Sponsorship & Blizzards

I have no idea what I should write about.  I'm not feeling particularly inspired. I'm feeling discouraged about blogging.  Why?  I read someone else's blog which was incredibly dark and brutally honest.

For those of you who have been following along for awhile now wonder who the hell am I to judge darkness and honesty in a blog as I've been known to go that way a time or two myself.  And I'm no one, I suppose.  This particular post spoke to the divisions in the blogging community in regards to sponsorship and anonymity.  I do not have corporate sponsorship but at this stage of the game it's only due to it not having been offered.  Ever.  Would I accept such an offer? I don't know.  If I could still 'say' fuck and write about whatever I wanted, then yes.  However, I'm pretty sure that wouldn't be the case.

I'm not anonymous.  I do not post photos of my children but do of myself and my pets.  I feel that it should be up to my kids if they're photos are posted.  I plaster them all over Facebook already and that's probably enough.

Good blogging days are when I can get comment crazy over on Pretty All True or on Nigel's blog.  Who is Nigel?  Well head over to PAT and find out.  I'm not doing all the leg work for you people.  They are my two favourite writers and when I'm feeling most discouraged about blogging, they often inspire me to stick with it.  I'm one of those start strong but lose interest quickly kind of people.  I'm also somewhat limited in terms of subject matter because of family readers.  Not that I'm complaining.  I'm grateful for any and all of my readers.  I just can't get too racy.

I'm wandering here.  I guess what I'm really getting it is I feel like a kid with divorced/ing parents.  I just want everyone to get along.  Blogging, for the most part, is easy for me and I long for anything to be easy at this stage of the game (insert joke here) and when there is dissension or conflict, it becomes less easy.  Perhaps if I stopped giving a fuck what other people thought it wouldn't matter so much. 

I'll keep working on it but speaking of easy? It's never easy for me not to care what others think.

Oh and on a completely unrelated note:  I need to lose at least five pounds. I've been home for a good two months now and am afraid to weigh myself.  I poured myself into a pair of jeans today for a few hours.  A few horribly uncomfortable hours.  I am a slave to the sweat pant at present.  And yet?  I'm already thinking about maybe having Blizzards tonight after the little boys go to bed.  Tomorrow I'll go back to the gym.   Or maybe Monday...

But what will people think?

Lard is not Good for You

Yesterday was not good.   Today is.  Everyone around here seems to be having a good day.  Including my daughter.  Who is, so far, very much enjoying high school.  Yaaay!!!  Sometimes it seems like there is very little she enjoys, especially me but today?  She is enjoying life.  Which makes me enjoy it too.

Enjoying things does not help with the blogging though.  I am always less inspired when happy. Angry, sad or hurt and I am on fire.  Content?  Big fucking blank.

Tomorrow kicks off high school football season.  I am looking forward to this.  My son has really found his niche with football and as he is otherwise motivated to do little but play XBox and spend money, this pleases me.  And he is good at it!  And I like to cheer.  A lot.  Loudly.  And they can bite me if they don't like it.  He generally doesn't complain though....it's most Justine who wishes I was a little less enthusiastic.

Then after football, where I'm sure the Tornadoes will be victorious, it's off to my Grandma's 80th Birthday Party.  This Grandma is not the Grandma of the broken back hair washings and Bible Camp.  That Grandma can be found over here.  This Grandma is my German Catholic Grandma who never understood why I didn't like sauerkraut.  I still don't.  Nor do I care for cabbage rolls or kohlrabi.  This Grandma is full of all sorts of wonderful sayings and used to have a penchant for dozing off after supper only to wake herself up yelling at my aunt to do the laundry or something.  

This is a Grandma who worked very hard her whole life.  Who was widowed thirty years ago with a five year old, a seven year old and a 12 year old to care for.  She was not a warm fuzzy crafty grandma.  She was running her cafe and parenting.  Buying things in bulk and cooking everything with lard.  This is also the Grandma who fully accepted a grandchild that was not actually hers.  Not in a DNA sort of way.  I think we've covered this before but I am the 'love child' of my mother and a man from El Salvador.  I am kind of brown.  Unlike anyone else in my family.  And definitely unlike these people of German descent to whom which I then and now belong to.

I didn't quite know what to think of my Grandma when I was little.  I liked going to church with her.  I liked the ritual of the Catholic church before I knew about the hypocrisy surrounding it (and in my humble opinion, most religion).  I liked her cookies. 

It always comes back to cookies where I am involved.

And alcohol. Speaking of which, I have saved some wine from a little gathering I had last week and am now going to partake of.  After I go to Wal-Mart.

Um, I may have gotten off track.

What I think of my Grandma now comes from respect, love and understanding.  I don't know that any of her life has been tremendously easy and I know at times it has been unbearably hard.  She is strong and I am proud to call her my Grandma and DNA be damned.

Happy Birthday Grandma. 

TOO MUCH SNOW*.

*I'm sorry I couldn't resist.  She once left a message on our answering machine for my brother on his birthday and besides wishing him a Happy Birthday she said maybe she'd see him at his dad's on the weekend. Then said: "I won't be there though, too much snow".  This is the essence of Dorothy...God love her.

Irrevocably Fucked Up

So let's see, if you've ever been over to Searching you know that I gave birth to my first child when I was 16.  To be clear, I turned 17 five days later.  Whoop-de-freaking-doo, I know.  I like to be clear on that though. Which is kind of revealing if you think about it.

I was viewed, before getting knocked up, as an exceptionally mature young woman. And then after I committed the ultimate sin of female adolescence and got knocked up?  More maturity.  Except I don't think so. 

Yes, I went to school every day and got top marks.  I took the best care I could of my son and still do that.  I try to anyway.  And still?  Still I make mistakes.  I engage in stupid battles with my children often out of hurt feelings.  I struggle between having an open and honest as possible relationship with them and boundaries too.

My mom and I had a very open and somewhat honest relationship with each other but there were very few boundaries.  She had me when she was 19.  In 1977.  There were no schools to go to with your child in tow.  There was little left to do but marry and that's what she did.  She took the best care of me she could. 

