at this age to lock them out all of the time.  And sometimes, they are really sweet and snuggly and even fall back to sleep with a little arm wrapped firmly around my neck.  At this point I've given up.  There are puzzles on the nightstand, cars in the bed, Power Rangers movies in the DVD player.  I figure we have a good five or so years left of this invasion and then the tide will turn and they'd rather poke their eyes out than snuggle with mom and dad in bed.  What gets me through now is waiting for the teen years to strike. And then these little mother truckers are going to learn about payback!  Although it seems slightly creepy to suggest I will climb into bed with my then teenage sons.  Whatever, maybe instead I'll just bust in singing some classic '70s tune.  Stay tuned!

Friday, July 16, 2010

A Whale of a Tale

I've been giving this body image business a lot of thought over the past few days.  This is due to a number of things including being likely slated as next Friday's guest blogger for the Blogger Body Calendar site.  And in keeping with the spirit of that site and it's intent I've been trying to shut down the harsh critic who lives in my head.  She's a huge bitch.  She rags on me and she's cutting when it comes to members of the general public as well. 

Today though, I took my children to the park. There is a paddling pool there and a spray pad.  Some moms wear their bathing suits.  I do not.  Mostly because I've decided I want a new one but haven't shopped for one yet.  And there are moms of all shapes and sizes there.  And in my new positive "accepting ourselves for who we are" frame of mind I've worked hard to refrain from berating myself for not looking like the toned mommy in the bikini and from condemning the mommy who's suit is a tad too tight.

It's no easy feat.  I love people watching and often times it's for the sheer sake of spotting someone or something to make fun of.  I know.  Can anyone say insecure?  Because that's what it means right?  If I'm working this hard to make fun of others it's clearly in an effort to make me feel better about myself.  There is truth in this.  Sometimes though it's just because shit is fucked up.

Case in point:  woman of an indeterminable age had so much muffin top exposed today that I'm sure the Muffin Man was looking for her and her secret recipe for fluffiness.  Okay, I know that's mean.  But seriously, if you're going to wear pants at least two sizes too small, maybe pair them with an attempt at a flattering top.  Please, please do not pair them with a shirt that is cut off halfway across the back with a string tied right across the very muffiniest part of your top.  Oh and one more thing?  Your Betty Boop thong is in plain sight for everyone here, including the children. to 'enjoy'.  Cute underwear.  What's not cute is that Betty appears to be fighting for her life amongst all that muffin-y goodness.

To clarify, I have a muffin top.  I work extremely hard to keep my tops tucked into my pants and to make sure my top is covering it.  I don't wear big baggy clothing but it fits.  I will, on occasion, wear a thong.  Again, I like to make sure it is not visible to the public eye.  I feel this is just a common courtesy. 

You're welcome.

Thursday, July 15, 2010


I've been feeling a little apprehensive about blogging but I feel worse about not blogging, so here goes.

Things are up and down and all over right now.  I can't be anymore specific than that.  It is, however, making me think, hard, about what my life is, what it could be and what I want it to be.

Right now my life is not without issue but it is comfortable enough.  Oh sure, we generally live paycheck to paycheck.  We have two teenagers in the house which presents it's own unique set of challenges.  We'd like to be thinner, richer, in better shape.  I don't think that makes us unique in any sense.  What could my life be?  It could be more fulfilling. I could work harder to make changes I'd like to see.  I could be content?

For right now I really am trying to live in the moment.  My oldest child is 16.  Yesterday he was five.  Before I know it, he'll be 25.  My daughter is 13.  She scares me the most.  I see too much of myself in her and that's what's so frightening.  The not-so-scary part?  She's smart, funny, strong and beautiful.  But she's 13.  And yesterday, she was 3.

This summer has been great.  I'm doing lots of fun summertime things with my two little boys that I hope will create some lasting memories.  They are six and three.  And knowing what I know now, when each year goes by quicker than the last?  They'll be grown men before I know it.

I sort of hate people who say they don't have any regrets. In my mind it amounts to always having made the right choices.  In retrospect though, I think it has more to do with recognizing mistakes, even the big ones, but still also recognizing it's life and you cannot turn back time, so deal.  Sometimes I wish that weren't true but if weren't for the 'mistakes' I've made in my life I don't know where I'd be and I can't imagine wanting a life much different than what I have right now.

