Thursday, October 27, 2011

Chapped Lips & a Perm

I am now officially a hockey mom.  This is my 7 year old son's third year in hockey but this is his first year where he actually gets to play games, for points, where someone notices who's won and who's lost.  It is a big deal.

It is a big deal for most of these little boys who have been practising and learning to skate for at least two to three years prior to their first real game.  Further to that, it's a big deal for their mothers.  A bigger deal than I might have imagined.  A bigger deal than I might think is normal or within the realm of common sense and decency.

I don't think I'm cut out to be a hockey mom.  I like hockey.  I like my children.  You would think, therefore, there wouldn't be a problem.  Wrong.  See I generally am not a fan of small talk.  I also am not a fan of those who 'put on airs'.  I am not a fan of women.  Don't get your panties in a bunch.  I have some really good female friends.  Oddly enough though, the three women I have at sometime or now still do consider my best friends, are women who generally get along better with men than women.  My best friend ladies swear.  They are direct.  They are intelligent.  They, I am quite certain, know the measure of importance that should be allotted to a Novice 'B' hockey game.  For those of you unfamiliar with hockey, the Novice division is for 7 year old children.

7 Years Old.

This is important to remember for a number of reasons.  Some of these children, it could be argued, are playing hockey because their parents want them too.  Some of these children are playing hockey because they love it and have dreams of the NHL.  Some of these children are playing because it's fun.

I do believe their mothers fall in the same category.  I am not intentionally picking on moms.  They are just who I'm spending time in the stands with at the rink.  I have heard horror stories about the dads too and I'm sure in the years to come I will have those observations to share as well.

Some of the moms have encouraged their sons to play hockey because they love hockey or their husband loves hockey or because it's just what boys (in Canada, at least) are supposed to do.  Some of the moms are supporting their sons playing hockey because their child loves it and is having fun.  Some of the moms are supporting their children playing hockey because it apparently, in some way or another, defines who they are as a woman, a mother and human being.

These are the women I take issue with. The woman who sat in the stands at the very first game last weekend and literally screamed at her seven year old child and his team.   She didn't scream anything that warranted intervention but one could surmise it was fairly intense and unnecessary at this level (or any for that matter) of hockey.  And one other woman did surmise this.  How she found the time to come to this realization is beyond me as she spends the better part of her time at the rink applying lip balm.  It comes in handy when you kiss as much coordinator ass as she does.  That being said, she did notice and instead of moving or choosing to ignore immature behaviour, she told this woman to "Shut up!"  Apparently this was not well received.


I have a long road ahead of me folks.  Which is good for you because I don't foresee running out of material anytime soon.  Reese is only 7.   There is a lot of hockey ahead and he loves it.  Rhett is 4 and wants nothing more than to be like his brother, so yes, more hockey.  More lunatics.  More perms.

I fear I will not make a lot of new friends.  I fear I will end up a permed screaming lunatic with chapped lips if I am not careful and do not plan accordingly.

So here it is, I will maintain friendships outside of the rink, I will have hobbies, read the paper and watch TV.  I will ask my hairdresser to sign a contract with me vowing never to perm my hair never mind how much I beg (wash and wear would be such a breeze with early ice times though...).  I will save my screaming for adult sports events.  I have yet to kiss ass and really don't think the rink is the place to start.  What if my lips get frozen to coordinator ass?!  It's a risk I just can't take.

All I ask from you is if you see my slipping, if you notice a change in behaviour wherein I simper in front of hockey 'royalty' (read: coaches, coordinators and whoever else could be deemed as all powerful by the Hockey Gods) or I suddenly don mom jeans and blue shadow, step in, please.

I mean, I need to stay in top form for at least the next ten years and then I will be all set for our first NHL draft.

Monday, October 17, 2011


I need to be in a good mood.  I have phone calls to make and aside from that, if I injure one of our dogs, on purpose, people will frown upon that.

What did the dogs do?


Neither did the kids but they are in harms way too.  As in anyone who takes offence to "colourful" language because if it gets anymore colourful around here I'm going to start puking rainbows.

You guessed it, I have been possessed by hormonal fluctuations turning me from my usual feisty self to a something a little more akin to murderous/dangerous rather than "spirited".

The day started out okay.  I went to Costco and walked away from some snowman solar lights.  I carried them around for awhile but then used self-control and walked away.

This has nothing to do with the fact that I can go there again tomorrow, if I want, and buy them.  Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that I didn't get a cart and had to set the lights down so I could carry a flat of water.

Nothing at all.

Then I had Wendy's for lunch because there is not enough salt in the free world right now and Wendy's fries are de-lic-ious.

Then I was on time for a workshop I attended this afternoon.  It was held in a very nice boardroom with an educated intelligent woman at the helm.  It was useful information and fed into the small longing I have, at times, to still be a part of the "professional" world.  Not that I am not part of it now but given I work from my home and clean up cat vomit and occasionally have to wipe an ass other than my own, this was a real treat.

The commute home began the downhill trend.  I had to pee.  A lot but was much later than usual picking up my boys and my husband was working and so I was trying to hurry home...

oh wait, my 7 year old just spotted the "B"s my four year old decorated our off white couch with this weekend.  The four year old immediately owned up to in the sense that apparently it was an "accident".  There are roughly four "B"s, an "R" and some other random scribbles.  Big accident.

Anyway, my bladder was ready to burst and my left eye was under assault from my contact lens and the sun was in my eyes and it all. sucked. a. lot.

Then we came home to feed the four ravenous animals awaiting us and then the kids.  Then listen to arguing over who got more or better treats after supper.  I luckily was awarded a free box of Halloween candy for spending an exorbitant amount of money on groceries on the weekend so after supper each boy got three treats.  Except Reese got a peanut butter cup and Rhett didn't.  Rhett chose different treats but lost his freaking mind when he realized he hadn't gotten a peanut butter cup.  I did not give him one but chose to deal with this by having my own three (seven) treats.

My lamp died on my desk, I forgot to send back a skating permission form and the teacher put a note in my son's agenda and I NEVER forget stuff like that and my work area is cluttered and crowded and so after searching the house for a working lamp and bulb, I decided I best cope with the clutter and disorganization by writing this post.

And you know what? I feel better.

Not as good as I will feel after having few (the rest of the box) more treats, but better all the same.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Assholes & Cowards

I guess somewhere along the way I missed a memo.  You know, the one that says adults should bully one another in the wake of someone else's passing.  The one that said e-mail is an effective form of said bullying with Facebook being a close second.  You see I thought this sort of behaviour only existed among the pre-teen and teenager crowd.  Little did I know it's a new phenomenon among the Baby Boomer set.

My uncle passed away last month.  For those of you who follow along, you know this.  I spoke at his funeral.  I wrote a eulogy and shared it.  In said eulogy I spoke of his generosity, kindness, coolness, sense of humour, and maybe most importantly at present, his non-judgemental demeanour.

See some of these people he treated with such kindness and tolerance and not to mention generosity of the grandest kind, have chosen to act like complete assholes since his passing and in direct relation to his passing. They have chosen to bully.

They are not bullying me.  Nope.  And I'm not sure if it's because I'm still viewed as a child by these people who've known me since I was a child or if it's because I'm not an easy target.  Or at least not viewed as such.  

I would actually prefer if these cowards directed their dick-less sentiments towards myself as I am more equipped and prepared to deal with them than others.  I don't like it.  I don't like shaking and then weeping from anger.  I don't like feeling like my life was sort of settling down and back under control only to have to manage another shit storm, but I will do it.  I will do it because nobody deserves to be bullied.  

I will do it because I can.

I will do it because I want to. 

