Driven

No Control

2012-01-24T07:12:00.000-08:00

I literally had no idea what I was going to write about when I opened this up but just said to my husband, "When I'm stressed, I have no control." And there you have it; a spur of the moment topic sentence.

There is great truth behind this statement. I was referring to food. We have been watching what we eat as well as using a new product to lose weight. It's going fairly well. My husband is down 23 pounds and I was down 11. Again, with his penis, he can think really hard about losing weight and it melts away. My vagina prefers that my body hold on to every last roll until the last possible minute. Although I can't blame it all on her. My mouth is somewhat to blame as well.

I was doing so well. The new product we are taking had almost shut down my sugar cravings. No snacking in the evenings because I simply didn't want to. Then Christmas hit. Christmas is stressful at the best of times but this past one I did not have enough money, I did not have enough available family, my husband had to work and there is food everywhere. Why? Because I bought it.

Enough is a relative term. Christmas was fine. The kids were happy, I spent Christmas Day with my husband and kids and then with great friends, my husband did work but this allowed him to be home for Boxing Day which we spent with his family. The food though? The food was still here.

I often jokingly refer to myself as a 'food addict'. And in some ways I am. I fell off the wagon and dammit if I can't get back on! Sugar is my lover. Junk food in general is my mistress...is there a male equivalent to that word? Anyway, I like it. I am also lazy. I do not really enjoy cooking all that much. I enjoy vegetables less. I don't like anything that requires more than me opening a package, can, my mouth.

Sigh. That last part sounded dirty. It wasn't supposed to but because I'm juvenile and it makes me snicker a little, I'm leaving it.

So anyway, I am back on the program. Sort of. With the exception of Saturday night where I force fed myself roughly 12 mini peanut butter cups chased with mini pretzels. This was while I was watching Betty White's 90th Birthday Celebration. Yes, my weekends are wild.

Then Sunday, I thought that's enough. Time to get my shit together. Except there are still peanut butter cups in the house. And pretzels. And popcorn twists. And salt 'n vinegar chips at Stacey's house.

So I weighed myself Monday morning. Just to see what the damage was. And yup, sure as shit, back up a pound and a half. No, not horrible but entirely preventable.

The point of this entire post is, I have zero coping skills. Wait, that's a LIE. My coping skills are food, bitching and alcohol and not necessarily in that order. Although my friend Vodka has not been nearly has prominent of a figure as she once was. Fickle girl.

So instead I make trips to Wal-Mart for toilet paper and come home with $10 worth of back fat.

No. Control.

A friend of mine's mother once said to her life is all about choices. I couldn't agree more. Why I continually make the same choices is beyond me. I do believe that's the definition of insanity...Great. I'm a crazy bitch with back fat. Granted, less than before but if I don't get it together, it's going to come creeping back and pretty soon I'll be able to keep my keys, lip balm and such in the handy folds on my back instead of in my purse.

Today is a new day. I'm starting it off right. Did just receive some unsettling news about my cell phone bill but I will not cope with food! I will bitch instead. Bitchy girls are not fun but are generally thin, so there. Problem solved!

Glad we got that worked out, now carry on.

Shit that which Disturbs Me

2012-01-05T19:27:00.000-08:00

I have spent the better part of the holiday season compiling a list of things that piss me off. These little epiphanies would strike as I shopped, ran errands and took in the general merriment of the season. And although Christmas has passed, the irritation has not.

I took a few moments today to begin an actual physical list.

This is what it is entitled:

'Stuff that pisses me off'

-chewing with your mouth open. So gross. So wrong. So unacceptable unless you are under 2 years old or over 90.
-Safeways, Costcos, etc. If this one confuses you, it is you who pisses me off.
-tight clothes. On other people and on myself. Tight clothes are a nemesis to us all. If you are the one wearing tight clothes you are uncomfortable. However, some folks are repeat offenders and maybe they do not feel this discomfort I do when a waistband is digging into my sides creating the fluffiest of muffin tops...
-"I'm drunk". Pronouncing this loud and often is usually a sure indicator that said "intoxicated" person? Is not.
-Lack of respect of time. Here we take a serious turn but I loathe waiting. The end.
-Lying. This is pretty universal but I am currently caught in a conundrum wherein I am not sure if a person is lying to me or if they are too stupid to even understand that is what they are doing. It's tricky and requires further research but given my sheer abhorrence at the thought of spending even five minutes with this person EVER AGAIN, it may remain an Unsolved Mystery. Does anyone else remember that show? Man, our whole family used to cozy up to the TV for that little gem. Two channels. No remote. We even watched the commercials. Crazy times I tell you, crazy.
-Stupidity. See above. There are a few breeds of stupid. There are those who are so stunned they believe they are smarter than everyone in the room and will make that known, without question. Stupidity often goes hand in hand with lying. These are the bad liars who lie so blatantly and obviously there is no doubt whatsoever that they are lying, yet they carry on. These people, I've heard, are also fantastic fundraisers.
-Spending money on vehicles. I hate when a vehicle breaks down. I can barely stand to part with money for gas, never mind hundreds or thousands on something that should just work and keep working until I don't need it anymore.
-quarter-ton trucks.