That's what we all try to do as mothers, obviously.  Fathers too.  But sometimes I feel like it's never enough.  This too is revealing.  Revealing of the constant pressure I place on myself in all aspects of life.

My house? Never clean enough.  Never good enough.  Me? Never thin enough or smart enough or funny enough?  My marriage?  Never good enough, strong enough or sexy enough.

Is any of that true or even Pretty All True? 

No.

Yet I tell myself it is on days like these.  I am not a good enough mother.

I would like to erase "good enough" from my vocabulary.

My husband?  Knows no such words.  He and I had polar-ly opposite childhoods.  There is not much more to be said than that.  And with, as one might expect, totally opposite outcomes.  He is never worried about other people think.  I obsess about it.  He always believes things will work out.  I imagine the worst.  He thinks money is never-ending.  I think there is never enough.

He is good.  He is good and kind and generous.  And sometimes?  People take advantage of that. And then you know what I want to do?  Kick the shit out of those motherfuckers or at least have a verbal altercation where I point out they do not deserve his loyalty or help or forgiveness. 

He forgives and almost always forgets.

I carry grudges and never ever never forget.

He has stuck with me through the endless amounts of pressure I put on myself.  Tells me to stop. Once in awhile becomes fed up.

Irrevocably fucked up is a serious title and accusation.  Where did it come from?  Well as long as I can remember I have worked very hard to 'be good'.  In Grade 5 I had a test and mentioned to my Grandma how much my neck hurts when I write a test.  She couldn't believe it! I typically got 90s or 100s and so what did I have to worry about?  I was affronted by this. Did she think it was that easy to do that time and time again?  And what would happen if I didn't get 100?  I didn't say any of these things;  I think I just explained to her that I did get a little nervous and left it at that.

And now?  Now I got fired.  I don't know if she knows.  I don't know if my dad knows.  I don't want to tell them.  I am the good girl.  The good girl that got pregnant but finished high school on time and on the high honour roll.  The good girl that married the dad of the baby and that went to university and got a degree.  And had another child at 19.  Beautiful well behaved children.

Then I got divorced.  At my choosing.  And good girl no more was I.

And then I redeemed myself.  I had a good paying job.  I got re-married, bought a home and had another beautiful baby at an appropriate age.  Then one more.

Now?  I am fired.

This life we built for ourselves could all fall down.  Because of me.

Irrevocably fucked up.  Because a good girl does not quit a job where she is making the kind of money I was.  With the benefits I had.  A good girl will never mind that it is eating her soul and stealing her away from her family and will go to work.  Like. A. Good. Girl.

And then she will blog.  And blogging is where she, I, can be bad.  Could be anyway.  And being bad cost me.

I knew it all along.

Irrevocably fucked up.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

*I sort of stalk Pretty All True and she inspired today's post. FYI

Attention Whores & Nerves

School starts tomorrow.  For the love of God and all that's Holy, school. starts. tomorrow. 

I am just slightly looking forward to this.  Anybody else?

I only ask because I will never forget hearing my first set of in-laws say how they hated to see their sons go back to school at summer's end.  I remember first being surprised at that and then thinking it was incredibly sweet and what good parents they must be.

And because I am looking forward to my children's return to school tomorrow? 

I am not sweet?  I am not a good parent?

No.  I think I am normal.  Well, as close to normal as I get on any given day.

I am looking forward to some quiet.  To not saying "Hands to yourself!" upwards of 15 times a day.  To not mediating between the two teenagers who I currently share a home with.  Granted, all those things can and likely will take place between the hours of 7 and 8:30 a.m. every day as well as again from 3:30 p.m. to 10.  But, and it's a big but, there will be a break.  A glorious break of giddily parenting one child.  One!  I haven't parented only one child since October 1996.

And now I feel super ass-errific because my six year old, who is a sensitive emotional person by nature, is sobbing and nervous about going back to school tomorrow.  He is currently cuddled with dad on the couch.  He is a dad's boy through and through.  And still loses his mind a little if Ryan and I attempt to go out for an evening by ourselves.  Rhett, who is 3, bids us a fond farewell and carries on. Reese, does not.  Right now he is fraught with worry about who will be in his class and being at school for the whole day and when I will be there to pick him up.  We are encouraging and reassuring him.  My husband is less skilled at this and  just told him he might meet his best friend in the world tomorrow.  After I have said, 'you'll be okay because you have your best friend to go to class with'.  So Reese responds to Ryan with "(Friend) is already my best friend". Ryan says: "You never know".  Reese argues this point.  Ryan follows it up with a brilliantly played: "Maybe (he'll) move away".  At which point I interjected.

What is it with the male psyche that would make one so inclined to suggest the possibility of their already emotionally fragile six year old son's best friend moving away, unexpectedly?  Do their penises really have tiny little brains that sometimes take over the conversation?  This seems like the only logical explanation at this point.

And now?  Now Rhett is up trying to assess the situation; looking for clarification and adding his own helpful comments and analysis.  Mostly trying to ensure Reese will be back in bed shortly because it is never okay for one child to be in bed when the other is not.

The morning shall bring new nerves as daughter is set to start high school tomorrow.  So she should be extra laid back and chill tomorrow morning.  My oldest, who is actually laid back, was not so on the first morning of Grade 9, so she?  Who is slightly tense at the best of times?  Well I may try to locate some marijuana tonight and make her a special breakfast brownie just to take the edge off.  Ah, if only it were so.

And also?  Her friend's parent was going to take them in the morning but now I have been assigned with this task.  What is wrong with this?  What's wrong is taking your child to high school for the first time is harder than taking them to Kindergarten.  When you drop a child off for Kindergarten, none of the other kids can drive, nor do they smoke, and they are all fairly tiny.  I nearly had to pull over after dropping Steven off on his first day of Grade 9.  Number one, my normally cool as a cucumber guy was heart-wrenching-ly nervous and number two?  I just left him with all these big bad smoking driving kids!  Tears came fast and furious. He was five, last I checked....So tomorrow morning, when I drop Molly (her nickname from when she was actually 5) off, I am hoping I will be old hat at this and not head to the elementary school with puffy eyes and red nose explaining how she used to be very little and pronounce her 'u's' like a double 'oo' as in "Turn up the moosic, Mommy". Or demanding I march through the mall. "Mahrch, Mommy, Mahrch!"  Or the charming time we were at a public swimming pool and whilst changing having her ask me with just a hint of disgust: "Why do you have whiskers on your tootsie, Mom?"