I will do it because there are far too many people on this Godforsaken planet that think it's okay to victimize, bully and disrespect rather than engage in open discussion, respect and tolerance.  They would rather judge without knowing.  Blame without thinking.  Hurt without caring.

Even though it is no longer my profession to protect vulnerable individuals, I will continue to do so as long as I'm able.  Should those individuals be related to me, expect me to come at you with force.

My son recently wrote an assignment for English where he likened me to a mother lion.  It made me laugh at the time but there is truth in that.  I will go to great lengths to protect and defend my own and anyone who chooses to willfully and knowingly hurt them, physically or emotionally, will not go uncorrected.

My uncle, as I said, was kind, generous, patient and without judgement.  

I am kind, generous and without judgement in the grand scheme of things.  I am not patient.  I am not tolerant of assholes but more importantly, I am not tolerant of cowardice and lately, I am faced with both of these attributes much more than I might have ever imagined.  At least among the supposedly educated, spiritual and mature individuals presenting in this manner.

It is exhausting, disappointing and frustrating but then again, so are assholes and cowards.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011


This will not be funny.  Sorry.  Earlier today I was starting to put together a funny post but in light of this evening's events, I've opted for something of a more serious nature.

My uncle died on September 1st.  He was only 49 when he died.  His death was not entirely unexpected but that doesn't make it any easier and I'm sure anyone who's lost anyone can attest to this.

My uncle was a quadriplegic and had been for nearly 30 years at the time of his death.

For those of you who don't know what that means, it means he was paralyzed from the neck down.  Actually, he did have some range of motion in his shoulders so he could operate his power chair, feed himself, type, etc.  However, for many people this would not have been enough.  This would have given them every excuse to be a bitter hateful and angry person.

Steve was the opposite of all of these things.

There is nobody I tried harder to be funnier around and secretly swelled with pride when something I said did make him laugh.   He was so fucking funny.  He was smart.  We took one University class together and it was another of the proudest moments of my life.  I kept up with him in class and took great delight in this.  Not out of competitive spirit, well maybe a little, but mostly out of pride and the sheer desire to make him proud of me.

And I know that he was because he told me.

This was a man who rarely had a negative word for anyone unless they truly deserved it and in the end he usually could find something good about absolutely anyone.  When I think of how negative and critical I often am, it makes me feel badly that I'm not as generous in spirit as he was.

Music makes our world go round in this house and that is due to two people, my mother and Steve.  Steve bought me my first record-Michael Jackson's Thriller.  He bought me cassette tapes for my birthday and gritted his teeth when I chose Milli Vanilli and agreed only to buy it if I got Belinda Carlisle as well.

He was a better writer than I can ever hope to be, which is clearly evidenced by this post.  Thanks for bearing with me through my memories.

Our family is not functional and we don't even come close to putting the "fun in dysfunctional".  There is nothing fun about it.  Especially this evening.

There is only hate and pettiness and hurt.

These are words I would never associate with Steve but tonight, someone else chose to invoke those exact sentiments with their words.

I miss my uncle terribly.  Heartbreakingly so.  Today though, I had a better day.  I started to feel like life was resuming some normalcy.  And not thirty minutes ago I sat in front of this very computer vibrating with anger.

It was one of those moments where I was tempted to use my phrase: "I hate people".  Something, again, Steve wouldn't say but tonight, it's how I felt.  Only people work as hard to hurt one another as badly as possible and in this case, as publicly as possible.

To do that right now though, when maybe our best has been lost?  Is beyond my comprehension.

All I can do is my best not to do that.  At anytime.  Unless called for...

We all remember my penchant for mafia and retaliation, right?

If not, I once was delighted to receive my very own limited edition of Scarface for Christmas from my husband, then another Christmas it was The Godfather Trilogy.  I loved the Sopranos and now I have a club of motorcycle enthusiasts after my own heart in Charming (Sons of Anarchy, keep up, won't you?)  Bottom line is, while I do not endorse the murder or any other illegal activities, I do endorse protecting your own and making those who hurt yours, pay.  I'm not going to shank anyone or anything like that.  I've always been much better with words.  And words, I will use and with more effect, style and strength than he could ever hope to.

In closing, I choose to believe in Heaven.  A Heaven where Steve walks and runs and dances to all the greatest music this world has to offer.  He is up there having a great time with my uncles Ken and Doug.  And I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm even a little jealous because he gets to be with his dad, my Grandpa, again.  Losing Steve has only been second to losing my Grandpa for me and now they are together.  Trying to outdo one another with their humour, wit and maybe even playing some dirty pool.  I would say may the best man win, but in this case it can only ever be a tie.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

One Bike & a Ball Short

Do optimists ever have days when they just say fuck it?  Or do they truly look at every situation, no matter how shit filled and say, "On the bright side, it's solid shit and therefore easier to clean up than diarrhea."

I can't help but ponder these sorts of things.  I've been feeling quite upbeat and positive lately but I keep hitting roadblocks and feel myself slip into the comfortable role of angry victim.  Thing is I'm tired of being an angry victim and the people or situations creating that opportunity for the angry victim to emerge?  Are not angry.  Or victimized.  Or even aware they are being assholes.

So why would I waste my energy on being angry and indignant when they're fucking sitting in la-la land thinking about what a great awesome better than whoever person they are.  The same goes for situations beyond ones control.

Some things though, are in my control and I do believe it's time to start acting on them.

For instance, 40 year old men ogling my 14 YEAR OLD daughter, are going to fucking start feeling victimized.  And angry. They will be angry I wrecked their bike when I hit them with my fucking Crossover SUV/minivan type of vehicle.  They will feel victimized when I've lopped off one of their balls and placed it every so gently in their mouths while repeatedly kicking them in what's left of their diseased pervert penis.

Seriously.  I've started noticing this more and more lately.  My daughter is a pretty girl.  When boys her age look, I notice, am not thrilled, but I am not stupid enough to think they aren't going to notice and that it's not normal behaviour.  But, if you are a 40 year old man, all "tatted up", tanned in a fashion to make Snooki jealous and have your greasy sick pedophile hair in a pony tail on the top of your head and you check her out once?  You are sick and fucked and I really wish I would've just given you a gentle nudge with my minivan on steroids.  But when you turn around to get a second look? 

If only I didn't have the bare minimum of normals and impulse control I could handle this in a fashion to make Tony Soprano or Jax Teller proud and carry on with my day.  And because I wish I was either affiliated with the mob (only in a fictional TV, Good Fellas sense) or some body's "old lady" (again, only in a SOA, again fictional sense), this is the way I will choose to handle any further over-aged leering at my daughter.

So anyway, while trying to find my positive inner self, I'm faced with obstacles such as the one mentioned above.

There are others as well.  Too numerous and ultimately personal to mention.  I am not one of those lucky bloggers who can write freely.  I need watch my P's and Q's for the greater good. Apparently my old job was not for the greater good. 

And I'm okay with that.

So I guess today's moral is, positivity is a state of mind.  Assholes are generally not aware they are assholes nor do they care.  And middle aged leering creeps?  Shall soon be one bike and a ball short.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


Back to square one.  It's been another 11 days since I last posted.  It's not that I don't think about posting or write little random bloggish snippets in my head whenever something amuses, angers, frightens, or excites me, but getting the words out of my head on a consistent basis continues to be a struggle.

As does eating healthy.  And exercising.  Forever and ever I've only been able to manage, at most, three things effectively at any given time.  At present this is my two jobs and my household.  Blogging and self care are steadily losing ground.