I live in a city I said I'd never live in.  I have friends I never though I'd have.  I have four amazing children.  I have a husband, who despite our strong differences in the way we think and process things, I love and who I know loves me. 

One of my friends, who I found in this city and who's one of the reasons I don't want to leave it now, told me about a song she and her husband considered their song.  Or at least she does. It's the one about only having 100 years to live.  That was such a different view of life.  It's more about making the most of life and recognizing time is in short supply.  Prior to that, and still sometimes today, I find myself looking at life as something to survive.  No more.

I generally mock optimists and consider myself a realist.  I'm not sure I'm doing anyone any favours with that kind of thinking.  So for now, I'm going to try and think of my glass as half full (of Grape Vodka, of course) and see where it takes me. 

Well, besides to the liquor board store which better have the vodka in stock or else I'm right back to thinking life sucks!

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

On an Imaginary Pedestal

Aren't little boys supposed to worship their mothers? Put her on a pedestal? Love her first and foremost for the rest of their lives? If this is the case, I'd like to file a complaint.

This morning I came downstairs to find my husband and two youngest sons on the couch. Dear husband had trouble sleeping in the night due to the unabashed rapid ingestion of too many Salt and Pepper chips last night. Anyway, he was on the couch when the boys came down. They proceeded to snuggle with dad and watch a movie.

Then I came downstairs.

Rhett (3): "Hi Mom!"
Me: "Hi Baby! Why are you sleeping on the couch (to Ryan)?"
Ryan: "Couldn't sleep."
Reese (6): "Mom there's poop on the floor over there. I think it's Toby's but Rhett says it's his."
Me: "What?!"
Reese: "There's poop over there and Rhett says it's his."
Me (looking at poop that clearly did not come out of child's body):"It's not Rhett's."
Me (to Ryan): "You just laid there when there is poop over there?!"
Ryan: "I didn't know it was there."
Me, in quiet inside voice: Fuck.

So there you have it. My pedestal is apparently reserved for cleaning up poop. Perhaps my pedestal is made out of poop. Clearly, the clean, non-poop designated pedestal belongs to my husband.


Monday, July 12, 2010

Dreaming the Impossible Dream

Today I attempted to engage in what is commonly referred to as "self care". This is what it was supposed to look like: Get up, shower, actually do hair and apply make-up, drop children off at daycare for the entire day. Drive to Regina and go where ever I want and spend as much time there as I want and just take. my. time. Spend an inordinate amount of time at Chapters. Visit Starbucks. Eat the raspberry loaf with the delicious lemon icing.

This is what today actually looked like:

Get up, wipe three year old's ass, shower, don't really do hair, discover six year old may or may not have pink eye. Call daycare provider to see how she feels about that. She's good with it. Obstacle overcome. Administer antibiotic eye drops to poor child in hopes it will work and can ease mommy guilt over choosing books and icing over his eye health. Husband informs me (yesterday actually) my vehicle needs an oil change right now so maybe I should stop and do that before I leave town. It should be known I dislike the necessity of putting gas in my vehicle. It's cumbersome in it's time consuming-ness and expensive. I prefer to spend my money on books and icing. An oil change is a whole new level of annoyance. So anyway, ask husband to drop children off. He agrees. Yes. Make bed, decide hair is 'good enough', apply make-up, sweep living room, pick up toys, fold blanket, set alarm, leave house. Drop off movie (Brothers, sooo good; that kid who played the oldest girl is phenomenal), get coffee and muffin, drive to dealership for oil change. See line up. Drive away.

First stop: Super Wal-Mart. Trying to find a dresser for my youngest child. Can't find one that doesn't cost more than it should. Instead find Chocolat on Blu-Ray for $10! Johnny and I will soon spend some quality time together with his hair, his guitar and chocolate. Sigh. Also purchase Sex and the City - Season 1. Haven't seen them all yet, figure now is as good as time as any to build my library, as it were. Make a few other mundane purchases, leave.

Second stop: Jysk. Waste. of. time. Had to listen to that god awful song 'Fireflies'. Literally look for a discounted candle holder sharp enough to cause irreparable damage to my ear drums so I never have to listen to that song again.

Third stop: Home Sense & Winners. Buy new purse and wallet. Yay me! Look at bathing suits. Briefly consider trying on one and then decide not to ruin a pleasant day.