Tomorrow is the first day of school and maybe, in some ways, the last days of Molly...

Grade 11.  Grade 9.  Grade 1.  Bean.  Bean, who will always be my Bean and shall never grow up, if I have anything to do with it, may have to bear with a little smothering tomorrow but as he is already an attention whore, this shouldn't be a problem.

A Day Late & A Dollar Short

I've committed the unspeakable....yet, I choose to speak of it anyway. Yesterday was my blog birthday and I didn't blog.  It isn't this particular blogs special day but I started blogging one year ago on August 21, 2009 over at Searching.  Some of my best work remains over there and some of my best work from that blog had to be removed.  This blogging business has been quite the journey.

I began blogging at the urge of my husband to quit complaining about my actual job and do something to change it.  So I did.  The blog was a place to vent.  An avenue with which to try and make the decidedly unfunny, funny.  At first I made no commitment to writing on a regular basis and only felt I was 'good' if I was particularly inspired.  That has since changed and as such I feel I've grown as a writer.  The blog soon took on a bit of a life of it's own.  I've said it before and I've said it again, but it's mine.  It's been so long since something was so singularly mine.  I am possessive, protective and proud.

This has not come without cost. I have made some rookie blogger mistakes.  Like not choosing to be 100% anonymous.  Why is this a mistake?  I lost my job.  I blogged about work.  No I didn't name my place of employment or any of my co-workers nor did I say what my former profession was, but my name was on the blog.  With a little digging that would've all been easily found out.  Do I regret it?

Yes.

No.

I regret that I may have hurt some people's feelings that I didn't intend to.  I regret not recognizing and accepting and actively seeking a way out of a job that I was no longer good at nor was it good for me or my family.  I regret putting our family's financial well-being at risk. 

I am happy.  I can listen to my family talk to me again.  Confused?  At my previous job I would be so drained, tired, frustrated and physically and emotionally spent, there were days I didn't have anything left for the five people who need and deserve my attention most.  That's not fair.  I have received what I can call nothing other than beautiful support from my friends.  I have found something new to do that I am very excited about.  That is all I will say because I'm not putting this opportunity at risk. I have learned my lesson.

My blog has brought me even more support and more friends.  People whom I have no idea what they look like or for the odd one, what their real names are.  It doesn't matter. This is it's own little community and one that I am proud to be a part of.

So all that being said, Happy Belated Blog Birthday to Me!

I am Celiac

Okay, first things first, I had a few Cosmos tonight.  You need to know this before you read anything.  Secondly: I lost a follower today!! Maybe the "not all babies are cute and I don't like dogs" really did it's damage.  Who knew?  Have a sense of humour people.

Okay, now down to serious business. I am drunk. Why?  I went to a baby shower and let me tell you, if you've ever not become intoxicated at a baby shower, you haven't lived.  This is probably the first time it's happened to me, but with any luck at all, it won't be the last. 

We didn't play games.  We ate.  We drank.  Stacey opened her gifts and Eskimo Pie donned her jeggings.  Life. is. Good.

Then, things got really serious. Celiac Disease; it's no joke. 

Once upon a time I may have went to party where people spoke about having some bad weed or maybe a rotten acid trip. These days, it's all about the wheat and dairy.  It's criminal the way wheat will fuck a girl up.  The bloating in and of itself...well there are no words.

Celiac, who is actually a friend, a good massage giving, nice girl, "not so bright" (in the words of Sinatra herself; who the fuck is Sinatra? The Divine Bringer of Cosmos...not unlike Mary and her gift of baby Jesus), well she is abused by wheat and the dairy.  So she finger raped a piece of cake tonight for it's frosting. 

I couldn't make this shit up.

Is there a point?  I don't know.  My house smells like cat piss because my fat cat, not to be confused with the mobster,  has taken to urinating outside of the litter box.  It, for the record, is a GIANT RUBBERMAID CONTAINER.  It's not even a regulation size litter box.  What is her deal?

My husband, who is sober and watching Discovery Channel, does not find me nearly as funny as I do.  Weird.

With that said: My name is Angela and I am celiac.  It's been one hour since I last consumed wheat.

No applause people, please; just share your story.

Your Baby isn't Cute and Neither is Your Dog

I know, I know, those are harsh words.  And just whose baby and dog am I talking about?  No one's in particular.  However, I am not of the belief that all babies are cute.  There are some ugly babies out there.  It's bound to happen.  And yes, because they are small, soft and smell good, they are endearing but that does not necessarily make them physically attractive.  It's a fact.  And guess what else?  And I may lose some of you over this...I'm not a 'dog person'.

What?!  But you have two dogs?  What kind of person who doesn't even like dogs have two of them?   A person who bases her love of children and dogs on their actual personalities.  I don't like all kids either.  If they are assholes or whiny or just plain dumb, I'm not interested in spending my time with them.  With the recent loss of my job some people have suggested I start a home daycare.  Um, no.  I tried that once and learned I don't like a lot of other people's children and my patience level is barely enough for my four children and husband.

And this morning?  I was lying in bed, getting to sleep in a little and all I could hear was a dog. Barking and barking and barking.  And in doing so, encouraging other dogs to bark and howl.  I don't know where these dogs were.  At least a couple of blocks away but who does that?  It's not even 8 a.m.  Put your dog in the house!

My dogs do not bark.  Toby will give the odd bark if someone walks in the back alley when he is in the back yard but it's literally just one bark.  Chuy will bark at the cats if he's attempting to get them to play with him.  It never works, in case you are wondering. There is fairly limited crotch sniffing. Toby is at the right height, so to speak, so he does get carried away from time to time. Chuy can't reach. Which is well enough by me.  That being said, this is why I have these two dogs.  They are clearly superior beings.

Dogs stink.  They jump up and they hump your leg.

Cats smell good.  They ignore you and never hump your leg.

I'm just saying.