I'm nearly at the point where I need to give my belly a name, a constant faithful companion is she.  She has a newly discovered love of pop.  For those of you not from Saskatchewan or North Dakota, that's 'soda'.  I never used to like pop.  I could take it or leave it UNLESS it was mixed with my other best gal pal, Vodka.  Or, when I was dieting, I consumed copious amounts of diet pop in an effort to stop consuming copious amounts of cookies.  It worked, sometimes.

Now though, I prefer to have regular, fully sugared pop in addition to any number of other poor choices.  I get winded from going up the stairs.  My knee hurts.

I'm not Biggest Loser material yet but at 34, I feel like I really shouldn't have any physical ailments. 

So do something about it, right?


Some of the problem lies in the fact I am never truly motivated to lose weight unless I am 100% belittling and demeaning myself and my gluttonous ways and have a full hate on for my body.  That's not really fun but usually keeps me going.

Another problem is I am considerably more laid back than I was back when I was an employee of Hell.  When I was there, I was miserable all of the time and so it was pretty easy to also hate my body and enjoy the punishment of a spin class.  For those 55 minutes or so I didn't have to think about how much I hated my job, how underappreciated I and my co-workers were, how messed up the whole system is.  I just had to focus on the burning pain in my legs, trying not to fall off of my bike and breathing.

At present, when I think about a spin class and think about how uncomfortable it was and how my legs burned?  I think that I truly must belong on my couch watching Big Brother.  Then when I can't read a bedtime story to my children without the aid of an oxygen tank, because I had to go upstairs first, I think it may just be worth it.

Stay tuned.  Find out whether I succumb to the evils of exercise or the more comfortable, but equally evil life of a sedentary woman who eventually will be unable to shave her own legs without assistance thanks to growing girth and complete loss of core strength thereby necessitating bathing in my own filth while my husband shaves them for me.  Sexy, no?



Saturday, August 6, 2011

The Church of Penny Lane

This morning I had two visitors at my door.  I wondered who the heck would be coming to our house this morning and using the front door, no less.  I peered out the window and immediately figured out who and also immediately wondered why.

Nonetheless, I opened the door.  I did not open the screen door but this did not stop the young man for launching into conversation.  Turns out, as luck would have it, he was here, with his friend Ken, to tell me about God.


So Buddy (I can't remember his name) proceeded to let me know there are 36 churches in Moose Jaw and asked what I think God thinks about this.

My reply: "I don't think He minds."

This did not sit well with Buddy and he started to read to me from his pamphlet some shit about one true God and how this one 'true' God probably isn't thrilled with Moose Jaw and their penchant for choosing their own ways to worship.  Those weren't exactly his words.

At this point, I politely, if somewhat coldly, shared I didn't want to waste anymore of his time and wished him a good day.

I don't even know if I believe in God but if there is a God, the one that I believe in doesn't care if you're Catholic, Lutheran, Buddhist or Mennonite.  The God I would choose to believe in only wants people to live a life where they try their best not to hurt others, not to cheat, lie or steal and to be nice.

The God I would choose to believe in does not want Buddy & Ken coming to my house on an otherwise pleasant Saturday morning telling me that He doesn't like people going to different churches to worship.  I'm not sure what denomination Buddy & Ken are.  Jehovah Witness maybe?  I'm not sure.  I don't know enough about them to tell.  It's a guess pure & simple.  I only know they aren't Mormon because they didn't say they were Elders or refer to themselves as 'Brother'.  I know a little more about our Mormon friends because my ex-husband took a super fun for all journey there for awhile.

To me, this sort of "God only wants one church" belief is akin to racism.  I'm pretty sure God doesn't promote that either. Come to think of it, I should've told Buddy & Ken that I needed to go because my (fill in the race blank) Lesbian lover was waiting for me upstairs for a session of Saturday morning lovemaking followed by a Ouija Board session.  I have a feeling Ken & Buddy do not support same sex marriage.  No confirmation, just an inkling.

So to end today's lesson in Penny Lane Religion:  I don't know if I believe in God.  I do know I believe in treating people equally and fairly.  I do know that I believe people deserve this equal and fair treatment no matter their age, sex, gender, race or sexual preference.  I think, if there is a God, he feels the same way and if he doesn't?

I'll carry on just the same.   I will speak openly against racism, sexism, and homophobes.  I will teach my children to do the same.  I will continue to respect those who choose to worship the God they believe in. 

And, I will not hope Ken and Buddy get stung by wasps today, eat a bad 7-11 burrito and get the runs without a bathroom in sight. 

Friday, July 1, 2011

National Holidays & Altercations at Super Wal-Mart

I should begin by wishing all my fellow Canadians the Happiest of Canada Days!  Mine was quite unpatriotic.  We spent a good part of the day getting ready to go camping tomorrow and then saw Transformers 3.  In 3-D.  I add that only because it was the first time I'd done so and I liked it.

Part of our camping preparation included a trip to Super Wal-Mart in Regina after dropping off our daughter.  She has chosen to instead camp with her best friend and said best friend's family rather than her own. She's 14. 

Anyway, off we went.  Shopped and shopped and by the time we were done, both my caffeine and patience had worn off.  I was unloading the cart and my boys asked me if they could go look at the games.  You know, those godforsaken sort of mini-arcade games that you could likely feed $100 to in 10 minutes and still not get a crappy stuffed animal?  Those ones.  They just wanted to look and since it was right within my line of vision, I let them.  My husband and I continued unloading.  They continued playing and at one point asked me for money with which to play the game.  I said no.

Next time I looked up, the fucking Crypt Keeper (elderly female Greeter) was speaking sternly to my boys.  At this point I feel I may have resembled a predator who catches the scent of it's prey.  Dramatic?  Yes, but I generally come off as very unapproachable unless I make a conscious effort not to (read: I look bitchy ALL of the time; mostly because I am).  Then the boys returned to our check out and Reese, my 7 year old, was flushed and trying very hard not to cry.

What. The. Fuck.

For the record (what record, I'm not sure), they were simply pretending to play the game.  They were not 'reefing' on the stupid joystick and the goddamn game was out of order anyway.  Reese kept telling us that he didn't see the 'Out of Order' sign.  We told him that he had done nothing wrong.This is important for later.

Ryan and I begin to discuss this old bitch's fate while we finished checking out.  Find a manager?  At this point I'd had my fill of people.  Oh wait, new detail: Reese tells Ryan that the old bitch grabbed him by the wrist when she approached them.  Really?! REALLY?!  What is it about MY children that makes people think it is okay to physically discipline them in any way whatsoever?  Yes, this was only one woman. I am not at liberty to discuss any and all previous incident(s).

This explains the near tears.  He's a sensitive boy but had she just said: "Please don't touch", and left it at that, I doubt he would've looked quite as stricken.

So, we took our boys and made our way to the doors.  Myself, 5'7", of formidable size and looking motherfucking pissed off, followed by my 6'4" 250 lb+ husband, appearing equally pissed off.  I walk faster than my spouse on any given day, and I was mad, and his ankle was sore, and he was pushing the cart, so he was more than a few steps behind. 

I beelined for her.  Ryan said he watched her see me and attempt to avoid.  Um, guess what Grandma, you have nowhere to go.  Stay at the fucking door and greet me.  Once confronted, one of us on each side, she kept repeating: "The machine is broken".  My husband replied: "How are they going to make it any more broken?"  He was like a machine. This makes him infuriating to argue with but is super when watching him apply his tactics to others.  I shared it was 'unnecessary' to touch my child EVER.  She denied it.  Um, no.  He has no fucking reason to lie and is about as good as hiding his emotions as I am and is a bad liar to boot.  HE WAS NOT LYING AND NOW YOU SHALL BURN IN YOU KNOW WHERE AND BY THE THE LOOKS OF YOU, IT WON'T BE LONG.