Stop #4: Quizno's for lunch (this is turning into a commercial, sorry). It's packed. Use bathroom and leave and go two doors over to Extreme Pita. Enjoy a chicken souvlaki pita with Greek salad. Read the paper. Bask in the glory of eating uninterrupted and getting caught up to speed with current events.

#5: Petland. Play with three adorable kittens and some puppies. Pet and hold what may have been one of the ugliest cats I've ever seen. A calico whose ears have both fallen victim to frostbite (I assume). Sits himself right on my lap and proceeds to bathe. Poor white and black cat in kennel observes this and cries. Ugly ear less calico hisses at other cat. I laugh and resume petting Van Gogh (I just decided this is his name). Van Gogh would prefer I not pet him while he's bathing on my lap so turns around and hisses at me. I laugh again. Continue to carry on conversation with both cats. Wonder how many people have passed by and gotten warm fuzzies from watching a clearly special needs woman play with the our dog ginormous bone and cats expensive wet cat food.

#6: Candy Store. It was just okay. Purchased some black cherry pop.

Stop #7 was not supposed to happen. But it did. I was drawn like a moth to a flame. Costco. Only spent $80 though and most frivolous purchase was a bag of Salt and Pepper chips for my husband. Feel the need to pee while at Costco but it's busy and decide I'll wait until I get to the Holy Grail of Self Care Shopping Day stops: Chapters.

Chapters: Ahhhh. I love books. I pee. To clarify I use the bathroom; I'm not an overexcited puppy sort of person who just pisses herself at the sheer joy of being in a bookstore. I wander; touching books, reading covers, perusing educational workbook section for kids. Wait, what's this? A little blip on the radar of book inspired bliss? Cramping? Put book down and head for washroom. Desecrate Chapters in a way I'm uncomfortable with. If you follow Sassy Curmudgeon (and if you don't, you should) she recently wrote a post about Ladies' Room Etiquette (well, it's actually titled "Poop Stall" or something to that effect) and every rule was broken today. Against my will. I did my best. For those of you who don't love books with an unbridled fervor won't understand. If you love clothes imagine you finally make it to Rodeo Drive and are in some designer shop and your chicken souvlaki pita turns on you. The shame. The horror. The odor. Never mind that I'm pretty sure one of the Real Housewives of Regina was in the stall beside me. Size 4. Big hair. Dressed all in white. Sorry lady.

Skip Starbucks because stomach is not up for coffee or even, sadly enough, lemon icing.

Contemplate one more stop but then feel like I should get home. Told the boys I'd pick them up by 4 p.m. They can't tell time yet mommy guilt and obligation win this one. Upon returning to town, get oil change. Read a magazine. Figure out how much I spent today (ouch). Pick up children. Return home with one child with scraped chin, knee and finger from a fall on the step outside daycare. Other child giddy with excitement at prospect of treats. Haul bags in. Give dog his bone. Give kids their treats. Put other purchases away.

Do not feel relaxed, really. Realize I missed a very important phone call and feel annoyed person did not choose to try and reach me on my cell phone. Try to call them back. No answer. Grrr. Feed kids soup and cheese buns for supper.

Contemplate self care. Decide, in the future, Grape Vodka is really the only way to go.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Sunday Night Slut

There is almost nothing better in the world than a Sunday night when you don't have to go to work the next morning. It's comparable to finding money in a jacket pocket. Or the first time your baby sleeps through the night. Or if you don't have a baby but you're female it's like losing five pounds without even trying. Well that might be taking it a step too far. But if you're a man it's like a day filled with only sports and beer. Point being, I like it.

I like it so much in fact that I even consented to renting a movie with Jackie Chan in it tonight. My husband and sons are currently watching that family spy movie he's in. Billy Ray Cyrus is even in it. Normally that combination would be enough for me to unequivocally refuse any request to rent such drivel. However, it's Sunday night. Which means tomorrow is Monday. Which means a large amount of the population will be going to work tomorrow morning. Except for me. Truth be told, the movie is not all that bad and listening to my three year old heartily fake laugh is worth the rental alone.

Here's the real kicker: we rented another movie, to watch after this one. If I were working tomorrow I'd be in a panic to get the kids to bed and then myself. I would've spent the day doing laundry and would still be doing laundry. Having been off though, it's done, for now.

Who knows what other gems this gift of a night will bring? The best part is, I've got, after tonight, three more Sunday nights left before I return to work!  I'm choosing to dwell solely on the positive. This is something that is rare for me as well and I do believe can also be chalked up to Sunday night freedom.

