So for anyone not in a helping profession or related field, the title makes little sense to you. However, if common sense is your friend, and obviously it is because you're reading this blog, then you can figure it out...
This has been a busy week. Our vehicle has been giving us trouble, yet again and this sends my husband into a flurry of activity that involves test driving numerous vehicles. He acts like this is a chore but he likes it. The beauty part of it is, I refuse to enter the dealership he's been frequenting because their customer service is perhaps among the worst in the free world; so he goes and deals with them face to face, brings the numbers and the vehicle to me and they I give my yay or nay. Except tonight I might have to break down and go to the actual dealership with him. This is where most likely the salesman (and he is indeed male), will begin by largely making eye contact with Ryan and directing the sales pitch at him. Then I will start talking and eventually he'll realize that despite the fact I have a vagina, I am capable of math, decision making and speaking out loud.
Is this unfair of me?
No.
In the time we've been together we've bought two homes and a vehicle among other things. Typically when we deal with males sales people this is how they begin. Like it's 1946 and Ryan only brought along the little woman to get her out of the kitchen for awhile. Then I start talking. At first they can't figure out why I haven't been trained to keep my mouth shut, but eventually they realize I am indeed making sense and we work from there. It's tiring getting them to that point though. Even when I ditch my skirt, heels and pearls for a pair of pants and runners. Maybe it's my 'up-do' and red lipstick that throw them off...
In any event, life continues to be busy and fraught with stress and worry and general somewhat organized chaos.
So what 'self-care' practises do I utilize to make sure this mommy is a happy one?
Well, right now I have a box of Halloween candy beside me. And a glass of milk in front of me. So far I've eaten roughly seven 'Fun-Size' Twix bars and four Snickers. And I'm not done.
I fed my children pizza pops because I didn't take anything out of the freezer for supper and the dishes didn't get done last night. They followed up the pizza pops with pudding and are now on to cheese strings. I attempted to sneak some grapes into the equation, under the pretense of being a good mother who provides her children with choices from all four food groups, but they politely declined.
I am not setting a good example at present but due to their under-developed observational skills they have yet to notice mommy is gorging herself on candy as opposed to eating an actual meal.
Do I feel any better? More relaxed? In control of my life?
No, kind of, and no.
Will I regret this binge later?
Yep.
Will I choose exercise instead next time?
Likely not?
Alcohol?
Should the opportunity present itself.
For now though, I gotta go. I'm almost out of milk.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
L'Amour
We left off with the story of my fairytale romance and I'm here today to cause further swooning at the magic that is my life.
So as we've covered, yesterday was indeed my anniversary. My Eighth. And apparently the Eighth is the least significant of all. Or at least we treated it as such.
Ryan went to work and I had a day 'off'. My day 'off' was spent doing laundry, cleaning our disgustingly filthy vertical blinds, and doing other household chores. We had a gourmet meal of mini meatloaves and 'Sidekicks' after which my husband retired to the basement to play XBox with our six year old and I did the dishes. We had talked about maybe going to Jackass 3 after Justine got home from Drama Rehearsal. Let the swooning begin.
Just before 9, when I was off to pick Justine up, Ryan asked if I still wanted to go to the movie. I asked him the same question in reply. He stated he did but that he was really tired, as was I. So we decided to forgo the movie. He said we'd go on the weekend. Friday night will be our date night. Yeah, except I work at 6 a.m. Saturday, therefore have to get up at 5 a.m., so nope, that won't work. Saturday night would maybe be an option but I have a party (I hawk jewelry on the side), so nope that won't work either...
Instead, we settled on a run to the local 7-11 and a recorded episode of Criminal Minds watched with our two oldest children. Nothing says passion like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and serial killers.
When it was over I went to bed. Ryan did not. He likes to watch SportsNet after we've all gone to bed because it's really the only time he can. I read for a bit and fell fast asleep.
Read between the lines people...can't you just feel the heat?
At about 3:30 a.m. our three year old came to sleep with us. I let him for a bit but ended up wedged between him and Ryan. Ryan who was snoring. Beyond loudly. So I got up and sent the little man back to his own bed and climbed back into bed with Ryan. He continued to snore. I shoved him and he responded with a grunt. I advised him he was snoring quite loudly. He said I had been too and promptly went back to sleep.
I admit, I may have been snoring but here's the difference, he can sleep anyway. He can sleep through anything. I know for certain he can sleep through crying babies and three year olds who climb into our bed in the middle of the night. He can sleep through two little boys making a train wreck of our house in the morning (this is on the mornings when he gets up with the boys so I can sleep in; these are few and far between. And basically he just falls back asleep on the couch while they run roughshod over our home). Anyway, I decided my best bet would be to sleep on the couch.
So I did.
Happy Anniversary.
That being said, he literally just called to let me know he put the window scraper in my vehicle for me in case I need it later.
Maybe that's what eight years means. It might not mean fancy dinners or evenings out. It might not mean a night of unbridled passion. It might mean knowing who we are and what we are and knowing it's okay to celebrate with junk food, our kids and network television. And I think it definitely means taking care of each other. Making sure we have our window scrapers should we need them, on this first snowfall of the season.
Mostly it means we've made it eight years after deciding just short of four months after meeting that we would get married, and doing so a mere six months after that.
It means we are lucky.
So as we've covered, yesterday was indeed my anniversary. My Eighth. And apparently the Eighth is the least significant of all. Or at least we treated it as such.
Ryan went to work and I had a day 'off'. My day 'off' was spent doing laundry, cleaning our disgustingly filthy vertical blinds, and doing other household chores. We had a gourmet meal of mini meatloaves and 'Sidekicks' after which my husband retired to the basement to play XBox with our six year old and I did the dishes. We had talked about maybe going to Jackass 3 after Justine got home from Drama Rehearsal. Let the swooning begin.
Just before 9, when I was off to pick Justine up, Ryan asked if I still wanted to go to the movie. I asked him the same question in reply. He stated he did but that he was really tired, as was I. So we decided to forgo the movie. He said we'd go on the weekend. Friday night will be our date night. Yeah, except I work at 6 a.m. Saturday, therefore have to get up at 5 a.m., so nope, that won't work. Saturday night would maybe be an option but I have a party (I hawk jewelry on the side), so nope that won't work either...
Instead, we settled on a run to the local 7-11 and a recorded episode of Criminal Minds watched with our two oldest children. Nothing says passion like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and serial killers.
When it was over I went to bed. Ryan did not. He likes to watch SportsNet after we've all gone to bed because it's really the only time he can. I read for a bit and fell fast asleep.
Read between the lines people...can't you just feel the heat?
At about 3:30 a.m. our three year old came to sleep with us. I let him for a bit but ended up wedged between him and Ryan. Ryan who was snoring. Beyond loudly. So I got up and sent the little man back to his own bed and climbed back into bed with Ryan. He continued to snore. I shoved him and he responded with a grunt. I advised him he was snoring quite loudly. He said I had been too and promptly went back to sleep.
I admit, I may have been snoring but here's the difference, he can sleep anyway. He can sleep through anything. I know for certain he can sleep through crying babies and three year olds who climb into our bed in the middle of the night. He can sleep through two little boys making a train wreck of our house in the morning (this is on the mornings when he gets up with the boys so I can sleep in; these are few and far between. And basically he just falls back asleep on the couch while they run roughshod over our home). Anyway, I decided my best bet would be to sleep on the couch.