I walked away, Ryan shared a few more words with her and we left.

We don't spank our children.  I did spank my two oldest ones and I regret it.  I am older now and more empathetic and do not see how hitting them is going to get any sort of message across about behaviour.  Now this old 'see you next Tuesday' does not know this but given she doesn't know my children and is an employee?  Hands-the-fuck-off.  I am contemplating writing a strongly worded letter.

The rational side of me has only this to say in her defense: She should be retired. She was for real old and her out-of-the-box red hair is not hiding that in any way, shape or form.  Must suck, at her age, to have to be a Wal-Mart greeter.  That being said, if dealing with the public isn't your "thing", go the fuck home or get a different job.

Then the real me takes over and wishes I would've went off on her a little harder.

I recognize this does not paint me in a favourable light but if you haven't figured out by now that I'm mean, I can't help you.  Mean and protective of things that are mine. 

In hindsight, she's lucky I didn't drop her.

Happy Canada Day!

Monday, June 27, 2011

Cookie Monster is Not to Blame

My child is currently watching 'Super Why'.  This is a relatively new children's show as far as I'm aware and he likes it.  I am bitchy already and when I overheard some character on the show had lots their red basket with "lots of healthy snacks in it" I became irritated.

When I was a child, Cookie Monster ate cookies and I turned out fine.  I was not an obese child.  I'm a little bit of a chubby bunny now but this has nothing to do with Cookie Monster binging on cookies as it has to do with my sugar/carb/vodka/TV addictions.  None of which were fostered by Cookie Monster.  I was a skinny child.  My parents did not allow us Oreos, Kraft Dinner, any cereal except for Cornflakes, Rice Krispies, Cheerios, Puffed Wheat and once in awhile we had Alpha-Bits.

They were not mean. We didn't have Oreos because my mom baked her ass off all of the time.  If I was eating cookies they were homemade.  And believe me, I ate cookies.  I snuck cookies like a motherf*cker.  I became the queen of stealth.  Macaroni & Cheese was also a homemade affair.  As was bread. Pancakes and french toast made from scratch.

Chips and pop were a treat once in awhile.  Not an everyday staple.

My point is, my parents made these decisions for us.  So even though Cookie Monster was on his way to Type 2 Diabetes my parents had the forethought not to let us eat only cookies.  I know, I'm as blown away as you are.

The kids watching Super Why or watching the new and improved Cookie Monster enjoy cookies as a "sometimes snack" have little choice as to what they are being fed.  What four year old is going to say: "No Thanks Mom, I'll pass on the cookies and enjoy some baby carrots instead.  The weird big headed kids on Super Why only eat healthy snacks and I want to be just like them." ?  This does not happen.

The kids who this kind of propaganda is geared towards have no choice in the matter.  They don't go grocery shopping.  It's not their choice to have juice in their bottle but they'll drink it.  And if you gave your child juice in a bottle, yes I'm judging you.  Just as your small child will be judged by every adult that gets a look at their rotted out front teeth.  Pop is even better.

Where has all the common sense gone?  I admit I lost a little of it myself.  My children seem to require more entertaining then I'm prepared to engage in.  Then I flashed back to my own childhood and being told, under no uncertain terms, to play outside.  And so I did, probably after whining, but I usually enjoyed myself.  It dawned on me, then, that I can make my kids go outside and play and not feel guilty about it.  Seems pretty simple but apparently I get caught up in more parental guilt than I'm aware.  Which is scary because I don't want to raise any assholes and that what happens when the Juniors of the world are entirely catered to and never made to do anything they don't want to do.

Yes, my children are allowed Oreos, on occasion (to be honest this is largely due to the fact that if we kept them in the house all of the time I would easily weigh 200 pounds).  Kraft Dinner on many occasions.  Chips and pop remain a sometimes treat.  I try to ensure vegetables are a part of their day, even if it's just some cut up cucumbers at supper.  I make some stuff from scratch but am nowhere the baker or cook my mother is.  We could do better, as a family, with our eating and continually try to do just that.  And not because Cookie Monster no longer eats cookies all of the time or because the weird big-headed kids on Super Why eat healthy snacks and the Wonder Pets prefer celery after saving the day. 

All of this wisdom shared it should be noted that the fair was in town this weekend and by the time we got home, I was the one with a stomachache after molesting a bag of cotton candy, enjoying a soft pretzel, a large lemonade, a medium Iced Tea, one dry rib (they were burnt) and a couple of mini donuts.

Those Super Why kids would be really disappointed but given my head is pretty much in proportion to my body (I have a big head, literally, hats are an issue) and theirs are not, I still win.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Shave My Back, Ferris

I must first apologize at my lack of posting this week.  I have been in a foul mood since Monday.  Today I am better.  Why?  Maybe it's the second day of sunshine in a row.  Maybe it's having the time to drink two cups of coffee this morning and reading the papers.  Maybe it's because last night was a good night work-wise.  I'm not sure but I am sure I like not being miserable.

One of the highlights of my week:  My four year old came downstairs, butt naked and paraded a little in front of my husband and I.  He loves his naked body and his penis.  So I said something to the effect of:  "That's right Baby, love that body."  That's not as creepy as it sounds.  I was making a joke.  His response? "Show me your body and I'll shave your back!"  This was said with perfect timing and directly to me.


I, for the record, do not need my back shaved.  I'm a hairy gal, for sure, but the hair is where it's supposed to be.  Legs, underarms, etc.  I look after all of that on my own.  Why he chose that particular response, I'll never know.  My husband doesn't even have a hairy back.  He doesn't even have a hairy front.  He has about 23 chest hairs in total.

Anyway, I enjoyed it but worried and wondered at the same time.  Why would I worry?  I can handle this kid at four.  I love him immensely and he provides me with constant entertainment.  At 14, I think it will have turned to worry.  17?  I don't even want to think about it.  I don't think he's going to be bad in a criminal sense but I do believe he's going to give me a run for my money.  His personality combined with his looks (he's cute, I'm not biased, other people say it too-ask 'Stacey' and Sinatra), combined with the fact that he's my 'baby' and may or may not (yes he does) have me wrapped around his little finger?

I think I'm raising Ferris Bueller.

Who doesn't love Ferris Bueller?  Except for his sister, Jeannie but that bitch was seriously uptight and it wasn't until she went on vacation with her other family and gave it up to Patrick Swayze (RIP) that she loosened up a little.  Rhett, my Ferris, has a sister too.  She's 14 so will be on her own by the time things are really getting out of control here.  Not that she won't be angry about it and chide me about it.  That being said, I know she'll have the presence of mind not to make out with Charlie Sheen.  If he's still alive in ten years...


Sorry.  Anyway, school is very nearly out, summer is trying to be here and I got a little of my tan on yesterday so as soon as I hit the gym and do some laundry I'll be ready.  Not necessarily DTF but I'm not a grenade, even for a 34 year old baseball, soccer, football, hockey mom.


Friday, June 17, 2011

Cherry Pie Worship

I don't really know where to start.  It's raining, so that might be as good as place as any.  Not really newsworthy but for the love of God, when will this sucktastic weather end? Right now, in the glorious city of Moose Jaw, Sidewalk Days are taking place.  Basically they block off downtown and all the businesses set up outside and there is entertainment, stuff for the kids to do, etc.  And given that most of the time the highlight of any given week is the outdoor Polka concert put on in the park for seniors?  I kind of look forward to Sidewalk Days.  There is shopping.  There are mini donuts.  Cherry flavoured lemonade. Mini Donuts.  Face painting for the kids; those death trap bouncy castle things and MINI DONUTS.  Today the rain is keeping us from all of these things.