One last thing. This is completely unrelated to this post. Yesterday I saw two women wearing socks with their Crocs. In public. I don't think this should even be allowed in private but in public it's like a special kind of fashion transgression. Don't do it ladies. It's paramount to wearing mom jeans with a mock turtleneck. It instantly ages you and removes all semblance of sex appeal.

It had to be said.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

All Choked Up

Today I was having a pretty good day. My husband even cleaned the bathroom. The one I'd been avoiding all week after having cleaned the other two. I read for awhile this afternoon. I laid on the couch. I decided it'd be nice to take the kids to a movie.


First because our one and only theatre in town is a crap shoot when it comes to attendance, service and so on, I bought our tickets on-line. I attempted to do this about an hour before the movie was scheduled to begin. Then I tried to print off our ticket-thing. I spent the next half an hour fighting with my printer and becoming increasingly bitchy. Finally emailed the ticket confirmation elsewhere to print it off. Which meant a detour on the way to the movies and we were running out of time. And because of the historically slow moving staff and business of this solitary source of entertainment here in the 'Jaw, I was panicking. My husband was not. This is generally the course of affairs in our world.

Long story short, we made it on time. I shooed Ryan and the kids into the theatre to get our seats and I got in line for food. This is where the rage overtook me, momentarily at least. The couple in front of me had two little girls with them. Everyone was deciding what they wanted to get. Turns out their little girls wanted frozen yogurt. Okay. However despite the five plus minutes they had at least spent in line, this frozen yogurt business appeared to be all too much. It was their turn to order and the efficient (for real) worker was attempting to take their order and asked twice what size of yogurts they wanted. This led stunned mommy to walk over the yogurt to peruse the flavours. Umm, dumb ass, she just needs to know the size so she can punch it into the till so you can pay and then she'll get you THE FUCKING YOGURT. Finally the efficient worker says, politely, although I could hear the frustration there, "I just need to know what size". Stunned mommy: "Oh, small". She said this with an air of obviousness. It was then I literally considered homicide with my bare hands.

All's well that end's well though. I made it into the theatre just in time to see the end of the very last preview (which kind of sucks because I love previews). Got everyone all settled and began watching 'Despicable Me'. Decided early on I liked this movie. Then genetics got me.

What do genetics have to do with any of this? My Grandma is a serial choker. Like for the love of God and all that's holy there's nary a meal that passes without her choking, coughing and sputtering and continuing to eat and talk through it all. It appears that I have inherited this most attractive trait. One tiny little sliver of a popcorn kernel apparently went somewhere it shouldn't and out of the theatre I went. I refuse to hack up a lung right there in front of everyone. So it was in a bathroom stall that I coughed and carried on until I felt it was safe to return. Eyes watering, nose running, throat ravaged. Which is why after the movie, when we went for supper, I choked. Again. On my burger. This is an outdoor eating establishment so I had to go sit in our vehicle so as not to disgust the other patrons. So annoying. And gross. And embarrassing.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before but I've genetically been beaten with the wrong end of the stick. Members of my immediate and extended family are musically inclined, to say the least. They are artists; and excellent ones at that. They can see without the aid of corrective lenses.

Me? I am blind as a bat. I suffer from seasonal allergies, which to my knowledge, no one else in my family does. I love music but am about as 'inclined' as Cameron Diaz's character in 'My Best Friend's Wedding'. I like to doodle but am by no means an artist. I choke, unnecessarily, a lot.

But, I always know what I want when I get to the front of the line at the theater and order in an organized, efficient, and timely manner.

So there.

Thursday, July 8, 2010


Ha ha, I bet some of you thought that was going to have a dirty connotation. I don't write dirty posts. Mostly because too many of my immediate and extended family members read this stuff and I do have a few boundaries. Anyway, the swinging I'm talking about is in regards to my mood.

9 a.m. Up and away! Dropped the kids off and going to meet 'Stacey' for breakfast.

12:30 p.m. Down. Sweaty and hot from housework and realization I've barely made a dent in all that needs to be done around here.

2:30 p.m. Up a little thanks to a ginormous bag of Mini Eggs and a glass of milk and a little couch time with a book.

3:30 p.m. Up and away! (again). At 'Stacey's' with the kids; watching them have a blast in the paddling pool and on the Slip 'n' Slide and feeling very relaxed.