So I did.
Happy Anniversary.
That being said, he literally just called to let me know he put the window scraper in my vehicle for me in case I need it later.
Maybe that's what eight years means. It might not mean fancy dinners or evenings out. It might not mean a night of unbridled passion. It might mean knowing who we are and what we are and knowing it's okay to celebrate with junk food, our kids and network television. And I think it definitely means taking care of each other. Making sure we have our window scrapers should we need them, on this first snowfall of the season.
Mostly it means we've made it eight years after deciding just short of four months after meeting that we would get married, and doing so a mere six months after that.
It means we are lucky.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
White Trash Wedding
Tomorrow is our Anniversary. As of tomorrow we will have been married for eight whole years. I know in the grand scheme of things, this is child's play; however, marriage is never as easy as that.
We had a storybook beginning....or at least I wish we did. We actually met in a bar. A bar called 'The Pump'; that in and of itself reeks of romance and class, does it not? Anyway, that fateful January 4th, I went out, when not really even in the mood to, with two of my best friends at the time. I say at the time because even though I still think one is a super person, we have mostly lost touch, so best friends, I no longer think we are but there was a time when we were bestest of friends. The other chum? Well that would be my most ignorant of all slut friends, Jane. Jane is not her real name but in keeping with the grand Saturday Night Live tradition, she shall henceforth be known as Jane, the Ignorant Slut. If you don't get that reference I feel sad for you. Google it.
Anyway, out Jane, the Tex Pistol and I went. It was only three short days after New Year's. I had gotten beyond drunk that New Year's Eve and rang in 2002 by puking my guts out until about 9 p.m. January 1. I wasn't really in the mood to go out on the 4th, but as Tex and I hadn't spent much time together, I figured what the hell. My kids were with their dad and it would be a quiet night.
Or not.
We began by drinking wine and engaging in some witty political banter with the cab driver on the way to the bar. We entered The Pump and it wasn't long into the evening when Tex ran into some people he knew. People he knew, but Jane and I did not. So while he was visiting we were left at a table with veritable strangers. One of the strangers then asked who would be interested in doing a shot? I figured what the hell and with that we all downed a shot of Baja Rosa.
And that my friends, is it where it all began. Is anyone really surprised that my husband was able to pick me up with the offer of a shot? I mean, that's not all it took. We talked and danced and even discussed our respective views on marriage. I'm not sure how or why we even got on the subject of marriage and he stated when he got married it was going to be for keeps. Duh. That's what most people plan on. Not many get married with the intention of 'giving it a whirl' for a year or two and then parting ways. Not unless you are being sponsored by ABC, anyway.
It was then I shared with him that I was in fact divorcing my husband and had two children.
It was then that he began back pedalling.
Obviously successfully.
The next night I dragged another good friend out to the bar with me. She did not want to go out either but because she is one of the most loyal people I have ever met, and a very good friend, she came. And I met up with Mr. Baja Rosa again.
Mr. Rosa actually lived in Calgary, Alberta at the time. This was roughly seven hours away from where I lived. The ironic part was he was born and raised in Moose Jaw, which was a mere forty minutes away from where I was living.
A long distance relationship began. He liked to talk on the phone. A lot. And because I was smitten and falling in love with him, I thought this was fucking fantastic. I remember boasting to friends that we'd spent six hours on the phone in one sitting. Cut to eight years later and his love of phone chatter is no longer as fantastic. It is nearly impossible to get off the phone with the man. Although, after eight years, he is quite tolerant of my phone abruptness and charming way with words, as in: "I'm done talking now. Bye."
We met on January 4, 2002 and married on October 25, 2002. Between the two of us we did not have a great deal of money and in a fun turn of events, we currently do not have a great deal of money. However at that time we were full of hope and optimism and whimsy. We decided to elope. We told our families we were getting married but advised they would not be made aware of such until after the fact. So on October 24, 2002, Jane and I made our way to Calgary for the wedding. Ryan (Mr. Rosa) was working there at the time and his best friend lived there and was going to be our best man. I looked after the rings; Ryan looked after the ceremony.
At the time the Dixie Chicks had recently released a CD with the song White Trash Wedding on it. The chorus goes something like this: You can't afford no ring...you can't afford no ring...I shouldn't be wearin' white and you can't afford no ring. Jane and I laughed it up all the way to Calgary at the irony in that as Ryan had not given me an actual engagement ring due to limited funds. I instead wore his Grandpa's Shriner's ring and we were going to be exchanging simple gold bands at the ceremony. Little did we know how much more irony would present itself during the days to come...
You see neither of us are religious people and so were going to have a JP marry us. Ryan was in charge of that. We were getting married at 7 p.m. The five of us: myself, Ryan, Jane, Jason the best man and his wife, Karla, left at about 6:30 p.m. The first address we pulled up at was a trailer. Everyone was silent. Then Ryan realized it was the wrong address and nervous laughter broke out. Nobody really wants to get married in a trailer. Or at the very least, I didn't.
So we carried on and found the correct address. Ryan had only spoken with this woman on the phone and she assured him her home was a lovely setting for a wedding. Her home, was indeed, a trailer. No joke. So, with little choice we went in. And true enough, her living room was nice. She had a fireplace and it was in front of that we exchanged our vows. During which the toilet flushed. I'm assuming that was her husband. Upon leaving she asked us to close the gate to make sure not to let the dogs out.
Fairy tale romance, I know.
We followed this high class ceremony with a drunken tail gate party on the Sunday where my new husband challenged a self-proclaimed former heroin addict to a beer chugging contest. My groom was victorious and I was again swept off my feet.
Yet here we still are, eight years later. I had two kids coming into the deal and now we have two more. I had two cats coming into the deal and now we have two dogs as well. We both had stable jobs coming into the deal and now neither of us do. Yet, in terms of our White Trash Wedding, I have no regrets.
You see, he thinks I'm funny. And even when he doesn't think I'm funny, he enjoys how funny I think I am. Most of the time, anyway. He tolerates my tendency to break out into song at any given time. For as much as I'm negative, he's positive. And we have fun together.
When he met me, I had The Boys. There are not many men who would've been comfortable with their girlfriend being seven hours away and spending most of her child-free weekends with a group of guys, drinking and hanging out. And while he may not have been entirely comfortable with it, he never let on to me. He was amazingly cool about it and I'm a big enough person to admit had the tables been turned, I would not have been as cool.
Don't get me wrong, he's lucky too. I am, after all, quite funny and have impeccable taste in music. I'm a great time after a few drinks and even without. I can hang with the guys but dress like a girl.
We're a good match and better yet, despite being married in a trailer, we don't live in one.
Yet.
Happy Anniversary Ryan!
We had a storybook beginning....or at least I wish we did. We actually met in a bar. A bar called 'The Pump'; that in and of itself reeks of romance and class, does it not? Anyway, that fateful January 4th, I went out, when not really even in the mood to, with two of my best friends at the time. I say at the time because even though I still think one is a super person, we have mostly lost touch, so best friends, I no longer think we are but there was a time when we were bestest of friends. The other chum? Well that would be my most ignorant of all slut friends, Jane. Jane is not her real name but in keeping with the grand Saturday Night Live tradition, she shall henceforth be known as Jane, the Ignorant Slut. If you don't get that reference I feel sad for you. Google it.