And some kids chew with their mouths open.  Which is the ultimate sin in our house and so my children learned very young this is not acceptable.  Which means, do that and you will lose my love forever.  Some kids are dumb.  I'm not being mean to kids because these descriptors apply to a number of adults as well.  My point is I don't think kids are the cat's ass just because they are under 4 feet tall.

I don't even volunteer for school trips anymore because I know that I will only want to spend time with my child and his friend and that would be it.  The other kids would annoy me and maybe wipe boogers on me.

If you don't believe me in terms of non-existent patience level the following exchange just took place:

Little boys fighting and whining in the living room for the 15th time in the last hour since they've been up.

I storm into the living room and advise them of the following:

"Listen, that's enough! Do you two want to to live somewhere else because we can't actually afford four kids right now?!  You two are prime candidates because we have to pay for your daycare". 

And because they know the threat is empty and also don't know what "prime candidates" means?  They plead their cases and then the three year old openly mocks me.  Sigh.  They are very good looking and this is what saves them on a daily basis.

And now?  The dog next door, whose owner leaves out everyday all day when he is at work, is barking.  Soon she will start to howl and sound like a cow in heat.  I've never heard a cow in heat and don't even know if cows get horny, but if they did?  That is what they would sound like.

The End.

My Long Lost Brother

This may be a long shot but once you see The Lame Sauce's profile pic and then my Grade 6 School Photo, you'll see the resemblance and be intrigued

Other than that you need to know I'm the honoured guest blogger over at he Lame Sauce so get your eyes over there and take a look! I promise you won't be disappointed, the photo itself is worth the clicks.

Rewards for Good Behaviour

Okay, so I worked my ass off today.  Seriously, getting off this chair causes me to grunt and groan like an obese senior.  I'm not trying to be mean, that's just the facts ma'am.  Why am I in such poor shape?  Because I spent hours weeding today. One side of our driveway is gravel and the weeds reign supreme every summer and every summer I convince my husband that we should actually pull them instead of auditioning as extras for the Trailer Park Boys.  This year though, I am at home, so I decided to do it myself.  And now? Now I want to fall asleep on the couch with a half-eaten Kit Kat protruding from my mouth.  (I said lips, but some of you who read this would take it in a whole other entirely inappropriate, albeit funny, direction).

I am quite proud of my hard work.  I waited for my husband to get home and comment on all the hard work I did.  Then he came home and I waited some more.  Then finally I said, while staring at the screen, "Did you notice the driveway?"  He responded, as if talking to a five year old, "Yeeess".  I know you did fucker, you park your truck on that side.  Why am I so upset?  Because if he remembers to change the toilet paper roll, I am expected to first verbally acknowledge his brilliance, masculinity and sheer brawn, then provide a certificate, embossed with the Gold Seal of "I did something" on it and also making note of the sheer size and animal power of his forearms, and then?  I probably have to have sex with him.

And what do I get? I get, "yeeess" spoken like he did notice and he also noticed I didn't even have one accident today and I learned all my colors, including purple.

He's currently preparing supper, completely oblivious to the silent ranting happening mere feet away.  And then later? He'll probably say something nice and I'll feel slightly guilty for writing this but is that going to stop me from posting it?  No. I'm not that mature.

192 Pounds

Today I missed work.

Let me clarify.  Today I missed quiet.  Today I missed sitting still.  Today I missed going to the bathroom by myself with no one commenting on my "'gina" or asking me if I am pooping.

Don't get me wrong, I like being at home and I like my kids.  I even love them.  Today though I kind of hit a wall.

This is a wall made out of fatigue and a general lack of patience.  My husband's birthday was on the weekend which meant I cleaned like a bat out of hell all day Saturday.  For no particular reason, as it turns out (stay tuned for a guest post over at The Lame Sauce Thursday).  Then we were up late and had a busier day than planned yesterday. This coupled with no less than three midnight visits from the three year old and a bear of a husband who snores equals a tired bitchy me.

So how do I cope with this?  Do I exercise to combat stress?  Read a good book?  Take the highly recommended bubble bath?  No.  I eat.  I eat a giant Hershey bar. I eat some beef jerky.  I then eat two Sloppy Joes.  Oh and before 9:30 a.m., I finished off the birthday cake. Even though I'd already had some Cap'n'Crunch.  Can anyone say food issues? Anyone?

Last night I dreamt my husband made me weigh myself and I tipped the scales at a healthy 192 lbs.  Which I do not weigh in real life.  And I don't want to weigh.  That being said, I think that was my subconscious telling me to get the hell off the food train before it derails and all I can wear is elastic-waisted pants and it's no longer just a fun choice.

I digress.  This morning I fantasized about getting up before anyone else and showering, dressing like it mattered, applying make-up, doing my hair and leaving the house just before 8 a.m.  And then maybe grabbing a coffee and going to the office and quietly sitting in my office and checking my email and sipping my coffee.  No one would ask me to get them any cereal or argue over who gets to sit beside 'McQueen' or want to watch Caillou.  I never ever had to clean up anyone's bodily functions or bathe them after a poop gone wrong.

There was adult conversation.  Uninterrupted adult conversation.

Instead I have perfected a voice I do for Chuy the puppy.  Turns out, he has a lisp.

I need to get out more.  I need sleep. I need to have my jaw wired shut.

In the meantime, someone pass the cake.

Just Call Me Grace

It wasn't until about 5 p.m. on Friday that I even realized it was Friday the 13th.  Then about an hour and a half later, it became very clear.  Never mind almost hitting the cyclists...

It was my husband's grandmother's 93rd birthday and we were invited over for cake and ice cream.  She lives what likely amounts to less than a block away so we set out on foot, and on bike (the little boys) to go celebrate with Grandma.  We had gotten her flowers because at 93 what else does a person really need except their hearing back and comfortable clothes.  She has clothes.  We can't give her hearing back although she is adamant it's fine (it's not, hence the shouts of "WHERE'S THE GRAVY BOAT?!" at Easter this year).  Anyway, point being, I was carrying flowers.

Great-Grandma lives downhill from us so the boys were going a little faster on their bikes than I was comfortable with and so I was kind of running to keep up and as I approached the curb, I tripped.  Not a little hitch in my step but a full-on trip fell to my knees scraped up my hands landed in a muddy gravel driveway mothertruckin' trip.