5 p.m. Zen. Getting supper ready; home is, for all intents and purposes, pretty tidy; children are quietly watching a movie and ring a ding ding, Big Brother starts tonight!

8:46 p.m. Plummet like the crash of '29. Fatigue has set in. House is quiet. Trying to decide what I want to eat while I enjoy the circus that is Big Brother. Must have junk food but can't decide what I want. I'm hot. I'm tired. I'm bloated. No more Zen. Sore neck muscles and slightly distended abdomen. You know what might lift me out of this precarious mood? Grape vodka and Sprite over a shitload of ice. Do I have grape vodka? No. Fuck. Do I have Sprite? No. Fuck. Do I have ice? Yes, but who gives a fuck?

I'm going to the store.

Monday, July 5, 2010

The Camera Doesn't Lie

Summertime is here. Well not so much today but yesterday and all of last week it was here. And to celebrate my husband and I loaded up three of our four children and headed out for a day at the beach. We did not lock up the fourth, he simply had to work. Anyway, beach=swimsuit. So I showered and shaved my legs from hip to ankle, underarms; you get the idea. Then I donned the dreaded 'tankini'. I believe this suit was created to keep people from feeling completely matronly. Because really it's a one piece that was cut in half. I, mother of four and lover of food, cannot wear a bikini. I, 33 year old woman, is not ready for the skirted one-piece. Therefore, the tankini it is.

Yesterday I learned it really is 'not'.

After putting on the suit I stood in front of the mirror with perfect posture, belly held in tight, feet shoulder width apart, not moving a muscle and I looked: okay. I even looked from the side to see how far my belly may or may not be protruding; in the exact same stance. Okay, this too was: acceptable.

I threw on a shirt and shorts for the trip out to the lake and we were off. The trip was not without setbacks though.

Setback #1: arrive to find spot on the beach right next to size 4 French tanned mommy in a bikini. Wearing a tank top over bikini but flat stomach, pert breasts, tiny ass and legs still clearly visible. Very tanned and long brown hair. Fuck.

Setback #2 (closely connected with Setback #1): Not French. Less tanned. Puffy stomach, sad tired breasts, flat ass and mediocre legs. Wearing a tankini. Short frizzy hair. Fuck.

However, I am a woman of self-confidence and I have the right to be me in my swimsuit and enjoy this time with my children and not make them pay for the error of my alcohol sugar fueled ways by sitting perfectly still at the perfect angle in my beach chair. So, I cavort, I dig, I build sand castles.

I take photos. So does my daughter.

For the love of God who invented the camera and why? I should've let the children suffer and stayed put. The camera shows a tubular shaped woman who's belly is no longer contained by her tankini when moving (or breathing for that matter). It shows a soft woman with upper thighs ghostly pale in comparison to the more tanned lower 3/4s of her legs. Despite my feelings for the original camera inventor I'm thankful for the digital camera and it's ability to erase the evidence of 33 years of life and poor food choices.

The tankini has got to go. Or 20 pounds. Which do you think will go first?

Friday, July 2, 2010


Quiet is a rare commodity in the house of six people and three animals. Quiet is like a favourite relative whom always leaves you feeling really good about yourself, relaxed and refreshed and whom you miss all the more because of the rarity of his or her visits. Quiet is a temptress. God I miss quiet.

Which why at ten to one in the morning I am blogging instead of sleeping which is really where I should be. But this quiet is intoxicating. The only other sounds I'm hearing aside from my typing is the hum of appliances, the dog breathing and the wind outside. No one is asking me for juice. No one wants to play Power Rangers, watch music videos on the laptop or show me something on You Tube.


I would like to increase my effort in regards to writing and it's now or never. Well, that's not true. It's now or 5 a.m. I honestly think I'll have to start getting up that early to get any extra writing done. My youngest is typically up before 7 a.m. and in bed with me telling me to "scooch over". Scooch over to his giant bear of a father who is radiating heat and noises I'm not comfortable snuggling up with. He then demands a movie be turned on (child not bear-man) and I try to sleep through the exuberant songs of Bear in the Big Blue House or the "hi-ya" of the Power Rangers.

Given current circumstances though I think I shall forgo stolen moments of sleep in honor of the mighty word. I think it's a fair trade.

I'm off to bed. Complete and utterly relaxed by quiet.