Anyway, out Jane, the Tex Pistol and I went. It was only three short days after New Year's. I had gotten beyond drunk that New Year's Eve and rang in 2002 by puking my guts out until about 9 p.m. January 1. I wasn't really in the mood to go out on the 4th, but as Tex and I hadn't spent much time together, I figured what the hell. My kids were with their dad and it would be a quiet night.
Or not.
We began by drinking wine and engaging in some witty political banter with the cab driver on the way to the bar. We entered The Pump and it wasn't long into the evening when Tex ran into some people he knew. People he knew, but Jane and I did not. So while he was visiting we were left at a table with veritable strangers. One of the strangers then asked who would be interested in doing a shot? I figured what the hell and with that we all downed a shot of Baja Rosa.
And that my friends, is it where it all began. Is anyone really surprised that my husband was able to pick me up with the offer of a shot? I mean, that's not all it took. We talked and danced and even discussed our respective views on marriage. I'm not sure how or why we even got on the subject of marriage and he stated when he got married it was going to be for keeps. Duh. That's what most people plan on. Not many get married with the intention of 'giving it a whirl' for a year or two and then parting ways. Not unless you are being sponsored by ABC, anyway.
It was then I shared with him that I was in fact divorcing my husband and had two children.
It was then that he began back pedalling.
Obviously successfully.
The next night I dragged another good friend out to the bar with me. She did not want to go out either but because she is one of the most loyal people I have ever met, and a very good friend, she came. And I met up with Mr. Baja Rosa again.
Mr. Rosa actually lived in Calgary, Alberta at the time. This was roughly seven hours away from where I lived. The ironic part was he was born and raised in Moose Jaw, which was a mere forty minutes away from where I was living.
A long distance relationship began. He liked to talk on the phone. A lot. And because I was smitten and falling in love with him, I thought this was fucking fantastic. I remember boasting to friends that we'd spent six hours on the phone in one sitting. Cut to eight years later and his love of phone chatter is no longer as fantastic. It is nearly impossible to get off the phone with the man. Although, after eight years, he is quite tolerant of my phone abruptness and charming way with words, as in: "I'm done talking now. Bye."
We met on January 4, 2002 and married on October 25, 2002. Between the two of us we did not have a great deal of money and in a fun turn of events, we currently do not have a great deal of money. However at that time we were full of hope and optimism and whimsy. We decided to elope. We told our families we were getting married but advised they would not be made aware of such until after the fact. So on October 24, 2002, Jane and I made our way to Calgary for the wedding. Ryan (Mr. Rosa) was working there at the time and his best friend lived there and was going to be our best man. I looked after the rings; Ryan looked after the ceremony.
At the time the Dixie Chicks had recently released a CD with the song White Trash Wedding on it. The chorus goes something like this: You can't afford no ring...you can't afford no ring...I shouldn't be wearin' white and you can't afford no ring. Jane and I laughed it up all the way to Calgary at the irony in that as Ryan had not given me an actual engagement ring due to limited funds. I instead wore his Grandpa's Shriner's ring and we were going to be exchanging simple gold bands at the ceremony. Little did we know how much more irony would present itself during the days to come...
You see neither of us are religious people and so were going to have a JP marry us. Ryan was in charge of that. We were getting married at 7 p.m. The five of us: myself, Ryan, Jane, Jason the best man and his wife, Karla, left at about 6:30 p.m. The first address we pulled up at was a trailer. Everyone was silent. Then Ryan realized it was the wrong address and nervous laughter broke out. Nobody really wants to get married in a trailer. Or at the very least, I didn't.
So we carried on and found the correct address. Ryan had only spoken with this woman on the phone and she assured him her home was a lovely setting for a wedding. Her home, was indeed, a trailer. No joke. So, with little choice we went in. And true enough, her living room was nice. She had a fireplace and it was in front of that we exchanged our vows. During which the toilet flushed. I'm assuming that was her husband. Upon leaving she asked us to close the gate to make sure not to let the dogs out.
Fairy tale romance, I know.
We followed this high class ceremony with a drunken tail gate party on the Sunday where my new husband challenged a self-proclaimed former heroin addict to a beer chugging contest. My groom was victorious and I was again swept off my feet.
Yet here we still are, eight years later. I had two kids coming into the deal and now we have two more. I had two cats coming into the deal and now we have two dogs as well. We both had stable jobs coming into the deal and now neither of us do. Yet, in terms of our White Trash Wedding, I have no regrets.
You see, he thinks I'm funny. And even when he doesn't think I'm funny, he enjoys how funny I think I am. Most of the time, anyway. He tolerates my tendency to break out into song at any given time. For as much as I'm negative, he's positive. And we have fun together.
When he met me, I had The Boys. There are not many men who would've been comfortable with their girlfriend being seven hours away and spending most of her child-free weekends with a group of guys, drinking and hanging out. And while he may not have been entirely comfortable with it, he never let on to me. He was amazingly cool about it and I'm a big enough person to admit had the tables been turned, I would not have been as cool.
Don't get me wrong, he's lucky too. I am, after all, quite funny and have impeccable taste in music. I'm a great time after a few drinks and even without. I can hang with the guys but dress like a girl.
We're a good match and better yet, despite being married in a trailer, we don't live in one.
Yet.
Happy Anniversary Ryan!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Raising the Roof
This will be short people because I have to be at work in less than an hour and am currently wearing my favourite sweat pants (shocker, I know) and am sans make-up. It is best if I try not to leave the house too often without make-up for the general good of society.
Anyway, it's on like Donkey Kong (whatever, I know it's lame, shut up). It's fundraising time again. For those of you who've known me for a little while now, you'll remember the bitterness creeping up on hatred-kind of feelings I have for fundraising. However when the little darlings wish to go to Europe and Mommy got her ass fired for writing mean things on line, then fundraising is a must.
Just so we are clear on my previous fundraising experience check this out over on Searching. I do believe it speaks volumes.
Anyway, last night marked the first meeting into the 7th Circle of Hell that is Fundraising and I bit the bullet and volunteered to help run one of the groups. Why would I do this if I hate it so much? Well because then I have some actual control. Then I won't have to listen someone sound out the word 'Memorial' ever again. At least not a grown woman. And yes, this happened during my previous experience. There will be actual minutes. There will be a level of organization. Hopefully, and I say this with careful optimism, I won't want to scrape out my eyeballs with a melon baller during each and every meeting. The meetings will have purpose. They will not drag on unnecessarily while we discuss wait times at the local Emergency Room (also happened).
Basically I am a person who is short on patience (I know, again, you didn't see that one coming) but will work hard when there is a purpose and will do my best. It's hard for me to do those things when saddled with illiterates who have nothing but time on their hands for idle chatter and plain old dumb-assed-ness.
I will keep you posted on this journey. A journey that starts now but will not end until roughly December of next year. This should provide a decent amount of fodder for your entertainment.
Now who wants to buy raffle tickets? Chocolates? Volunteer their garage for a bottle drive?
God help me...