This is, obviously, a working list. Stay tuned for further additions and possible deletions (although I highly doubt it). Feel free to respond with suggestions of your own for said list.

So what else happened today?

I watched a middle-aged woman park a half ton truck in an expansive parking lot with ridiculous amounts of room like she was parking a semi. This did not impede my parking at all or trip into the store I was visiting, but for the love of Pete, dress in drag if you are going to go out and do stupid shit like that. Otherwise it is nothing but further fodder for the penis-bearers to lament the skills and abilities of women drivers.

The day did end on a happy, or at the very least, amusing, note. My husband, two youngest children and I ventured to Wal-Mart tonight to look for birthday party invitations. This was a failed mission-the birthday boy, oddly enough, did not want Barbie themed invites.. That aside though, while Rhett, who is 4, and I waited for our shopping companions to return from a trip to the cold medication aisle, he shared some important information. He turned to me and said: "Mom, during the day when sometimes my penis gets stuck to my leg, I just do this." And with that he proceeded to spread his legs and squat a little. This was said matter-of-factly and without pomp or circumstance. I was left to reply with a smile and a "ok".

Shit that which disturbs me....

The Sound of ...Team Work

2011-12-22T06:45:00.000-08:00

Christmas is nearly upon us and I am filled with a light-hearted spirit lending me only patience and a carefree attitude befit Fraulein Maria in the infamous Sound of Music.

If you believe that, you should probably stop reading here.

Let's start with this morning, shall we? This morning is the first day of Christmas holidays for all of the children. We literally have nowhere to be until noon and I am the only one leaving at noon for lunch with 'Stacey'. As a refresher Stacey returned to work in August and now we never see each other except in frantic bursts of texting and at school events where we have to catch up on our special brand of relationship comprised also of a good amount of bitching, lamenting our personal weight struggles while simultaneously ingesting chips (she) and peanut butter cups (I), and most importantly, laughter.

Anyway, my children, my body and my pets do not embrace sleeping in. One of my cats has me considering having her vocal cords removed. I refused to have my cats declawed as I think it's rather inhumane and unnecessary-after all they shit and vomit all over my house when the mood strikes so what the fuck is the difference if my furniture is in shreds? Anyway, said cat began her strike by scratching at the bedroom door to get in after my husband left for work and shut her out of the bedroom. I let her in. Then as I was gratefully drifting back to sleep? She wanted out again. More scratching. Why not just leave the door open? Because then fucking Chewbacca (our dog Chuy, in desperate need of a haircut but no less debonair in his Christmas sweater) will come barreling in with his little piglet body and first attempt to jump on my bed and then, if unsuccessful, which is very likely given his rotund shape and short legs, will piss on the floor.

So I got up and let her out.

Tried again to get comfortable and not let the rage interfere with drifting back to sleep.

Enter 4 year old. "Can I sleep with you Mom?" Yes. Of course you can.

Fidget fidget fidget, rustle rustle, whisper, soft singing...."If you're going to talk you need to go downstairs."

He left.

Third attempt to go back to sleep. Should add through all of this the cat has set up shop in the dining room and is meowing repeatedly. Trying to pretend I have a penis and therefore the most excellent of selective hearing and ignoring techniques.

Fail.

Cat returns to the bedroom. She is silent but not opposed to placing her butt directly in front of my face.

Need to use the bathroom.

Consider getting back into bed but know it's of no use. Headache has kicked in and should I return to bed and maybe fall back to sleep, will only dream of random idiotic things and wake up feeling worse.

It's 7 a.m.

Come downstairs and ask 7 year old why he thinks the cat is losing her mind. It is his job to feed the pets. It has been for nearly six months now but like all of my children, he needs to be reminded on a daily basis. He does not take kindly to this reminder and gives me a look I have given many a co-worker back in the day at the Fucknut Factory. Together, equally irritated with each other and the situation at hand, we feed the pets.