Now yes I could go anyway and we could don festive ponchos and take umbrellas if for nothing else than a shot at the donuts but it's just not the same.  If this rain doesn't let up I'll have to wait another WHOLE WEEK before I can get mini donuts.  That's then the fair comes to town.

Moose Jaw really likes to do it up at the end of June/early July and then call 'er a year.

Speaking of the fair, in the next closest city, beautiful Regina (some people say it's the "City that Rhymes with Fun"), their annual fair will be happening in early August.  I was reading the paper this morning and noticed that one of the performers will be none other than WARRANT!  When I was 13/14, I worshipped Warrant.  I was in love with Jani Lane and longed to swept into his 'Heaven' singing arms while his long blond hair flowed in the wind.  Have I mentioned my predilection for boys with long hair?  It started a young age.

Here they are in all their 90s 'Metal' glory:

Yes people, take it all in.  The love of my life is the one almost dead center.  And frighteningly enough if he had short hair and a perm(I'm not kidding, but in his defense, he stopped perming his hair about 17 years ago), this almost resembles my yeah, that's super.  Anyway, my friend Brigette loved the dark haired one in the lower right hand corner.  She & I devoted a great deal of time to the worship of Warrant and practised our head banging to such hits as 'Cherry Pie' and whatever other songs we liked of theirs.  To be honest, right now I can only think of Cherry Pie, Heaven, Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich (I think) and I Saw Red.  Jani (pronounced Johnny but spelled cool like that because that's how he rolls) nearly broke my adolescent heart when he sang I Saw Red about whatever groupie slut it was that cheated on him and broke his sensitive rocker heart.

I saw Warrant ten years ago at Minnedosa.  An outdoor rock concert event.  Jani had gained a few pounds and had a thinning bob.   I'm concerned what ten more years may have done to my young love crush.  Will that stop me from going?  I don't think so.  Why not cling to my youth?  It just dawned on me that it was 20 years ago when posters of these guys adorned my bedroom wall.  And yes, I had an entire wall devoted to Warrant.

One for Warrant, one for Poison, one for Bon Jovi and one for Skid Row.  I think a few Motley Crue posters may have made their way into the mix as well.  No New Kids on the Block for this girl!  I was far too cool, edgy and 'raw' for that boy (man?) band.  Mariah Carey?  No thank you.  Milli Vanilli?  Yes, they snuck in their too.  For shame, I know.

So today on this rainy day ruining yet another day of supposed summer? Maybe I will Google Warrant.  Try to find some videos on You Tube and maybe talk my husband into donning a long blond wig and lip syncing to Cherry Pie and see where the day takes us...

Or not because the children do not have school today.  So they are here.  In the house.  Because it's raining.  Maybe I'll just start drinking instead....

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Wet Dreams & Dead Cats, Oh My

I've always been a vivid dreamer.  I dream in color and remember the majority of what I dream about and it's like watching a movie most of the time.  My children appeared to have inherited this trait and I'm becoming concerned.

I am concerned based on the following:  My testosterone-ly advanced four year old.  He shyly shared with me yesterday morning the dream he had about "girls!"  He whispered most of this: He dreamt about girls and about their boobs.  One of the boobs apparently had a face on it.  Then to top it all off, another girl in the dream kissed him.  He was unusually shy in relaying this information and his voice became high pitched a time or two.  Does anyone know what it means if your four year old may be on the verge of wet dreams?  At four?  He's four.  What the fuck?

Then my seven year old, the same day, told me he'd had a dream too.  A dream that we went to the movies but that when the movie was over, it was time to "kill the cats".  We have two cats.  He dreamt about killing them.




Could it be that I have potentially raised a both a budding sex addict and socio/psychopath?  Which one is it that hurts animals as a child?  To be clear he doesn't hurt animals.  He merely dreamt about hurting animals.

Maybe it's time I return to the workforce because being a stay at home mom appears to be having a negative effect on my children.  My oldest child began daycare at the tender age of two weeks because high school stops for nothing.  Not even birth.  My daughter began daycare at six months of age because after taking two semesters of university off to have her, it was time to get back to school, again.  Reese & Rhett, my special little "dreamers" have had the most time at home with me and look where it's gotten them! 

The two who began daycare at arguably the most formative of ages?  Well one is currently on an Outdoor Education trip where he was chosen as one of the navigators because his teacher has great faith in him.  He's also going to be one of the Captains of his school's football team this coming season.  The other one is on the Principal's List  and a member of the Junior SGA (Junior Student Government Assembly or something like that).  She's also on her school's soccer team and acted in every play/musical the school put on this year.

Dreamers?  One sleeps with his eyes open and has a serious obsession with Justin Bieber.  The other?  Gets a little better every day at not having his hands in his pants and talks incessantly and if the opportunity arises, he cops a feel of my boobs and then announces "I touched your boob."

I guess two out of four isn't bad...


Monday, June 13, 2011

Bouncy Balls are the Devil's Work

Today it is nice out.  I've Facebooked this, I've Twittered this and now I'm posting about it.  I used to mock those affected by the weather.  I thought they were weak and just looking for another excuse to be miserable.  But after the Spring we've had?  I'm right there with them. I should be outside right now.  It's sunshine-y and warm.  People have already cut their grass so there is that good freshly cut grass smell happening.  Yet instead, I'm sitting in front of my computer trapped in the Internet.

My four year old is re-energized and recharged by the sun as well, apparently.  There is a lot of talking this morning.  Chants of "Come & Find Me!"  while his little pajama clad butt is in plain site under a chair.  The bouncy ball is bouncing.  Literally.  My 7 year old went to a birthday party yesterday and in the treat bag was one of those godforsaken little rubber bouncy balls.  My stomach is clenching at the thought of it.  Who the fuck invented those things?  And am I the only mother who wishes they would cease all production?  I must be because those stupid little things are a regular treat bag item.  I've been guilty of it myself in the past but after four kids, I've finally caught on.  It's not nice to give those to other people's children.  I hate them so there has to be another parent or two who wishes for a sweet shot of heroin or momentarily turns into Mommy Dearest when one of those little demons starts bouncing.

He is distracted by the Wii now.  I need to get him outside as well.  I still need to shower.  Do the dishes.  Do some yard work. Do some actual work.  We are currently looking for a new trailer so am supposed to making a trip into Regina this afternoon to look at a couple with my husband. 

The rest of the week is going to be partly cloudy and raining off and on.  So why aren't I outside yet?  Meh.  I'm enjoying the semi-quiet.  There is only one child here right now.  The dogs are partaking of their morning nap.  Even the cat is quiet.  I'm mostly undisturbed now that the bouncy ball has been laid to rest.
How did I manage that?

Went on a small tirade about how said 4 year old was driving me nuts with the bouncy ball.  I used a funny voice to not frighten him or make him feel bad.  He giggled.  Then my husband called and when he asked me what I was doing I made some comments about trying not to jump off the deep end and explained this was partly due to the bouncing ball.

After I hung up the phone?  Rhett said: "I'm sorry I was driving you nuts with the bouncy ball." And I?  Felt like an asshole.  I told him it was okay and we both carried on.