Anyway, it's on like Donkey Kong (whatever, I know it's lame, shut up). It's fundraising time again. For those of you who've known me for a little while now, you'll remember the bitterness creeping up on hatred-kind of feelings I have for fundraising. However when the little darlings wish to go to Europe and Mommy got her ass fired for writing mean things on line, then fundraising is a must.
Just so we are clear on my previous fundraising experience check this out over on Searching. I do believe it speaks volumes.
Anyway, last night marked the first meeting into the 7th Circle of Hell that is Fundraising and I bit the bullet and volunteered to help run one of the groups. Why would I do this if I hate it so much? Well because then I have some actual control. Then I won't have to listen someone sound out the word 'Memorial' ever again. At least not a grown woman. And yes, this happened during my previous experience. There will be actual minutes. There will be a level of organization. Hopefully, and I say this with careful optimism, I won't want to scrape out my eyeballs with a melon baller during each and every meeting. The meetings will have purpose. They will not drag on unnecessarily while we discuss wait times at the local Emergency Room (also happened).
Basically I am a person who is short on patience (I know, again, you didn't see that one coming) but will work hard when there is a purpose and will do my best. It's hard for me to do those things when saddled with illiterates who have nothing but time on their hands for idle chatter and plain old dumb-assed-ness.
I will keep you posted on this journey. A journey that starts now but will not end until roughly December of next year. This should provide a decent amount of fodder for your entertainment.
Now who wants to buy raffle tickets? Chocolates? Volunteer their garage for a bottle drive?
God help me...
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Frustration
I am becoming increasingly bothered by my lack of time to blog. I've taken the last half an hour to get caught up on my email and such and in that time, I realized how out of the loop I am. I can't remember the last time I read Pretty All True which became glaringly evident when I noted today, via Facebook, she is having a contest of sorts and posting her favourite blogs. Guess who's not even in the running?
Me.
Why?
I didn't know about it because I don't have time to read it and when I do get any down time, as of late, I use it to either a) sit like a zombie in front of the TV or b) eat something not good for me or c) both of the above.
This sucks ass. For any of you who've been around for any length of time you likely have caught on that I idolize Kris over there at PAT and it would be the ultimate validation or reward to have her recommend my blog and post it right there on hers. It would be akin to Jax from Sons of Anarchy showing up at my house on his Harley and declaring his love for this mother of four who has neglected the gym for quite some time now while at the same time paying extra-special attention to cookies, chocolate and ice cream (in no particular order). He'd be all like, "Oooh, it's so sexy they way you're all nice and soft and squishy; I hate women with flat stomachs and pert breasts". Then he'd tell me I'm insanely sexy not only because my roots are showing and that the white patch of hair at the very front of my head is driving him wild with desire but that he also can't get enough of my sweat pants. He's wax on poetic about the wiles of women in elastic waisted pants. Then he'd throw me on the back of his bike and we'd ride off into the sunset (Charming) where I'd become Gemma's protege, because I'm seriously more bad ass than Tara, and his old lady for keeps.
Or something along those lines anyway; I really haven't given it much thought.
For the time being though, I need to finish making supper, feed these people, drive my daughter to Drama rehearsal, make a couple of work-related phone calls, bathe some of these people and then work on a my other website. The only chance of any part of the above fantasy coming true is the fact that I am currently wearing sweat pants and my roots are showing. I'm not expecting Jax; instead my own husband, in a Chevy half-ton, who never appreciates my sweat pants for their hidden sex appeal.
Jerk.
Me.
Why?
I didn't know about it because I don't have time to read it and when I do get any down time, as of late, I use it to either a) sit like a zombie in front of the TV or b) eat something not good for me or c) both of the above.
This sucks ass. For any of you who've been around for any length of time you likely have caught on that I idolize Kris over there at PAT and it would be the ultimate validation or reward to have her recommend my blog and post it right there on hers. It would be akin to Jax from Sons of Anarchy showing up at my house on his Harley and declaring his love for this mother of four who has neglected the gym for quite some time now while at the same time paying extra-special attention to cookies, chocolate and ice cream (in no particular order). He'd be all like, "Oooh, it's so sexy they way you're all nice and soft and squishy; I hate women with flat stomachs and pert breasts". Then he'd tell me I'm insanely sexy not only because my roots are showing and that the white patch of hair at the very front of my head is driving him wild with desire but that he also can't get enough of my sweat pants. He's wax on poetic about the wiles of women in elastic waisted pants. Then he'd throw me on the back of his bike and we'd ride off into the sunset (Charming) where I'd become Gemma's protege, because I'm seriously more bad ass than Tara, and his old lady for keeps.
Or something along those lines anyway; I really haven't given it much thought.
For the time being though, I need to finish making supper, feed these people, drive my daughter to Drama rehearsal, make a couple of work-related phone calls, bathe some of these people and then work on a my other website. The only chance of any part of the above fantasy coming true is the fact that I am currently wearing sweat pants and my roots are showing. I'm not expecting Jax; instead my own husband, in a Chevy half-ton, who never appreciates my sweat pants for their hidden sex appeal.
Jerk.
Monday, October 11, 2010
I Hate Jersey Shore
At the urging of a most trusted friend, I watched my first episode of Jersey Shore last night. She is no longer trustworthy. She is still my friend only because this is her first real slip of any kind. Where do I begin? With why I hated the show or how this has cast a dark shadow on a once pristine friendship?
Let's begin with the sheer hatred I have for the cast of Jersey Shore. They sweat profusely. They are not fun to watch party while intoxicated. They are the kind of people I would steer clear of at all costs if I actually had a social life and didn't spend the better part of my days cleaning up after the five ungrateful a-holes I live with. The Situation is a fucking dink. Seriously. The episode I watched had him trying to steal his friend's ultra-hot Romanian model girlfriend and smacking Snooki on the mouth when he was ready to leave the bar and she didn't want to. And Snooki looks like a Troll doll. A slutty little Troll Doll.
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Now the Troll doll is incapable of eating or consuming alcohol so it doesn't have quite the same level of curvaceousness as Snooki but take note of the wide eyes, unnatural skin tone and clearly inspiration for the 'pouf'.
She seems like a nice enough girl but I need her to do a better job of keeping her ass and va-jay-jay under wraps. I don't want to see it. I also am tired of looking at her tits and I've only watched one episode; watched her on Leno once and laughed at her on Ellen when she guessed one of the 12 Original Colonies was Canada. She also dances like a whore and did I mention the profuse sweating?
Back to the Situation. Douche. The End.
They are all so unbelievably unintelligent and vapid and while I loves me some Reality TV; I can't stomach this.
Back to the damaged friendship; I gave her Sons of Anarchy. Which includes Jax. The mother trucking hottest bad ass biker there ever was. He's smart. He's tough. He rides a Harley. Pauly D has fucked up hair and a bad tan. SOA also has Gemma. She's smart. She's got biker chick down to fine form and she will cutabitch, if the situation presents itself. Gemma and Jax are both in possession of a natural skin tone and anti-perspirant.
So where will 'Stacey' and I go from here? I'm not sure but it's going to entail drinking our calories, chips and dip, five cent candies, chocolate and Season 2 of SOA. It's the least she can do for taking away approximately 40 minutes of my life I will never get back (thank God I recorded it and could fast forward through the commercials).