This week has brought many wonderful opportunities for team work in our household. For instance, on my way home from shopping Tuesday I texted home to ask a small favour. You see, last week I baked cookies. A lot of sugar cookies. From that batch I carefully selected the best 24. There are 23 children and one teacher (who likely doesn't eat cookies or anything carbohydrate based and therefore does not appear to have back fat, but whatever, I bet she gets cold real easy) in my 7 year old's class. I enjoy sending baking for whatever occasion may befall the children throughout the year. My mom did it for me and I loved it so enjoy carrying this tradition on.

The favour? Please take said carefully chosen cookies out of the freezer so I may lovingly decorate them with coloured icing and sprinkles. I am exhausted but it's no big deal. The cookies just need to be decorated, I can do it.

Wait, what? Oh, ha ha ha ha-that Steven (17 year old) is so darn funny! He's pretending he ate those cookies. What a jokester! Ah, so nice that my children have inherited my stellar sense of humour. Okay, joke's over. Just take the cookies out. Hmmm. He's really not giving up on this. Perhaps I'll call home and we'll have a chuckle about it!

What's that? Not joking? I'm not chuckling now. Yes, we have Cream of "TAR-TAR" (I've never heard anyone pronounce it with so much emphasis on the syllables before but maybe it was his nerves because I swear to God and all that's holy, that kids testicles were somewhere in his throat due to sheer terror). That's not the recipe I use and what the HELL POSSESSED YOU TO EAT 24 FROZEN SUGAR COOKIES?

Team work abounded. Just like Santa's elves we were. I showed him the recipe I do use and he proceeded to mix the dough, then do the dishes, then stay the fuck out of my way and be a very well behaved boy in general. Perhaps he was concerned Santa was watching and he would be getting a lump of coal. Although on that particular evening Santa may have forgone the coal and just given him a swift kick in the ass.

In closing, the holidays really do bring families closer...and in saying so, I mustn't forget to get to the Liquor Store today.

Season's Greetings!

Turn that Frown Upside Down

2011-11-16T15:42:00.001-08:00

I, by nature, am not a positive person. I may even be the very definition of negativity, cynicism and pessimism. On any given day I would tell you that I am none of these things but that I simply choose to live within the realm of reality. Reality is not easy or sunshiny or full of lollipops and laughter. At least not most of the time. There are those rare moments where I, at least, think life is good. Like when I'm sitting around the table with my four kids and my husband and we are all laughing and joking and getting along. When one of my friends does something so thoughtful and kind that I can't believe my good luck and fortune to have friends like those I do have.

Today though, the cup wasn't only half empty for me, it was broken. It was smashed and I cut myself on the fucking glass. I threw myself a massive pity party. To what avail? None really.

My husband joined the party and we both lamented how the only luck we ever have is bad. We lamented our lack of financial freedom. We lamented the fact we will not likely take a vacation alone together until sometime in 2025. I lamented the fact that we are currently trying to lose weight and therefore I could not cope my shoving my face full of anything and everything sugar/chocolate based.

We bitched. Together. Joined in misery. And then in one moment of clarity, I asked him what can we do to make it better? And being that we were in the mindset we were in, the answer was "nothing". Leaving me feeling trapped. That trapped feeling generally leads to panic and despair for me because it reminds me so much of my Fucknut Factory days.

The reality is I'm not trapped. I wasn't then either.

The reality is I am lucky.

No, I don't have "enough" money. Enough in the sense that I can't spend at will and have to live on a budget that isn't always big enough. That "not big enough" budget does feed our family though. It provides us with a roof over our heads, two vehicles to drive and a number of other things that would be considered luxuries by many less fortunate.

No, Ryan and I will not be vacationing together, alone, anytime soon. But big deal. In ten or 15 years, we can and we will only be 50-ish and with hard work, we will be able to go where we choose. We will be able to help our children if they need it, we will be able to travel at will to where ever our children and their respective families are to visit them, often.

No, I cannot eat whatever I want. I should not eat whatever I want and I definitely should not do so when feeling angry, sad, frustrated or "trapped". It will only make me feel worse.

So instead, on my drive home today after buying not one, but two water heaters after some miscommunication, I tried to think of things to be positive about instead of the craptacular couple of days I have had.

This is what I came up with:

I have four healthy fantastic children and I like all of them (see below).

I love my husband. (Some of you may say that goes without saying, but I can tell you from experience, it does not).

Come to think of it, he loves me too. At least as far as I know he does. We haven't really spoken since I hung up on him earlier today...have I mentioned my tendency toward impatience and my temper yet today?

I have great friends.