I wrote a post about PMS at least a week ago but I don't know how long I can blame my current mostly agitated state on it.  I became incredibly annoyed at a couple in Wal-Mart yesterday.  At the McDonald's located in the Wal-Mart.  So why I was expecting anything less than inane behaviour or below average intelligence is beyond me.  And yes, I realize I was right there with them so that doesn't say a lot about me either.  Whatever.  We had half an hour to kill until the 'salon' (First Choice Haircutters likely does not qualify as a salon but it's not a barber shop either...) opened so my 7 year old could get a hair cut.  He was beginning to look suspiciously like an orphan out of a Dickens' novel but I fear he felt it was something more akin to Justin Bieber.  How do I know this?  He tossed his hair the other day and wanted me to see how his bangs 'moved'.

The child has the straightest hair in the free world. No body, no movement but he clearly longs for Bieber-like locks.  So sad.

Anyway, the big dumb ass in front of me, at McDonald's, accompanied by his wife with her hair in a beige 'scrunchie' were ordering drinks.  They had quite the discussion about how many drinks they would get, if the youngest child (I presume) should get a drink and so on.  This was done loudly and the man laughed after everything he said.  He also knew one of the employees there so I think was feeling pretty good about this as well.  Lots of "witty" banter was exchanged between he and the fry cook.  She left to tend to the young'uns, where ever they were, and he ordered "One large Coke, two regular Cokes & a small Coke."  Okay, easy enough.  Then as the girl began filling the drinks, he said the following: "The large Coke is a Sprite".  Alright-y then.  She didn't bat an eye and proceeded to get the man his large Coke/Sprite.

I wanted to push his face in.

Perhaps a strong reaction?  In my defence, it was about a half an hour after this that my day fell apart and I struggled with light-headed-ness and nausea for the rest of the day so maybe the misdirected rage was an early symptom?  Is intolerance of stupidity a symptom of anything but PMS?  In my world it is.  Actually, I think it may be a character trait.  Until I do or say something stupid and then it's very funny.

I'm nothing if not balanced.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

I'm Not Your Bitch

I overreact.  I'm much like Chevy Chase's character from all of those Vacation movies.  My favourite is Christmas Vacation and I'm him.  I build things up in my mind and get all excited at how truly AWESOME and AMAZING whatever event, Christmas included, and then become increasingly distraught (read: bitchy) when it doesn't go as planned or anticipated.

I overreact on a daily basis.  If I were to frame this positively, I would say I am a passionate person.  This is true, I suppose but passion has it's time and place.  Like say when enjoying chocolate covered pretzels and milk, grape vodka and Sprite, and Jax from Sons of Anarchy.

Tonight, passion arrived when I was asking my son, who is 17, why he felt it was okay to leave the remnants of every snack he's eaten tonight on the counter.  His response, whilst lying in a prone position on the couch: "Oh, what, do you want me to run out to the recycling bin right away?"  This was said with more than a touch of sarcasm.  Sarcasm has it's time and place.  Like when I speak.  I prefer not to be spoken to in that manner though and least of all by my children.  Double standard or not, that's how I roll.  I advised him that at the very least he could throw out the plastic bag inside the box and then flatten it and leave it on the counter.  Here is how the rest of the conversation played out:

Him: "I'm not the only one who does it!!"
Me:  "Did I say you were the only one?  I know you're not the only one!  Did you want me to wait until I could get you all together and we'll have a family meeting about it?!"
Him: "Well you make it sound like it's only me."
Me:  "No, it's all of you because I'm all of yours [sic] bitch.  I'm work's bitch, I'm your bitch!"

This was said as I stormed up the stairs.  I stormed and fumed a little about poor sentence structure and my fast loss of control of the situation.  I came downstairs a few minutes later and he and I resumed a normal conversation about football.  He and I are one and the same in that manner.  Basically we can become instantly angered but get over it almost as quickly.  It works for us so don't judge.   And besides, if you start judging us we'll become angry again and then we're both huge assholes so it's really up to you... 

To be clear, I do not feel like I am "work's bitch".  Last week was a little rough but I do believe hormones played an unfortunate role in my perception of the circumstances.  I also don't really feel like I am my family's bitch.  Most of the time anyway.  I just became instantly annoyed at his annoyance with me.

And again, for clarification, being someones bitch and being a bitch are two very different things.  I am most definitely a bitch.  A smart bitch, a funny bitch, a mean bitch; take your pick, I graciously accept any one of these roles but that's where it ends.

Bitchy lunatic?  Yes. 

'Your' bitch?  No. 

'His' bitch?  Nope. 

Anybody's bitch?  Absolutely not.

I'm just me.  An exceptionally passionate woman who angers easily and relies heavily on sarcasm to communicate any thought, feeling and emotion she possesses. I've said it before, I'll say it again, my husband is a lucky man.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Mood Swing Martha is Going to Toronto!

I am in what could very nearly be considered a good - I seriously was about to type about my good mood when my 17 year old male child phoned me from my vehicle.  He's out there looking for his new retainer.  The new retainer he needs because the dog got the other one when he left it on the arm of the couch.  We're all kinds of hygienic around here.  Anyway, my vehicle is pretty easy....Oh wait, it's in my purse.

Okay, Mood Swing Martha is back on an upswing.  Laughing at my own pseudo-psychotic episodes.  I spoke to my son like he was a blind idiot for not being able to see the RED case in the car.  Except it was in my purse.  Gosh, I'm a treat!

Anyway, I had a decent day.  This doesn't seem to happen all that often but today some good things happened.  One of them being I am off to Toronto in just a little over a month for a jewellery hawking conference!!  The farthest I ever go are the reaches of small town Saskatchewan and once in awhile I get to Regina and Saskatoon and I have been to Calgary and Edmonton but not even either of those places for about six years now. So Toronto?  Is going to be quite a thrill!

I will, however, be spending a lot of time with women.  Women I don't necessarily know that well and who will likely cringe if I speak in the manner I am accustomed too.  Like, for instance, I will try to stay away from the 'c' word and my other favourite, Motherf*cker.  See, I'm practising already by not using those actual words in this very post!  I will also try to curb my meanness and not mock every person I see who does not meet my standard of humanity.

Being that I will be in Toronto and have a new and vast population to choose from, this may prove more difficult than not swearing.  But I can do it.

I can do it because I will be by myself!!  I will not have any children with me or my husband.  Don't get me wrong, I'd love for us to be able to take a family vacation but I'm pretty excited about my own little getaway but know I will long for my family and my sweatpants by the end of my little journey.

I even wore jeans today.  Just to spice it up a little.  For about 4 hours and then it was back into the sweatpants I went.  Jeans are stupid.  At least when you have to sit down.  If you are standing and wearing heels, they are more fun.  But there is nary an occasion in my life at present that calls for heels.  Except Toronto!

And I will be dressing like a grown up every day.  Which may prove a bit of a challenge as these days I dress like a grown up about one day out of every four or five.  And for a few hours at most.  These will be full days of dressing in a semi-professional manner followed by even more dressing up for the evening.  I'm going to have to get some fucking Spanx. 

Look at me, I'm all giddy with my good mood over here.  And I haven't had a drop of alcohol.   Alcohol will hopefully be a part of next month's trip although again, I will need to be careful because my best gal pal Vodka and I become a little mouthy and mock-y.  So maybe I'll be a lady and drink a nice glass of white wine and mind my manners.

Anyone interested on making a wager as to my ability to be lady like for four days, in a row?

Monday, June 6, 2011

Detour, Again

It's that time.  Time to head over to PMS Chronicles and find out what wonderful adventure I am on this month.  Or to put it plainly, find out why I'd rather not speak to anyone and am bloated like Elvis circa 1977.

PMS Chronicles

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Penis Benefits & Dinner Ideas

I learned tonight that my culinary prowess does not measure up.  At least not in the eyes of my teenagers.  They are sick of my fare.  They would like to me to jazz it up a little and make a stir-fry.  Some of you are laughing as stir-fry is pretty standard fare for most people.  I've never made it.  I don't like it so why would I make it?