I ended up on hands and knees with my daughter laughing her ass off only feet away from me. The youngest child continued to head for Great-Grandma's. The six year old laughed.  My husband and oldest child came around the corner and began to laugh too. Followed up by this brilliant question: "What are you doing?" I'm fucking clamming, what does it look like I'm doing?

Instead I just sat there.  Trying not to cry.  Feeling stupid and hurt.  My hands fucking hurt and were all muddy and gravelly.  But I was not going to cry. I'm the Mom; I kiss other people better who fall down.  I had mud on my pants so thought, great, I will go home and change and can cry like a little bitch at home. By myself.  Except for one thing: we'd locked ourselves out.

No joke.

So I took my daughter home with me because she'd be able to fit through a window better than I.  We broke in, I got cleaned up, bandaged and changed.

My husband is determined to not let me forget it and after a few drinks last night he took great delight in telling our company how embarrassed I looked. Thanks a-hole.

Just call me Grace.

Sally Ann

I didn't post yesterday and am struggling with thinking of something to post about today but do not want to go TWO WHOLE DAYS without posting because what will my fans do? think? read?

Narcissist much?

Maybe. Slightly.  And desperate and paranoid.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, I love this blog.  And loving it means I would like it to do well...  whatever that means.

The last two days though I've been dragging my ass. Hard.  Today I ventured to Regina with my two oldest children to do a bit of clothes shopping. It was mostly good. Until, on our way out of town, I almost hit two teenagers on bikes.  The vehicle in the outside lane had stopped but I was going a tad fast to stop and thought they would wait to make sure everyone was stopping before they crossed as this is a major street.  They didn't.  I slammed on the brakes and afterwards listened to a diatribe from my son, who's been a licensed driver for all of four months, about my "many accidents" and how long did I even have a license before I got into my first accident.  I was somewhat stumped by this and said "years?".  His reply: "That's not what Dad made it sound like".

Have I mentioned I am tired?  Have I mentioned I have been divorced from said Dad for eight years, separated for ten?  Have I mentioned I was 16 when I became pregnant by said "Dad" after three months of dating and had I not, likely never would've engaged in a long term relationship with Dad?  Does anyone get the sense this may have pushed a button?

Sigh.  So off I went into my very own diatribe of how "Dad" clearly has his own perception of our time together and is quite grandiose in his relating it to them.  Or maybe I just said, "He makes stuff up".

Well, he does.

Was it necessary for me to launch into what almost amounted to a full-scale attack? No.

I hate Bad Mother Days.  I know we all have them but in hindsight they are always so avoidable.  We were all charged up from nearly hitting children on bicycles and I think that is what took over rather than a rational discussion of driving and cycling safety and into a discussion of their father's version of history as compared to my own.

I am also stressed because I couldn't really afford today but they needed some school clothes and it's not their fault I got fired and we are a little strapped for cash.  They are not really wanting for anything and wear their fair share of brand name items; some paid for by themselves and the odd treat from us. 

Why, if we can't afford it? Because I never had White Reebok runners.  Because I never had 'lock-up jeans'.  Because I wore the same pair of glasses from Grades 5 through 8 and even the teachers were happy for me when I got new ones.

Don't get me wrong, I had all of my basic needs more than met.  I had clothes.  I was warm. I ate very well. 

At 12, 13 and 14 though?  That gets forgotten and all you remember is carefully planning out the week's worth of clothes so no one would notice you wore a pair of jeans more than once.  And telling kids you "forgot" where you got your "new" shirt from, when complimented on it, because it was from "Sally Ann's" (for those of you who don't know, that's the Salvation Army).

So today I spent.  Today I snapped.  Today I was a Bad Mom for a minute but maybe? I was mostly trying to be Good.

I Do NOT Waddle

I have two teenagers.  And two more children that are not but this doesn't concern them.  I have a son who is 16 and a daughter who is 13.  It is she, who keeps me grounded.

Case in point:  Today she was dealing with the dogs in the living room while I made supper and caught up on some blogs.  I could tell she was getting frustrated so I went to check in.  She was attempting to get Chuy, the puppy, to stay in his puppy bed rather than engage in further aggressive play with Toby, our 'senior' dog.  Chuy was having none of it and Toby was just panting and looking exhausted.  They'd already been playing for quite awhile.  So I giggled at Justine while she attempted to reason with this little demon we've brought into our home and told her to put them outside because then they'll stop. She said then the dogs would just want back in.  I said they would not. 

Her reply?

"Yeah, sure, it's easy for you to waddle in here and say that after sitting on your laptop for the last hour".

Excuse me?  Did I hear that right? Did you just say waddle?

I didn't even have to say anything when her already big eyes got bigger and she started giggling and proclaiming "I didn't mean it like that!!"  Which prompted me to flip her over and tickle her and pretend to spank her.  We were both laughing because I know she didn't mean it like that. However I did not let it go and made references to myself waddling for the rest of the evening.

To be clear as to whether or not I actually waddle, I am 5'7" tall and weigh about 130 lbs. Oh wait, it's not 1993?  Shoot. Well, anyway, I'm 5'7" and I weigh about its-none-of-your-business. It is, however, less than 400 lbs.,so therefore I do not waddle.

Having a teenage daughter is a reality check every day all day.  And my daughter is brutally honest.  This is a trait she comes by honestly and I love her for it.  She is sensitive, funny, smart and gorgeous, inside and out.  And? She's mean.  Again, this potentially could have something to do with genetics.  So I dare not complain.  Unless she makes reference to my waddling again and if so, it's game on. 

Why I Don't Sleep Naked

Yesterday I found myself reading yet another hilarious post from Kris over at Pretty All True in which she disclosed her penchant for sleeping in the buff.  She seems to wonder at those of us who don't.  I would be one of 'us' that don't.  I never have slept fully un-clad and therefore am not comfortable doing so.  I wear the bare minimum in this heat and when it's cold, especially at Christmas, I have full-on flannel jammies.