What I don't get is the huge following Jersey Shore has? What is wrong with you people? I am committed to, in no particular order, The Biggest Loser, The Amazing Race, Big Brother, 19 and Counting, Hoarders, Intervention...it's a long list. I like reality TV. If Jersey Shore is to be categorized as such, and I believe it is, who the fucks reality is that?
Who?
Yesterday, before watching Jersey Shore, I was feeling all grateful and in a Thanksgiving-y kind of mood (for my American friends, it is Thanksgiving in Canada today). Then I watched that and spent the better part of today cleaning toilets and doing laundry so gone is grateful and here is bitchy.
Happy Thanksgiving Mother Truckers and a solid set of Double F's to Stacey...with Love.
Let's begin with the sheer hatred I have for the cast of Jersey Shore. They sweat profusely. They are not fun to watch party while intoxicated. They are the kind of people I would steer clear of at all costs if I actually had a social life and didn't spend the better part of my days cleaning up after the five ungrateful a-holes I live with. The Situation is a fucking dink. Seriously. The episode I watched had him trying to steal his friend's ultra-hot Romanian model girlfriend and smacking Snooki on the mouth when he was ready to leave the bar and she didn't want to. And Snooki looks like a Troll doll. A slutty little Troll Doll.
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
Now the Troll doll is incapable of eating or consuming alcohol so it doesn't have quite the same level of curvaceousness as Snooki but take note of the wide eyes, unnatural skin tone and clearly inspiration for the 'pouf'.
She seems like a nice enough girl but I need her to do a better job of keeping her ass and va-jay-jay under wraps. I don't want to see it. I also am tired of looking at her tits and I've only watched one episode; watched her on Leno once and laughed at her on Ellen when she guessed one of the 12 Original Colonies was Canada. She also dances like a whore and did I mention the profuse sweating?
Back to the Situation. Douche. The End.
They are all so unbelievably unintelligent and vapid and while I loves me some Reality TV; I can't stomach this.
Back to the damaged friendship; I gave her Sons of Anarchy. Which includes Jax. The mother trucking hottest bad ass biker there ever was. He's smart. He's tough. He rides a Harley. Pauly D has fucked up hair and a bad tan. SOA also has Gemma. She's smart. She's got biker chick down to fine form and she will cutabitch, if the situation presents itself. Gemma and Jax are both in possession of a natural skin tone and anti-perspirant.
So where will 'Stacey' and I go from here? I'm not sure but it's going to entail drinking our calories, chips and dip, five cent candies, chocolate and Season 2 of SOA. It's the least she can do for taking away approximately 40 minutes of my life I will never get back (thank God I recorded it and could fast forward through the commercials).
What I don't get is the huge following Jersey Shore has? What is wrong with you people? I am committed to, in no particular order, The Biggest Loser, The Amazing Race, Big Brother, 19 and Counting, Hoarders, Intervention...it's a long list. I like reality TV. If Jersey Shore is to be categorized as such, and I believe it is, who the fucks reality is that?
Who?
Yesterday, before watching Jersey Shore, I was feeling all grateful and in a Thanksgiving-y kind of mood (for my American friends, it is Thanksgiving in Canada today). Then I watched that and spent the better part of today cleaning toilets and doing laundry so gone is grateful and here is bitchy.
Happy Thanksgiving Mother Truckers and a solid set of Double F's to Stacey...with Love.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Edgy Mama
Raawrrr. That's not a sexy roar either. I very rarely do intentional sexy. I'm not sure how often I even manage unintentional sexy but intentional sexy? Never.
That's a bitch roar. One that's making my husband eye me up and continually ask: "What's wrong?" Um, you and your easygoing ass self. He never worries. He's as laid back as they come whereas I'm wound up like a fucking clock. A clock on the edge. Tick tock tick tock tick tock BACK THE FUCK OFF tick tock tick tick tick.
Just like that.
Why?
Because I'm having one of those days where it feels like there is never enough time and my house is messy and fucking Mork is on the couch watching SportsNet. If you don't get the Mork reference, please Google. Again, time is a factor here people.
His mother, equally laid back but somewhat more inclined to understand, was here watching our children today and did the dishes when she was here. I pointed this out to him and said how grateful I was but also somewhat perplexed as to why they hadn't been done prior to her arrival.
Well, friends and neighbours, Mork unexpectedly had to work this afternoon. This does not account for the hours between 8:30 a.m. and Noon today, but all the same he did put in a load of laundry and get his truck washed in that time.
I'd like to fucking saw that truck in half.
He likes trucks.
Like non-stop talk about a new truck even though he bought his current one three years ago after I explicitly asked him not to because I was on maternity leave which means tight finances. Taking some sort of torch to his truck and sawing it in half would provide me momentary relief of my current bubbling rage. And would create a less than laid back reaction from him. Or I could just ask him to clean up the kitchen which is in a current state of disarray. This would also upset him. Unless I was his relative or friend. If our kitchen was in someone else's house entirely, not only would he wash their dishes, he'd replace their cupboards and clean the stove if asked.
Anyone else have this problem? He is the most generous helpful energetic guy the minute he leaves our driveway. There is not enough he can do for his aunts, uncles, parents, friends and acquaintances. I'm considering starting to dress myself and the children in disguise to get a little help around here. I do a mean accent; the kids will learn.
Sigh. Stupid thing is, for whatever God forsaken reason, I love Mork. This month will mark our eighth wedding anniversary. Eight years, gone just like that. We married ten months after we met. Stupid ass Mork makes me laugh sometimes. Fucking Mork.
So how's this for relationship management; instead of snapping on his happy-go-lucky ass, I simply call him out on-line and provide him with a nickname to amuse myself, and hopefully you my lovely Internet friends. Although Mork sometimes had some frenetic energy. My husband does not. The only thing he gets 'frenetic' about is trucks. And the Oilers.
What he does not get frenetic about? Is this blog. So I can pretty much write whatever I please and he's none the wiser. When people comment on him not reading it, his stock reply is : "I don't have to read it, I live it."
tick tick tick tick tock.
That's a bitch roar. One that's making my husband eye me up and continually ask: "What's wrong?" Um, you and your easygoing ass self. He never worries. He's as laid back as they come whereas I'm wound up like a fucking clock. A clock on the edge. Tick tock tick tock tick tock BACK THE FUCK OFF tick tock tick tick tick.
Just like that.
Why?
Because I'm having one of those days where it feels like there is never enough time and my house is messy and fucking Mork is on the couch watching SportsNet. If you don't get the Mork reference, please Google. Again, time is a factor here people.
His mother, equally laid back but somewhat more inclined to understand, was here watching our children today and did the dishes when she was here. I pointed this out to him and said how grateful I was but also somewhat perplexed as to why they hadn't been done prior to her arrival.
Well, friends and neighbours, Mork unexpectedly had to work this afternoon. This does not account for the hours between 8:30 a.m. and Noon today, but all the same he did put in a load of laundry and get his truck washed in that time.
I'd like to fucking saw that truck in half.
He likes trucks.