So I asked them to give me ideas as to what they would like to eat.  So far I am making salmon, a pasta-vegetable salad (complete with green beans, vomit) and several desserts-they are my children after all.  Oh and ribs.  I agree with them, it's time to mix it up a little but frankly, I like cooking as much as I like being outside.  In fact, I'd rather be outside if it were left to that and having to cook supper every freaking night of the week.

I'm 34.  I moved out on my own when I was 17.  So for 17 years now I have had to come up with meals, sometimes three times a day, seven days a week.  I'm out of ideas!  'Stacey''s husband cooks.  She cleans.  I am green with envy.  I can't even fathom what it would be like to be able to carry on with one's day without really having to give a second thought to supper until it's time to eat it and then clean it up.  Bliss, as far as I'm concerned!  Except, he's uber-health conscious and they eat a lot of vegetables.  Which would probably be good for me but would take some getting used to.  I think I could do it though.

I was also told today, by teenage daughter, that we (my husband, I and our oldest son), go on a diet once and year and don't we know that is what is referred to as "yo-yo dieting".  Duh.  Yes I'm aware but reminded her it only really counts as yo yo dieting if you lose and gain back weight repeatedly.  We tend to fall off the wagon before anyone has actually lost any weight.  Except for once, three years ago.

Three years ago I lost 13 pounds and my husband lost 30 pounds.  In the exact same period of time.  Even though we worked out together and I dragged his ass to the gym where he did a leisurely work out while he watched TSN.  I worked myself into a red-faced sweating panting frenzy and carefully and painfully watched everything I ate.  I watched what he ate too.  I watched when he ate twice what I ate.  He was allowed to.  He's a great deal taller and bigger than me and basic Math meant he was "allowed" to eat more than I was.  And apparently, lose more than twice the weight.

I blame his penis.

I blame penises in general.

Having a penis means if you stop drinking pop (soda), you can drop 50 pounds.  Having a penis means if you think really hard about losing weight and perhaps fart as a result of having thought so hard, you will lose at least five pounds.  In that instant.  Having a penis, while we're at it, also thinks people will assume you know what you're talking about even if you don't.  Having a vagina means the exact opposite.  Having a vagina means knowing what you're talking about but being ignored because in addition to the vagina, you have breasts and everyone knows breasts = a lack of common sense, basic knowledge and literacy skills.

I know.  I'm taking my own food issues out on penises everywhere and they didn't do anything to me.  They can't help the fact that their mere presence also means testosterone is present and testosterone is the weight loss king.  Estrogen is the Hormone, Storing Inappropriate amounts of Fat on the Ass and Tricep Area, Queen.

Unless you're me. Then the fat is stored on your belly.  Still the arms though...Tight waves everyone, keep it tight.  Nothing worse than seeing that flap of skin/flab waggling and a wiggling in the wind.

Now I'm not all Negative Nelly around here nor do I hate myself.  I'm pretty fucking awesome.  I just have a sugar addiction and require a touch of lipo and a tummy tuck.  And a penis.  Just for weight loss purposes; aging well and respect in the workplace, bank and auto body/mechanic shop.  The rest of the time I'll keep my vagina.  It is much neater.  Nothing to adjust.  And the ability to find things.  I am convinced, through careful study of my husband and three sons, that having a penis somehow affects vision and/or fine motor skills to the point you are incapable of a) seeing something directly in front of your face and b) moving an object or objects to locate the thing you are trying to find.

So there you have it, vaginas are more compact and improve your vision.  A penis will help you lose weight and make people listen to you.  What do you want?  The ability to see or to be heard?  I for one, don't want to have to choose, so as soon as someone figures out how I can benefit from the effects of having a penis, without really having one, call me!

Oooh, and while we're at it, I need ideas for dinner.  I considered phrasing that as "send me any good recipes you may have" and then I had an overwhelming urge to put on a skirt, heels and some lipstick and fetch my husband his slippers.

I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Sausage Fingers is Where I Draw the Line

It's that time again.  Time to stop pretending eating nothing but carbs is okay.  Time to stop pretending I am comfortable with my back fat.  Time to stop.  Eating.  Candy.

Stifled sob.

I love candy.  I love chocolate.  I love cheese bagels and Skor lattes.  I love vodka.

They love me too.  I've given them a very comfortable home on my back, my belly and my thighs.  They just sit there, real nonchalant like.  And a little has even found it's way to my fingers.  My rings are getting too tight.  That's where I draw the line.  I refuse to be Angela of the chubby fingers.  You can't disguise fat fingers with a well cut jacket or pair of jeans.  They are just out there for all the world to see.  So when you're dipping your yam fries into your Chipotle dip people just judge and wonder why you, Sausage Fingers, continues to ride the Carb Conga Line like it's no big deal.

So today it's back on.  No candy.  No chocolate.

I'm fucking starving.

I had some soup and a sandwich for supper.  I ate a banana. Some watermelon.  A cheese bagel (fuck off, I'm starting off slowly).  And coffee.  Oh and a piece of cheese.  Some of you are thinking I should've eaten more today, trust me I'm fine.  Except I'm hungry now and tired and want nothing more than to go to 7-11 and get a bag of the five cent candies I so clearly deserve.  Instead, as soon as I'm done writing this, I'm going to go make myself a bag of SmartPop.  100 calories of dry as a fucking bone popcorn.  Yum.

Well, I kind of like it.  I've never been one for flavour and so bland doesn't really bother me.  The lack of sugar does.  God I love sugar.  I'm a sugar addict of the truest form.  Sugar is my queen. My Private Dancer, Part-Time Lover and when I Think About It I....never mind, that's taking it a step too far.

I like sugar.  Maybe that's all that needs to be said.

And I'm hungry.  That needs to be said again.

So here we go, this should provide you, the people, with some entertainment over the coming days, weeks or months, or however long I manage to stick this out.  I plan to start working out again too.  After not having done so for the last year.  So that should be fun and easy and really comfortable and encouraging.

Or I'll want to die a slow death and hurt those who choose to try and make small talk while my muscles and lungs scream.

Yay fitness.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Extreme Lameness

I bought the new Adele CD.  I like it.  My daughter really likes it and is also currently cleaning the kitchen.  Which means I am listening to Adele sing her heart out while trying to watch the Billboard Music Awards.  Beyonce is currently singing her out heart.  It's too much.  Adele has a lot of angst and Beyonce is trying really hard.  Maybe even too hard.  Or maybe I'm just overstimulated.

This is one of those kind of days that was ultimately a good day but has left me feeling badly about myself.  Why?  I ate about 4 Wagon Wheels.  I slept a lot on the couch this afternoon.  I couldn't stay awake.  It is the long weekend here in Canada and today is the first day of this weekend that it did not rain all day.  Yet I spent the majority of the day inside.  And here's another big confession here on Driven:  I don't like it outside.

I don't hate it but I don't make any big efforts to get outside.  And this makes me feel bad about myself.  It makes me feel like Kate Gosselin.  Before her real personality emerged I used to watch that show (when she was still married to Jon) and I used to laugh every time she said she was an indoors girl.  It made me feel better about myself but knowing what we all now know about Kate, I feel less inclined to identify with her in anyway.

Don't get me wrong, I like the beach as much as the next girl.  I enjoy camping and sitting by a fire.  But what I like even more than both of those things is TV.  And my couch.  Any couch for that matter.  So maybe if I lived somewhere where I could have a super nice Extreme Makeover Home Edition kind of outdoor living space, I would be more inclined to get out there. If it's nice out where I live, a person is usually contending with gale force winds, or bugs or children.  So yes, my dream outdoor living space would also be child-free.