Adding to not being able to actually fall asleep in the buff; we are never completely alone in our room.  We go to bed alone but it's not often we wake up alone.  Rhett's never ending desire to locate my penis would only be further encouraged by my nudity rather than deterred.  The little boys often try to catch glimpses when they can out of curiosity while the older children would likely run screaming in sheer terror were I to present myself to them in all my naked glory.

Last night though I had yet another reason for keeping myself semi-clothed for sleeping.  I woke shortly after 3 a.m.  I had been sleeping somewhat restlessly anyway and was annoyed to be waking yet again.  Then as my senses began to fully awaken, a stench filled my nose and it became clear this was the reason for my waking.  Dog shit.  Or more specifically: puppy poop.  I laid there and contemplated my course of action.  Should I just try to fall back asleep in this stench and feel like the dirtiest human being alive?  Get up and clean it and end up fully awake? 

I got up. 

Checked the damage, which was not minimal.  Woke my husband so as not to scare the proverbial shit out of him when I turned on our little carpet cleaner.  Then I set to work.

So there I was, sometime after 3 a.m., hunched over the carpet cleaning poop out of it.  And the first thing that came to mind was: "I'm glad I'm not naked; this would be ugly naked".  After that? "I am so going to blog about this".  And then I set about writing this in my head.  And as I washed my hands and got ready to go back to bed I thought, "Well, if that doesn't mean I'm a true blogger, I don't know what does".  Not that I necessarily questioned my validity as a blogger before now but it struck me as slightly odd that while cleaning up puppy poop in the middle of the night, my first thoughts were of writing about it and relating it to other blogs I read, and not about better training my dog.

In Chuy's defense, he was very sick over the weekend and is still not fully recovered and our bedroom door was shut and when you gotta' go, you gotta' go.  That being said, he slept in the living room after that.

I returned to bed, in my tank top and panties, more than grateful for both.

Mike Holmes is not actually God

Earlier this year my family and I were watching one of our new favourite shows: The Middle.  In one episode the mother berates herself for not having a more "perfect" family.  Number one: No such family exists.  Number two:  she tried to perpetuate some perfection by having the family sit down, eat dinner together instead of in front of the TV and share the best part of their day and the worst part.  We generally eat together as a family at the table.  It is very rare that we eat in front of the TV.  However, after that episode we laughingly tried the best and worst business and it kind of stuck.  Mostly because of my two youngest boys. 

Today this is the inspiration for my post.

BEST PARTS OF MY DAY: Spending some time with my two oldest children this morning running errands.  They got along!  We laughed and joked and talked and nobody was angry with anyone else! Cha-ching!

Next up was running into a friend and chatting with her about our respective life changes as of late.  Hearing that I am being described as a "completely different person" since my job situation occurred.

Front runner with the happy time with kids?  Eskimo Pie.  That's all I'm saying about that.  Well except that there is nothing sweeter or more soothing than a chubby baby with dark hair who is way too alert for a newborn.

WORST PARTS OF MY DAY: Guess what?  Despite my new found calm and inner peace as of late I learned this is not how all of my family members feel about our current situation and I feel beyond helpless.  And frustrated.  Which may be unfair but fuck it, I am happy.  Well at this very minute I'm not happy, I'm actually bitchy, but that's besides the point.  Parenting is hard. Duh.  I often crave simplicity and ease.  It will never happen because life is not about either of these things.  Which is what makes it good too.  I know this but every once in awhile, I'd like a break.

My husband not responding to my unspoken requests to do what the fuck I want right the fuck now.  There you have it.  I am mature enough to admit this.  I am guilty of it all of the time.  I tend to operate at pace ten times that of my husband.  He is someone who can revel in the delights of life at any pace.  And today was a good day for him.  And I?  Became annoyed because happy as he is?  He's in even less of a rush than usual. GRR. Argggghh.  We often have slight disagreements when shopping because I tend to use my 33 year old legs for what they are intended: walking at a brisk pace.  My husband uses his to stroll.  He is the motherfuckin' king of strolling. 

Driving?  Just about ends us sometimes.  I like to drive fast.  He likes to check other people's lawns, trucks, obey speed limits and smoke.  Which means he does not drive fast.  I could be hemorrhaging from my eyes and God forbid someone is renovating the exterior of their home and not doing something to code because then?  Good bye vision.  Hello white cane and a stirring rendition of what the code is and why Mike Holmes is next to God.

Finally, my 16 year old is currently serenading me with "Turn Around" by Bonnie Tyler. This likely falls in both categories.

Sigh.

She's Not Getting It

This is a guest post.  I know, big deal, hey? Me having my very own guest blogger; who could have imagined.  Let me introduce her: I've known her for nine years now.  We don't have a great deal in common aside from our shared bitchy streak. Other than that, she loves the outdoors more than I do and although I say I'm unconcerned as to what others think, she really doesn't give a fuck.  Oh and she's childless and single.  And she pees in our basement and poops in the flower bed.  Confused? It's Callie.  My beautiful Calico Cat and she asked for the opportunity to respond to some of the things I have said as of late.

Ugh.  I don't really care much for writing but as my owner feels it's apropos to share every move I make or don't, it's only fair I should be given the opportunity to respond.  You people have no idea what I have put up with in the nine years since I was unlucky enough to have been brought home here.

Well first things first, I've had to move two times since she got me.  How's that for stability?  I prefer to sleep 21 hours or so of the day and moving really interferes with that and travelling, in a car, is about as much fun as being de-clawed.  Which I haven't been.  I'll give her that much. She did have me spayed but that's okay because I haven't the time for kids of my own given the circus that goes on around here.

When I first came home to live with this family it was doable.  You see there was only her (owner), her two small ones and Melody.  Melody is actually older than me but I am clearly superior to her fat-assed self.  'She' goes around saying Melody is 'voluptuous' and calling her Francesca the plus-sized model.  In reality she's a fat slob.  I'm sick of it.

Anyway we were okay. Then before you knew it?  This big bear of a man came to live with us. I'm pretty sure I didn't okay that and had I known what was to come there was no way I would've allowed this to continue.  Because next? Next we moved.  I have to admit the first move wasn't all that bad. It was a short trip in the car and I was allowed to go outside on a fucking leash but outside all the same.  At the old place I wasn't.  So here I am, just enjoying the outdoors and more space.