Like non-stop talk about a new truck even though he bought his current one three years ago after I explicitly asked him not to because I was on maternity leave which means tight finances. Taking some sort of torch to his truck and sawing it in half would provide me momentary relief of my current bubbling rage. And would create a less than laid back reaction from him. Or I could just ask him to clean up the kitchen which is in a current state of disarray. This would also upset him. Unless I was his relative or friend. If our kitchen was in someone else's house entirely, not only would he wash their dishes, he'd replace their cupboards and clean the stove if asked.
Anyone else have this problem? He is the most generous helpful energetic guy the minute he leaves our driveway. There is not enough he can do for his aunts, uncles, parents, friends and acquaintances. I'm considering starting to dress myself and the children in disguise to get a little help around here. I do a mean accent; the kids will learn.
Sigh. Stupid thing is, for whatever God forsaken reason, I love Mork. This month will mark our eighth wedding anniversary. Eight years, gone just like that. We married ten months after we met. Stupid ass Mork makes me laugh sometimes. Fucking Mork.
So how's this for relationship management; instead of snapping on his happy-go-lucky ass, I simply call him out on-line and provide him with a nickname to amuse myself, and hopefully you my lovely Internet friends. Although Mork sometimes had some frenetic energy. My husband does not. The only thing he gets 'frenetic' about is trucks. And the Oilers.
What he does not get frenetic about? Is this blog. So I can pretty much write whatever I please and he's none the wiser. When people comment on him not reading it, his stock reply is : "I don't have to read it, I live it."
tick tick tick tick tock.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Shitty Spirits
Let's begin with a small bit of good news: Driven is at #14 on Top Mommy Blogs!! Keep up the good work people. However there is a nasty rumour being spread by Kris over at Pretty All True that they are going to re-set the counters or whatever. So keep voting, please.
Or in true Driven fashion, consider this: You'd better fucking vote, mother truckers! tee hee (you know what's even funnier is my fingers have a mind of their own and automatically typed out the real word, if you know what I mean. If you don't, please leave, I don't have time for you).
Yes, I'm feeling a little full of piss and vinegar tonight. Not sure why. I've had about seven mood swings since I got home and it appears I'm on an upswing. Partly because of the 14th place shit and partly because I've turned to my dear friend, music, to lift my shitty spirits.
Why did I have shitty spirits in the first place? Well I'm tired. What else is new. I had to do some mundane cleaning at work today and that always kind of sucks. My son lost his starting position on the football team and my daughter is yelled at constantly by her soccer coach and I'm at a loss as what to do.
I never ever want to be one of those parents who is every coach's nightmare. I don't turn a blind eye or sugarcoat shit, never mind the behaviour of my children. Case in point: my son had a shitty game Saturday. He did. It's a fact. But the rest of the time? He's a solid player. Starting Center. I couldn't be prouder. I still am proud. However the head coach appears to be having some kind of power trip issue and stripped him of his position to which my kid replied: "Whatever's best for the team." And meant it.
My son.
I think those of you who know me well know what I would've done in that situation; it would've involved nicknames and getting fired.
He is a good kid.
As is my daughter. She is a good soccer player. It is her first year playing high school soccer. The coach likes to yell. Justine feels she is being singled out with the yelling. I don't know what to tell her. I've watched enough sitcoms to know it is not a good idea to ask the coach not to yell at my child but at the same time, she needs to shut the fuck up. These are 13-17 year old girls. Screaming at them about soccer is stupid. I can appreciate competitiveness. I myself could be considered slightly competitive. Which is why I do not coach. Which is why I try to bite my lip at my children's sporting events. I'm also slightly passionate. About nearly everything.
So earlier this evening, before Fleetwood Mac, Ray Charles and the Black Crowes, I had a small rant. Then I drove Justine to drama and listened to Fleetwood Mac on the way home. Is there anything better. 'Rumours' was no joke. That album came out the year I was born.
Ooo, and currently my six year old is smacking his ass with an empty granola bar box whilst dancing to 'Jealous Again' by the Black Crowes. 'Shake Your Money Maker' came out when I was 14 and has been one of my all time favourites since.
My point, and I do have one, is music makes me feel better, I was in shitty spirits but now I'm not, my kids are fucking awesome and those coaches might be douche bags.
And finally, I'm number fucking 14 on the Top Mommy Blog list in the humour section so get your asses over there and vote some more.
Thanks Mother Truckers.
Or in true Driven fashion, consider this: You'd better fucking vote, mother truckers! tee hee (you know what's even funnier is my fingers have a mind of their own and automatically typed out the real word, if you know what I mean. If you don't, please leave, I don't have time for you).
Yes, I'm feeling a little full of piss and vinegar tonight. Not sure why. I've had about seven mood swings since I got home and it appears I'm on an upswing. Partly because of the 14th place shit and partly because I've turned to my dear friend, music, to lift my shitty spirits.
Why did I have shitty spirits in the first place? Well I'm tired. What else is new. I had to do some mundane cleaning at work today and that always kind of sucks. My son lost his starting position on the football team and my daughter is yelled at constantly by her soccer coach and I'm at a loss as what to do.
I never ever want to be one of those parents who is every coach's nightmare. I don't turn a blind eye or sugarcoat shit, never mind the behaviour of my children. Case in point: my son had a shitty game Saturday. He did. It's a fact. But the rest of the time? He's a solid player. Starting Center. I couldn't be prouder. I still am proud. However the head coach appears to be having some kind of power trip issue and stripped him of his position to which my kid replied: "Whatever's best for the team." And meant it.
My son.
I think those of you who know me well know what I would've done in that situation; it would've involved nicknames and getting fired.
He is a good kid.
As is my daughter. She is a good soccer player. It is her first year playing high school soccer. The coach likes to yell. Justine feels she is being singled out with the yelling. I don't know what to tell her. I've watched enough sitcoms to know it is not a good idea to ask the coach not to yell at my child but at the same time, she needs to shut the fuck up. These are 13-17 year old girls. Screaming at them about soccer is stupid. I can appreciate competitiveness. I myself could be considered slightly competitive. Which is why I do not coach. Which is why I try to bite my lip at my children's sporting events. I'm also slightly passionate. About nearly everything.
So earlier this evening, before Fleetwood Mac, Ray Charles and the Black Crowes, I had a small rant. Then I drove Justine to drama and listened to Fleetwood Mac on the way home. Is there anything better. 'Rumours' was no joke. That album came out the year I was born.
Ooo, and currently my six year old is smacking his ass with an empty granola bar box whilst dancing to 'Jealous Again' by the Black Crowes. 'Shake Your Money Maker' came out when I was 14 and has been one of my all time favourites since.
My point, and I do have one, is music makes me feel better, I was in shitty spirits but now I'm not, my kids are fucking awesome and those coaches might be douche bags.
And finally, I'm number fucking 14 on the Top Mommy Blog list in the humour section so get your asses over there and vote some more.
Thanks Mother Truckers.
Monday, October 4, 2010
No More
I think I've written about this before but given my life as of late I think it bears further discussion. Whatever happened to feminism? Seriously.
Most of my University career was spent examining the perils of a patriarchal society. Study of how women fought for the vote; for the right to choose; for equal pay for equal work. I have a friend who often laments the feminist movement because in her eyes, if it never existed she would not have to leave the home to work and could happily spend her days homemaking. However I don't think feminism is to blame.
