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.

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. 

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.

Sigh.

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.

Sigh.

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?

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....

A Day Late & at Least a Dollar Short

So yes, Mother's Day was yesterday. I am a mother and I even have a mother.  Did I celebrate?  Kind of. 

My day began before 6:30 a.m.  My 7 year old came in our room and just stood there.  I knew he was there but hoped that if I didn't acknowledge I could sleep until 6:30 when my alarm was set to go off.  Then I felt guilty (because I am a mother) and opened my eyes.  He quickly replied: "Mom, you can stay sleeping, I need Dad."  So I shut my eyes again and shortly after Ryan (husband) followed Reese downstairs.

I pretended to sleep until they (Ryan, Reese, and our youngest, Rhett-don't judge all the R names-at least they're all real names) came back and presented me with a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast with homemade jam (courtesy of Reese, the aforementioned 7 year old)!  It was very sweet (the gesture and the jam!).  I was quite pleased and then set about my day.

My day of luxury and pampering involved being at Motorcross-just for point of reference is it "Motocross" or "Motorcross"?  Anyway, I needed to be at the track, with my 14 year old daughter, by 7:30 a.m.  We were 'flaggers' for a day of racing.  This, for those of you unfamiliar, meant we were stationed at different points on the track with two flags.  One yellow, cautionary one, and one red and white "Hey, someone might be dead over here" flag. 

It was a miserable day weather-wise.  I started shaking uncontrollably sometime around 11 a.m.  I was wearing, for the record, jeans, a t-shirt, a heavy sweater and a denim jacket, socks and shows.  And a hat.  I kept my hat up with the hood over stop.  I was fucking freezing.  My daughter, who does not have any of her mother's age defying weight (don't get this? go back a few posts and frankly, I'm insulted that you aren't familiar with my extensive library of works), nearly froze to death.  She was not wearing a jacket.  I offered mine but she didn't want it.

To really set the stage, imagine the prairie.  Wet, cold, flat prairie. Except this Prairie has been altered to resemble a race track complete with jumps.  With boys and grown men on dirt bikes-racing one another and going as fast as they can.  Then imagine you are perched atop a little hump of dirt beside a jump.  A jump that the riders like to take on the outside.  This brings them within mere feet (sometimes inches, I swear) of me.  Now who's feeling like an extra special mommy?

By the end of the day, which for the record, occurred at 6 p.m., we were both wind burnt and frozen and I could no longer see.  And we were frozen despite the fact my husband brought us extra layers and a sleeping bag for my daughter and her friend.

I also couldn't see. Something to do with gale force winds, dust and cold having a nasty effect on my contacts.

Probably not one of my favourite Mother's Days ever.  On the bright side, this fundraiser was for a trip to Europe next April and this time I get to go along!  When my son went, I didn't.  This time, Mama is going along.

I came home to clutter, cat vomit and spaghetti for supper.  I enjoyed the spaghetti.  The clutter and vomit, not so much.  My oldest son treated me to a Blizzard Cake from Dairy Queen, also enjoyable.

The day had it's ups and downs which I guess is fitting.  I am sensitive but not sentimental.  I will spend upwards of 45 minutes looking for a greeting card that expresses itself without oozing sap.  So this is what I have to say about Mother's Day and Motherhood in general:

1.  It is Hard. 

2.  Most of the time, it is worth it.

3.  Nothing will make you feel guiltier and/or prouder, sometimes all at the same time.

4.  I don't know what my life would be without children.  I can't imagine it and I think its because it never would've been or was really an option for me.  Forget that I started at not quite 17; even if I had not chosen to explore the wonders and challenges of teen pregnancy and  motherhood (without a fucking reality show-don't even get me started on that! I refuse to watch it nor would I let my children, not that they've asked; that show is poison)...wow,

okay I got off track.  My point is, I knew motherhood was going to be a part of my life.

5.  I like my kids.  Even the one that doesn't like me much right now.   Some of you might  assume or feel it's obvious-as in, of course I like them, they're mine.  No, all that means is I love them and would literally kill for them.  Liking them is a whole other ball game, and I do like mine.

6.  Now that I am parent to a teenage girl I feel I may have been a tad harsh toward my own mother at that age, but that's purely speculation...

Happy Mother's Day friends!  Hope you were warmed than I and that you too, like your kids, if you have them.  If you don't have any, I'm a tad jealous that you likely slept in and then spent the day doing whatever you wanted.  On the flip side of that, I bet no one made you strawberry jam or bought you a Blizzard Cake...I'm just sayin'.

*Disclaimer-in no way do I mean to suggest I am superior to anyone who chooses not have to have children for whatever reason.  I despise those who think a woman is less than should she choose not to have another being inhabit her body for nine months, then present itself via her vagina and from there, inhabit the rest of her life. It's a personal choice and I applaud those who chose what's best for them, whatever that may be.

Word. 

Hideous Holes

As women we are conditioned from a very young age to be wary of all things aged.  We need to moisturize, exfoliate, buff, polish and wax our way into the land of perpetual youth.  Do our Kegels and strap ourselves into garments structured with under wire and of course, the dreaded Spanx.  Things sag, wrinkle and 'loosen' up despite our best efforts.

However, with the right clothes, cosmetics, and just generally taking the time to take care of oneself, aging can be done gracefully.  I thought I was doing okay.  Then the other day I looked in the mirror and realized there was something I had neglected.  A hole, neglected, that has begun to stretch and sag.  It. was. hideous.

It's not what you think and if you are thinking what I assume you are thinking, you're gross.  It is my earlobes.  I'm 34 but my earlobes are clearly approaching middle age at a faster rate than I.  I was wearing a pair of hoop earrings slightly heavier than my usual pair and this lent itself to stretched out sagging ear lobes.  I was embarrassed for myself.  Yet what I am to do?   I mean I guess I can choose to not wear those earrings anymore but it's not fair.  Jewellery is supposed to be wearable and flattering no matter how old I am or how much I weigh. 

My earlobes are telling me otherwise.  My earlobes say not only am I resigned to suitable knee, or just above the knee-length skirts, shirts with a cap sleeve, at the very least, and sensible slacks, but I must also stick to studs or the lightest smallest most delicate of hoops.  It's that or have my earlobes defy each and every one of my efforts to appear my age if not even a month or two younger.

It's not fair.

Yet another issue men do not have to face.  Grey hair makes them look more distinguished.  Well, except for when it's sprouting out of their ears and noses.  So we do have that on them.  Although I don't think ear hair removal remotely completes with leg hair, bikini line, eyebrow, and underarm maintenance. 

I have been told that men have some sagging issues as well.  However, if anything does start to sag, it's tucked away in their pants and only visible to those they are most familiar with, or an entire locker room, should they belong to a gym or sports team.  Our saggy ear lobes can, at best, hope to be hidden your hair.

So where does that leave me?  Well I'll continue to struggle with the decision to cut my hair short because then there's no out...I'll buy any product marketed by anybody that promises to give me the earlobes of an eighteen year old.

Until then though, it'll be hair down and the daintiest of earrings.  I'm pretty dainty myself so I guess maybe that's only fitting.

And if you believe that then drop me a line and I will declare you my new bestest friend!

Fuck

Some of you will notice I deleted the first of last night's posts.  I posted, yet again, without really thinking of the repercussions or consequences for others.  If you want to read it and know me and I know you, contact me and I will email it to you.  If I don't know who you are, chances are I won't send it because I can't trust that it's not going to get someone, who doesn't deserve it, in trouble.

Thanks all and I apologize to those I caused undue stress and worry too; they don't deserve it.