Then they had a baby.  I'm not sure who of you are familiar with babies and what that means but it's never good for a cat.  And you should've seen these idiots with it. It was if we barely existed anymore and when he got mobile he was constantly pulling at me and bothering me.  Were I to defend myself I was punished.  It's fucking ridiculous.

As if that wasn't enough they next brought home the lowest form of life there is.  A dog.  A big stupid drooling peeing in the house stinking dog.  Luckily he quickly realized that myself and Fat Ass were the superior beings and he's been tolerable.  Barely.

This is where it gets good.  They thought they could bring another cat into the mix. BAH HA HA HA HA.  They thought wrong.  It took me a few months but I managed to get that bitch out of the house. 

For awhile things continued in a bearable fashion but because these asinine humans I live with are never content, we moved.  Again.  And this was not a short ride.  On the up side we have more room and I get to go outside. Not on a leash.  I hunt. And I hunt good.  So really, I was okay with this.

Eight months later?  Another cat.  For the Love of God and catnip what the hell is wrong with these people?  So I set to work again and before I knew it they found that asshole somewhere new to live too.  You think they'd learn. If only I knew then what I know now.  They are incapable of learning.

Another baby.  Fuck.  Whatever.

Recently though they made a dire move in the wrong direction.  There is now a little rat of a dog running around this house eating everything and peeing even more than the big one did.  He is an idiot.  That doesn't even begin to encompass it.  The fool. He's a male, or so they say, and yet they have the audacity to let him sleep in my old cat bed. It's pink.  No, I hadn't used it for some time but it was mine. This tool, that they call 'Chuy' does not listen.  Time and time again he tries to eat my food.  Fat Ass doesn't do anything but I won't stand for it. 

Yet on occasion the dumb ass prances around in front of me and growls and barks and seems like he wants to 'engage'. I'm not interested. When will he figure this out?  Judging by how things have gone so far, I'm less than hopeful.

The issue at hand is even though I recently made myself clear as to my thoughts on this new addition, he's still here.  The big man just put my 'gift' into the garbage and they carried on as if it never happened.

So this morning, I left this:

The woman acted all horrified and slightly frightened (she's so pathetic) and called yet again on the big man to get rid of it.  The dog is still here.  I shall have to amp up my efforts. 

I Lied

It's true, I did.  See, all those months when I ranted and raved about my job and how much I hated it and referred to my co-workers as idiots? I wasn't telling the whole story and that my friends, is lying by omission.

What I left out were the parts about days when I would be heading out to travel for the umpteenth day in a row and people would notice that I was at my wit's end; as an aside it is never hard to tell when I'm at my wit's end.  I stop speaking coherently except to angrily say "Fuck" roughly five times per sentence.  All joking aside though there were days when it was rough. And on those days I had more than one person asked me what they could do to help.  And help they did.  And it was never done begrudgingly.  They wanted to help and it was plainly clear.  And it's often what got me through those especially trying times.

And here I am yet again, having somewhat of a trying time.  And those same people who helped before?  Have come through again in fine fashion.  Actually I don't like the phrasing of that because it may suggest I expected their help and I did not.  They have been great with moral support and been some of my biggest cheerleaders when it comes to my blogging.  Yesterday though? They took the support to a whole new entirely unexpected level.

It nearly brought me to tears but because I'd rather eat vegetables than cry in front of people I maintained.  Yet later in the evening when I was talking to my daughter on the phone and sharing with her what these wonderful women had done for me, I got a little dewy eyed again. *Please note dewy is a multi-faceted word and I highly recommend you work it into your vocabulary.

So to those girls, and you know who you are, Thank You.  That honestly doesn't even begin to express the gratitude, appreciation and love that I have for you all and how utterly fantastic you've been through all of this.  There are a thousand and one things I won't miss about it but there are 13 'things' I will.  Actually 12, because one person isn't there anymore either and I don't know her all that well but she took part in this awesome act of kindness and that really touched me as well.

Ew, I said touched. But I mean it so I guess it's okay. 

Insert theme song for 'The Golden Girls' here.

All joking aside, Thank You.  You will honestly never know how much what you've done means to me.

Queen of Dentyne

So despite all my bravado about having been fired and not being overly upset about it today was a different story.  You see I thought I had a month to find employment and so while I've been looking I've been pretty relaxed about it. Already some of you are all "how stupid is she?" and "a month isn't all that long".  I know that but as I was expecting two full pay cheques to come rolling my way and I'm feeling pretty good about a couple of the jobs I've applied for, good enough.

Today though, the mail came and my little world came crumbling down. I got my pay stub.  And it's roughly $1300 short.  What. The. Fuck.  Turns out our sick time is pro-rated.  Actually I knew this but just didn't count on it impacting me at all.  I was wrong.  Thanks to the chicken pox fiasco of May and then my two weeks of stress leave in early July, I fell short.  So they paid me out for time I wasn't entitled to and tomorrow they're taking it all back. 

Funny story: my mortgage payment as well as my vehicle payment are both due to come out tomorrow.  That $1300?  Was going to take care of both of those and then some. 

Motherfucker.

Never fear kids, we had an umbrella for this rainy day I had kind of forgotten about.  It's an umbrella but it's cheap and therefore we can't really rely on it for long. Time to get serious about finding a job.  Whatever that means; as in I'm done with being picky.

My husband is super supportive and keeps reassuring me that I'm still better off now despite not having a pot to piss in.  Or almost anyway.

Less supportive was the woman I had to call to find out where the hell my money went.  She couldn't have been more bothered or annoyed or incidentally, enjoying her gum more, when I called.  Apparently she just needed time to savour her Stride or Dentyne or whatever the fuck was more important than my mortgage payment. I felt as though maybe she was judging me for having been fired when she is clearly so good at her job as resident cud chewer. *Disclaimer: this is NOT about anyone at my former place of work so settle down.

Fired? Yes.  Stupid? No.  Worth any less than Queen of Dentyne?  Definitely not.  Paying my mortgage tomorrow? Yes. Thank God. 