Many women prefer to work outside of the home. Some have very little choice in the matter based on financial need. Feminists recognized this and the Women's Movement, in part, was in effort to ensure these women were/are being properly compensated for their work despite the fact they don't have penises.
So why the history lesson?
Here's why...people have been writing about the Double Day or the Double Work-Week, in reference to women, for at least thirty years now and yet nothing has changed. Nearly all of the women I know work a full-time job and still do the lion's share of the house work, child rearing and cooking. And on top of that, are now mired in trying to attain nearly impossible standards of 'beauty'. Booking waxing appointments, working out in their free time and condemning themselves time and time again each time a cookie or chip passes their lips.
I'm not suggesting Feminism means not taking care of ourselves, but more often than not, the appointments and work-outs are geared toward attaining these unattainable standards and less about self-care.
And men? Men will help when asked and expect a certain amount of acknowledgement (preferred 'acknowledgement', for most men means more than a hug or a simple Thank You, but that's what most of them can expect). Yet when we clean the house from top to bottom, chauffeur our children to their 17 different games and meetings, it is more expected than acknowledged.
Men, whether they are 98 pound weaklings or 'big boned' fellas, could not be prouder of their physiques (penises) and feel we, as women, should be equally enamoured. Most of the time, many of us would prefer to 'enamour' with the lights off and shudder at the thought of full nudity in broad daylight in front of anyone, even our husbands who take such pride in their less-than-perfect bodies it usually requires dancing when coming out of the shower.
Men do not understand what our fixation is on our weight and assure us we look 'just fine'. If they are convincing enough this may be believable for a moment. Until a size 6 walks past in tight jeans and Bubba nearly loses his balance and suffers from whiplash trying to take in her ass as she saunters past. And we admonish him for looking, lament our love handles and storm off tearfully at his failure to understand.
Then later, make-up-less and in sweat pants, enjoying our evening snack, we veritably howl like she-wolves at our favourite leading man on the television. And God help him if he says anything. We are entitled, he is not.
It's all pretty fucked up, if you ask me.
Back to feminism...it's dead. Posh killed it. So did Brooke Burke. And any other celebrity who has four, three or even one child and then poses in a bikini within weeks. Heidi-fucking-Klum ring a bell?
And we fall for it, time and time again. Berate ourselves, beat ourselves up for not looking like that within weeks, months or ahem, years, of birthing the little monsters ourselves. And our husbands look on, blase, scratching their bellies, think about losing five pounds and drop 10 after a brisk walk with the dog, and we are left bitter, bloated and bitchy.
Or it's the friend who appears to be some strange breed of Super Mom. She's thin. She always looks perfect. Hair done, make-up done. Her children are clean and well-behaved. Her home is immaculate. And again, we beat ourselves up for not being as efficient or as "good" as her. What we forget, is that she, is busy beating herself up too. For likely a multitude of reasons.
This is where the death of Feminism and current pop culture has gotten us. Self-doubting and self-berating our inability to measure up.
Today's most relate-able television character is Frankie Heck on The Middle. Their house does not look like it was decorated by Martha Stewart herself; they eat fast-food; their children are not perfect. Yet, the show loses some of it's effectiveness in terms of social consciousness by the sheer silliness of it. Yes it's entertaining, but real? Not quite.
So where does this leave us? What's the answer? I think it hearkens back to a post by Single Dad Laughing on perfection. We speak up. We no longer apologize for the condition of our home, no matter how clean or dirty, when a friend pops by. We ask for help. We stop berating our bodies and ourselves for not attaining perfection. Perfection is boring anyway. Perfection does not leave work two hours early without any other explanation than a misunderstanding of military time. Perfection does not leave the house with two different shoes on. Perfection? Does not laugh.
And above all, I think we need to laugh.
We need to laugh and we need to value ourselves enough to tell Bubba what he needs to do to demonstrate how much he values what we do as well. Time and time again the 'experts' on marriage say the best way to get a man to help around the house is to show gratitude and appreciation for his efforts. Well guess what mother truckers, maybe it's time the tables were turned. Maybe it's time we take the wheel on that one and starting asking for the same.
Maybe it's time for us to proudly strut our stuff upon coming out of the shower...
Too far?
Well whatever the case, this will not be the last you'll hear from me. I have much more to say. From my sons already taking me for granted to my sometimes wish, on particularly bad days, that my daughter will never marry or have children. Simply because I shudder to think of her someday burning her candle at both ends in this miserable search for perfection that doesn't exist.
Like I said, those are particularly bad days. On the not so bad days, I wear my slippers in an effort to avoid crumbs on the soles of my feet in the kitchen; I make grilled cheese and french fries for supper and I wear sweat pants and eat chocolate sans guilt.
Maybe instead of labelling this all as Feminism,which I know sometimes puts people off for a number of (stupid) reasons, let's focus on less guilt. No more feeling guilty for a less than immaculate home. No more guilt for enjoying a treat; whether that be chocolate, chips, a beer or a pop, or all of the above.
No more.
Most of my University career was spent examining the perils of a patriarchal society. Study of how women fought for the vote; for the right to choose; for equal pay for equal work. I have a friend who often laments the feminist movement because in her eyes, if it never existed she would not have to leave the home to work and could happily spend her days homemaking. However I don't think feminism is to blame.
Many women prefer to work outside of the home. Some have very little choice in the matter based on financial need. Feminists recognized this and the Women's Movement, in part, was in effort to ensure these women were/are being properly compensated for their work despite the fact they don't have penises.
So why the history lesson?
Here's why...people have been writing about the Double Day or the Double Work-Week, in reference to women, for at least thirty years now and yet nothing has changed. Nearly all of the women I know work a full-time job and still do the lion's share of the house work, child rearing and cooking. And on top of that, are now mired in trying to attain nearly impossible standards of 'beauty'. Booking waxing appointments, working out in their free time and condemning themselves time and time again each time a cookie or chip passes their lips.
I'm not suggesting Feminism means not taking care of ourselves, but more often than not, the appointments and work-outs are geared toward attaining these unattainable standards and less about self-care.
And men? Men will help when asked and expect a certain amount of acknowledgement (preferred 'acknowledgement', for most men means more than a hug or a simple Thank You, but that's what most of them can expect). Yet when we clean the house from top to bottom, chauffeur our children to their 17 different games and meetings, it is more expected than acknowledged.
Men, whether they are 98 pound weaklings or 'big boned' fellas, could not be prouder of their physiques (penises) and feel we, as women, should be equally enamoured. Most of the time, many of us would prefer to 'enamour' with the lights off and shudder at the thought of full nudity in broad daylight in front of anyone, even our husbands who take such pride in their less-than-perfect bodies it usually requires dancing when coming out of the shower.
Men do not understand what our fixation is on our weight and assure us we look 'just fine'. If they are convincing enough this may be believable for a moment. Until a size 6 walks past in tight jeans and Bubba nearly loses his balance and suffers from whiplash trying to take in her ass as she saunters past. And we admonish him for looking, lament our love handles and storm off tearfully at his failure to understand.
Then later, make-up-less and in sweat pants, enjoying our evening snack, we veritably howl like she-wolves at our favourite leading man on the television. And God help him if he says anything. We are entitled, he is not.
It's all pretty fucked up, if you ask me.