So between the Wagon Wheels and the couch surfing I feel like a real loser.  I did vacuum and dust and shower just to feel a little less sloth-like.  I ate chicken and salad for supper.  (And then an ice cream sandwich-whatever, don't judge).  And now I'm posting which also feels like an accomplishment so I guess all is good?

Kind of.  My older children have plans to go out tonight.  They went out Friday night.  The oldest had some friends over here last night.  My husband and I have done diddly squat for the entire long weekend.  Yesterday we did take the two youngest kids to see the Diary of a Wimpy Kid sequel. It was good.  And we watched some Extreme Couponing.  Yep. 

Fuck.  So this is what middle aged feels like?  About 15-20 years too early?  I'm 34.  Am l lame or just mature?

Don't answer that.

This, however, has worn me out so I think it's best I re-adjust here on the couch and enjoy some more TV. 

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Crushed Dreams & Brush Cuts

I am the only still up.  I should go to bed but can't.  I feel ill at ease or something.  It's nothing serious.  I honestly believe a good part of this discontent stems from American Idol.  I watched it tonight and got all caught up in the "magic" of it.  Then I remembered there is no magic here.  Since I can remember, I've wanted to be a singer.  I sang and still do sing my heart out given the opportunity.  And while sometimes I can do a pretty mean mimic, I cannot actually sing.  I do not know the notes, I can't hit the notes; Lauren Alaina (sp?) I am not.  And I am definitely not Hailey.  I'd really like to be Hailey.  I'd like to be 17 and look like that, sing like that and move like that.

Instead I'm 34.  Apple shaped.  About 1/2 inch of grey roots on the go and my moves are limited to switching laundry loads, vacumning and toilet cleansing.  A lot of that means I'm bent over, so maybe that counts for something?  Well it might, if I still worked out.  It would likely also be of benefit if I weren't usually wearing a pair of sweat pants that make it look as though I've shit myself.


Now come on, some positive scanning, some Oprah gratitude.  I am not a Butterface.  In fact, I'm likely the opposite.  Don't know what a Butterface is?  Please go over to Pretty All True and she will enlighten you. My kids are intelligent, socially adept and attractive.  Yes I'm mentioning looks and yes it does matter.  We can all pretend it doesn't, but really, if you have social skills and people don't suggest a bag over your head as an accessory, chances are you will have some level of success in this world.  Even if you are just clean and have social skills, you'll get your foot in the door to wherever it is you need or want to be.  So I am grateful for their non-hideousness and non-assholeness.

Except, as not ugly as I am, and as charming, funny, witty and plain fucking fantastic as I am, I am not and will never be a rock star.  Not even a pop star.  My voice is rightfully confined to my home, car and any place that serves alcohol. 

Oh and there's one more thing, I've also always wanted to be a biker or just affiliated with that sort of club.  Then I found Sons of Anarchy and even though it's a television show, each season, I live SOA and convince myself I am Gemma's apprentice.   And that Jax knows I'm out here and is just waiting for the right time.  There is no man more gorgeous and....sigh, I can't put what I want to put here because my kids read this and they are already disturbed by his topless photo on my laptops desktop.  It's from some men's Fitness magazine.  He's oiled up and...

Now I'm distracted.

Anyway, I would be Jax's old lady in a heartbeat.  Yes, of course at first I would need to drop about 40 pounds and get some 'work' done, but then I'd be all his.  And he would be all mine.  This would include his hair.  I have liked boys with long hair since I first started noticing boys.  So imagine my horror, my woe, if you will, at finding out Jax cut his hair.  He's got what pretty much amounts to a brush cut.  This is not okay.  This is breaking the rules.  If I'm willing to go under the knife for him (no I'm not that delusional but in my pretend world, there is a chance for he and I) then the least he could do is not cut his hair.  Ever.


It's been a heck of an evening.  American Idol, once again, crushed my hopes and dreams of singing stardom and my #1 fantasy boyfriend betrayed me with a hair cut.  No wonder I can't sleep.  Where will the madness end?

Monday, May 16, 2011

It's Not a Commercial

So lookie here,  Blogger is back up and running. Convenient as I am no longer my hormonally induced alter-ego.  Just plain old me again.  And plain old me is currently doing laundry.  It feels as though I've been doing laundry for two days straight.  Oh wait, that's because I have.

My husband is beating his high score on Solitaire on his Blackberry.

Well that's not fair, he did some yard work this weekend; made our patio presentable for company for our four year old's birthday party.  He washed our vehicles, he coaches ball four nights a week.  I am not ragging on him.  I am just bitter about the laundry.

I hate our laundry room.  Mine is not the one of Tide/Gain/Sunlight, etc. commercials. It is not all white and gleaming and filled with windows and sunshine and me in a pair of white slacks and a crisp button down shirt.  Mine is in the basement.  Concrete. Litter box.  Storage area. 

The litter box is really the piece de resistance (I would put accents on this but am not that technically advanced).  My cat refuses to pee in the litter box.  She prefers to perch in it or on the edge and shoot urine straight out onto the floor and surrounding area.  I've seen her do it.  She's nearly 10 and has been doing this for a few years now.  The area is sealed off with plastic to try and prevent the delicate stench of cat piss from permeating our the concrete floor.  There is a puppy pad to soak up some of the overspill.  It's not a litter box.  It's a litter 'area'.

So when I'm doing laundry, there are no gentle breezes floating in from the open window ruffling my perfectly coiffed hair.  There is me, often in sweats, sports bra and over sized t-shirt, trying not to breathe through my nose.  I change loads, 'Shout' the crap out of anything my seven year old wears and then once that is done, I get to scooping poop, disinfecting the litter area and putting out a fresh puppy pad.  There is no sunshine.  There is a hose running from the water heater to the drain in an effort to clean the sediment out of it so we can again have hot water for longer than 10 minutes at a time.

So I think it's clear why I hate laundry.  Never mind there are 76 fucking steps to getting it done.  Sorting, stain treatment, washing, hanging to dry, drying, folding and putting away.  And for what?  To do it all again, usually less than a full week later.  Sometimes I long for the sort of slovenly attitude that would let me revel in filth.  That wouldn't mind if my children went to school in dirty clothes with dirty fingernails and seven days worth of scum on their teeth.  It seems like it would be easier.  They could call me "Mama" and  we could learn our alphabets together.

Instead, I prefer they and I to be clean.  I don't like wrinkled clothes, dirty fingernails or scummy teeth.  I read.  They read.  And what do we have to show for it?  A cat that runs the laundry room with her unusual bathroom habits. 

Although, I do believe, after the last two days, one could bounce a quarter off of my hind quarters given we live in a two storey house, the laundry room is in the basement and all of the bedrooms, with the exception of one, are on the second floor.  I have done roughly 40 flights of stairs since yesterday at noon.  So yes, my legs and ass are in fine condition.  It's not doing anything for my "trouble area" though.  Still required to suck in if/when awake.  This might have something to do with rewarding myself with chocolate, salt water taffy, pretzels, etc for each completed load.

Don't judge me.  You do laundry for yourself, your husband, your two teenage children (which is really just the same as doing laundry for two more adults), and a seven year old who for the life of him cannot stay on his feet-the grass and dirt call to him-he must slide, first base or not, and a four year old (no explanation necessary).  You'd reward yourself too.  Maybe with one of those goddamned bubble baths the magazines get all worked up about, but that's not for me.  My eczema will flair up and I will then be forced to acknowledge my body in all it's naked glory and haven't I been through enough?

Time to go switch loads....