Ultimately this whole event has been life changing in a number of ways and I imagine, more to come.  Do I have any regrets?  Ah, that's a hard question because I'd like to be all confident and cocky and say absolutely not but as I also have a pretty decent reputation as an honest person, I can't lie.  So yeah, I have a couple of regrets. But mostly, I have my sanity back too and as far as I'm concerned?  Sanity far outweighs regret.

Third Times a Charm

This is my third attempt at posting this morning. I feel as though I've lost my mojo.  I am working on a guest post for Atomic Mommy but am not satisfied with it yet either.  It's always harder guest posting and given that right now I'm struggling with posting for myself it's not any easier.

I quite idolize kris from Pretty All True and I'm envious of her writing ability but more to the point of the great material her girls provide her with!  They are hilarious. I strongly encourage you to head over and have a read.  My children are less than ideal for providing inspiration as of late.  In fact, I just had to take a short break to put the three year old on time out for being mean to the puppy. The six year old has two suspicious wet spots on his shorts which is apparently from he and his brother trying to master the spitting trick demonstrated in the movie 'Big Daddy'. I introduced them to this movie and am now wondering if that was the most solid parenting choice I've made as of late.  Especially after they both took great delight on peeing on the side of our shed yesterday.

And there is also spit on the couch that I've spent the last two days cleaning. Sigh.

Okay, so maybe today is a bad example.  It seems they have been reading my mind and are out to show up Kallan and Maj of Pretty All True fame. 

Ah, all is quiet for a moment.  Adam Sandler just said "booby tassels".  Rhett is eating cereal and paying rapt attention and Reese is perched monkey-like on the formerly clean couch.

And I?  Plan to keep plugging away and hoping for further inspiration and semi-bad behaviour from my children to fall back on in a pinch!

Slightly Discouraged

Gah. Okay, I know the number one rule of Blogging is to write for yourself, first and foremost. I do that.  What I would like eventually though is for other people to get on board and enjoy my writing as much as I do.  As of August 21, 2010 I will have blogged for one year.  And I am currently at 15 followers on this blog, which I started at the end of June and one of the followers is anonymous which makes me paranoid it's my former employer.  My previous blog, Searching, has 14 followers and then I have PMS Chronicles which has eight followers.  One of my new followers has been blogging for less than a month and has 33 followers.  Sigh.  What am I doing wrong?

Her blog is really cool looking, I'll give her that.  And she clearly has more Internet savvy than I do.  I think I'm going to have to forsake sleep in an effort to master this thing Prince said was dead and get my shit together.  I love blogging and all it entails. I really enjoy being a part, however small, of the blogging community.

That being said, I'm also vain, if you can consider it that, and I want followers!  Who didn't give birth to me.  To those of you currently following me, thank you.  You have no idea what it does to my spirits when I check in and see a new follower.  And comments?  Also make my day.

So how about you throw this girl a bone (mind out of the gutter) and follow me!

This is pathetic.  Begging for followers.  Okay, how about this instead: if you have swung by a time or two and chose not to follow, let me know why.  Was it the writing?  If so, cool.   Your taste obviously is lacking.  If it was content or design or something of that nature, I'd appreciate any and all input.

Thanks!

The Boys

Last night I found myself drinking Jagermeister and Red Bull mixed together out of a coffee cup.  This morning I found myself at the McDonald's Drive-Thru at approximately ten to eight  ordering a giant Sprite and breakfast bagel.  I currently look like a bag lady who found a donation bag of men's clothing as I'm decked out in one of my husband's t-shirts and a pair of shorts I've had for fifteen years.  I washed my face but have not brushed my hair.  Besides all that though? I feel great.

Last night I was with The Boys.

Before I met The Boys, I was merely Angela.  It was one of The Boys who nicknamed me Fargs.  And it stuck. And when someone calls me Fargs?  I can't help but smile.  Fargs & The Boys had a lot of good times together. One of my favourite memories and I think maybe theirs was during a road trip to Saskatoon.  I found myself walking out of a hotel on a Sunday morning trailed by The Boys and one of their friends. Not one of us had a suitcase.  I had my make-up bag and a bottle of contact lens solution.  It did not paint the most dignified of pictures....  For the record though nothing happened so get your filthy minds out of the gutter people.
 
I no longer live in the same city as The Boys.  I'm only half an hour away but lives get busy and so we don't see each other very often.  When we do get together?  I usually end up vomiting sometime in the next 24 hours. 

However so far, so good today. No vomit.  Beez, who continued to refer to me as a "light weight" and "pussy" for most of the night may not be able to say the same.  Ogie and I ended the night by talking Beez off the lawn, where he really felt he'd be most comfortable.  Then I spent some time rubbing his back as he hung over the side of the deck.  He didn't puke though. Atta' boy Beezie!  And when I left this morning he was even sleeping indoors.

In all fairness, the last time I drank with these guys and their respective spouses, I vomited all the way home.  Which again, is a half hour drive.  And because I married a saint he cleaned the puke off the outside of my vehicle the next day. And it's also why he's taken our two little boys out this morning so I can enjoy my hangover in peace.  And also why he fell in love with and married a girl with a brigade of Boys for friends.

The whole point of this is I love these guys. I hadn't seen them for a year before last night and we picked up right where we left off.  We made inappropriate comments and jokes about one another and to another.  We took a small trip down memory lane.  They were wholly supportive and positive about my recent job loss in a way that I needed.

And last night I got to be Fargs again.  Which I think is vital to my overall well-being.  For awhile I thought Fargs was dead and it saddened me.  Read about that here: The Dissolution of a Friday Night.

As a side note, the girls that The Boys finally settled down with are just as fabulous as my the boy I settled down with.  I owe a huge Thank You to Ogie's wife, Janna, for putting up with our drunken antics last night.  It was their child's 2nd birthday party that facilitated our drunken debauchery.  They also have a not quite two month old baby.  Janna? Deserves a medal because as cool as Fargs is,  Angela might not have been so gracious of a host in the same situation.  So Thank You.

This post is dedicated to The Boys, in no particular order: JB, Ogie, Beez, and Murphy (even though he wasn't there last night and I haven't seen him in seven years, he was one of The Boys).  It's also dedicated to Jenn, Janna and Ryan for accepting and supporting the fact that Fargs always has been and will always be one of The Boys.