Back to feminism...it's dead. Posh killed it. So did Brooke Burke. And any other celebrity who has four, three or even one child and then poses in a bikini within weeks. Heidi-fucking-Klum ring a bell?
And we fall for it, time and time again. Berate ourselves, beat ourselves up for not looking like that within weeks, months or ahem, years, of birthing the little monsters ourselves. And our husbands look on, blase, scratching their bellies, think about losing five pounds and drop 10 after a brisk walk with the dog, and we are left bitter, bloated and bitchy.
Or it's the friend who appears to be some strange breed of Super Mom. She's thin. She always looks perfect. Hair done, make-up done. Her children are clean and well-behaved. Her home is immaculate. And again, we beat ourselves up for not being as efficient or as "good" as her. What we forget, is that she, is busy beating herself up too. For likely a multitude of reasons.
This is where the death of Feminism and current pop culture has gotten us. Self-doubting and self-berating our inability to measure up.
Today's most relate-able television character is Frankie Heck on The Middle. Their house does not look like it was decorated by Martha Stewart herself; they eat fast-food; their children are not perfect. Yet, the show loses some of it's effectiveness in terms of social consciousness by the sheer silliness of it. Yes it's entertaining, but real? Not quite.
So where does this leave us? What's the answer? I think it hearkens back to a post by Single Dad Laughing on perfection. We speak up. We no longer apologize for the condition of our home, no matter how clean or dirty, when a friend pops by. We ask for help. We stop berating our bodies and ourselves for not attaining perfection. Perfection is boring anyway. Perfection does not leave work two hours early without any other explanation than a misunderstanding of military time. Perfection does not leave the house with two different shoes on. Perfection? Does not laugh.
And above all, I think we need to laugh.
We need to laugh and we need to value ourselves enough to tell Bubba what he needs to do to demonstrate how much he values what we do as well. Time and time again the 'experts' on marriage say the best way to get a man to help around the house is to show gratitude and appreciation for his efforts. Well guess what mother truckers, maybe it's time the tables were turned. Maybe it's time we take the wheel on that one and starting asking for the same.
Maybe it's time for us to proudly strut our stuff upon coming out of the shower...
Too far?
Well whatever the case, this will not be the last you'll hear from me. I have much more to say. From my sons already taking me for granted to my sometimes wish, on particularly bad days, that my daughter will never marry or have children. Simply because I shudder to think of her someday burning her candle at both ends in this miserable search for perfection that doesn't exist.
Like I said, those are particularly bad days. On the not so bad days, I wear my slippers in an effort to avoid crumbs on the soles of my feet in the kitchen; I make grilled cheese and french fries for supper and I wear sweat pants and eat chocolate sans guilt.
Maybe instead of labelling this all as Feminism,which I know sometimes puts people off for a number of (stupid) reasons, let's focus on less guilt. No more feeling guilty for a less than immaculate home. No more guilt for enjoying a treat; whether that be chocolate, chips, a beer or a pop, or all of the above.
No more.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Sleep
I am starting to really worry about money. Which therefore means I am not sleeping worth a fuck and my neck and shoulders are killing me. And because I spend the better part, if not all, of my working days on my feet? My back and feet are also killing me. Which again does not help with the sleep. I also have a bitch of a time with sciatica and my hip is killing me.
I'm aware of how much I sound like the senior citizens I proclaim to 'hate' anytime I have to drive somewhere in this city overrun by them. Keep in mind my affinity for grape flavoured vodka, Sublime and Jax from Sons of Anarchy. I'm hoping this speaks to my innate bad-assed-ness.
All of this on top of my three year old's nightly jaunt to our bed is wearing me down. I worked at 6 a.m. today and when I spoke to my husband around 9 a.m. and told him how I had to go sleep in another bed last night, due to said three year old's intrusion, his reply was "you should've taken him back to bed". Thanks Tips. Number one, he'll just come back. Number two, it's warm in the bed and whether I am sleeping or not, I don't want to get out of bed. Number three, that kid is incredibly cute when he's sleeping and I like to snuggle him.
Number 4: Maybe, one time, you could fucking wake up and take him back to bed. Maybe. You think?
Nope. My husband is blessed with the gift of sleep. A knack for it really. For the sleeping, for radiating an obscene amount of heat while doing so, and on occasion, gas; and then there is the fucking snoring which would wake anyone and anything except for him, apparently.
He says I snore. I beg to differ; if I do snore, I'm sure it's a sound akin to that of kittens purring. Soothing and sweet.
My husband would like to maybe go out tonight. I've been up, officially, since 5 a.m. but didn't really sleep between roughly 2:30 a.m. and 4 a.m. I had to get up and go sleep in our daughter's bed. She was gone for the night. She has this funky green shag sort of blanket. It's fuzzy on one side and smooth satin-y material on the other side. The smooth satin-y bit is the part that's against one's body when sleeping. Or in my case, the smooth satin-y part is what my sandpaper like heels caught on about 17 times when I was trying to get settled.
All in all, I just want to sum this up with saying I've never felt more alive, sexy and energetic in all my days. There is nothing more I'd rather do than go out tonight. There is no way I'd rather just stay put here in my elastic-waisted pants, with a blanket and copious amounts of junk food...Nope. Nuh-uh. Not me.
Bring on the party.
Yawn...
I'm aware of how much I sound like the senior citizens I proclaim to 'hate' anytime I have to drive somewhere in this city overrun by them. Keep in mind my affinity for grape flavoured vodka, Sublime and Jax from Sons of Anarchy. I'm hoping this speaks to my innate bad-assed-ness.
All of this on top of my three year old's nightly jaunt to our bed is wearing me down. I worked at 6 a.m. today and when I spoke to my husband around 9 a.m. and told him how I had to go sleep in another bed last night, due to said three year old's intrusion, his reply was "you should've taken him back to bed". Thanks Tips. Number one, he'll just come back. Number two, it's warm in the bed and whether I am sleeping or not, I don't want to get out of bed. Number three, that kid is incredibly cute when he's sleeping and I like to snuggle him.
Number 4: Maybe, one time, you could fucking wake up and take him back to bed. Maybe. You think?
Nope. My husband is blessed with the gift of sleep. A knack for it really. For the sleeping, for radiating an obscene amount of heat while doing so, and on occasion, gas; and then there is the fucking snoring which would wake anyone and anything except for him, apparently.
He says I snore. I beg to differ; if I do snore, I'm sure it's a sound akin to that of kittens purring. Soothing and sweet.
My husband would like to maybe go out tonight. I've been up, officially, since 5 a.m. but didn't really sleep between roughly 2:30 a.m. and 4 a.m. I had to get up and go sleep in our daughter's bed. She was gone for the night. She has this funky green shag sort of blanket. It's fuzzy on one side and smooth satin-y material on the other side. The smooth satin-y bit is the part that's against one's body when sleeping. Or in my case, the smooth satin-y part is what my sandpaper like heels caught on about 17 times when I was trying to get settled.
All in all, I just want to sum this up with saying I've never felt more alive, sexy and energetic in all my days. There is nothing more I'd rather do than go out tonight. There is no way I'd rather just stay put here in my elastic-waisted pants, with a blanket and copious amounts of junk food...Nope. Nuh-uh. Not me.
Bring on the party.
Yawn...
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