In the words of my four year old: "I have a big house, a garage (which is actually a shed but he calls it a garage), a good shed (the second smaller shed-we are fucking shed-tycoons around here), and a great big back yard."

I am able to work from home.

I found lia sophia in August 2010 and just about every week, if not sometimes, every day, it brings some good into my life.

I don't work at the Fucknut Factory anymore.

I have more jewellery now then I ever dreamed I would! And to boot, I make money for our family with it!

Oh and watching what I'm eating has led to the loss of 6 lbs to date.

I should add a disclaimer here that I am PMSing. The mood swings are pretty apparent in this post alone. The mood swings and emotional instability were even more apparent earlier today when I sobbed out of anger and frustration on my way to Regina and nearly cried after leaving Lowe's where I purchased said water heaters because everyone there was so nice to me. This is something else I'm grateful for. Bad customer service is the worst, and so it goes, good customer service is the best. A big shout out to Patrick at Lowe's for loading, unloading and then re-loading numerous water heaters in and out of my truck today!

Bottom line is, two very wise women advised me to "stay positive" today. As luck would have it, I met both of these girls through lia sophia (more positive good luck kind of stuff!). So this is me, trying to stay positive. It is not easy. Given my hormonal state I would still prefer to be left alone with a 26 of vodka and a bag of peanut butter cups but I will choose to be proactive rather than reactive! Control what I can control! Turn that fucking frown upside down!

Pollyanna out.

Chapped Lips & a Perm

2011-10-27T18:24:00.000-07:00

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.

SAH-PRIZE, SAH-PRIZE.

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.

Better

2011-10-17T18:04:00.000-07:00

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?

Nothing.

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.

Assholes & Cowards

2011-10-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Pretty

2011-10-01T18:19:00.000-07:00

I am not the blogger I used to be. I think about writing all of the time and how proud I used to be of it and thought that it was definitely what I was meant to do and that it would be wrong of me to waste this 'talent'. Then life happened.

So here are a few observations so I can at least feel like I'm not ignoring writing. I guess I feel guilty when I don't write because for the last year or so I was at the now semi-infamous Fucknut Factory, writing was my salvation. No more FF and I guess my need to be saved has diminished.

Enough Deep Thoughts though, instead I'd like to share a revelation I had earlier this evening. Our cat, Melody, has developed a stomach/digestive ailment of sorts and this means when she eats dry cat food, she vomits. She can handle wet food and the tiniest rationed bits of dry cat food and that is what I try to give her. However, she has always been a pig and often helps herself to our other cat, Callie's, food. This inevitably makes her vomit. Almost immediately. I, for the life of me, cannot understand why this animal cannot figure out the connection there. I was admonishing her for this earlier while I cleaned up yet another fresh pile of vomit.

Then it dawned on me. Last weekend I drank to excess. I did not vomit but did briefly consider a medically induced coma or something along those lines to make the hangover go away. It was not the first time I've drank to excess and it definitely was not the first time I've been hungover and as on a scale of 1 to 10, as far as my hangover history goes, this one was maybe only a 5. And yet, I choose, on occasion, repeatedly, to drink too much full well knowing I could very likely feel like death the next day.

The cat likes the food, so she eats it, I believe, knowing she's going to vomit and maybe hoping she won't. This is very similar to my approach to Vodka. I drink it, because I like it and know I won't feel well the next day but do always hold out hope that the right combination of water, food and over the counter pain medication will stave off an impending hangover.

Bottom line: the cat and I have the same thought process and behaviour pattern when it comes to things we like. So either she is very sophisticated and/or a dry cat food addict or I'm just a dumb ass.

I think we all know where the truth lies. At least when it comes to Vodka and myself.

Sigh.

Other observations? I'm gaining weight like a mother trucker. I will be honest and admit I always saw overweight women as victims of their lives. Too busy taking care of others to take care of themselves. I was always a little proud that I had not fell victim to such a self destructive sad pattern.

Then, earlier this month, my uncle died and I refuse to get on a scale. It's been exactly one month since he died and likely at least five pounds. I am not making light of his death. It's been difficult and I am learning that I don't particularly enjoy adulthood in this sense and would like to go back to being a naive child of the family. Instead I've had to step up and take the lead. I am the executor of his will; I am the only person living in any proximity with a driver's license and the wherewithal to get shit done and further to that, he chose me and I refuse to let him down.

That being said, I'm pretty sure he didn't anticipate my self-medication with anything comprised of sugar, salt, preservatives and mass quantities of it. I, it seems, for the time being, may have turned into that person who is looking after everyone else but herself.

My daughter reminds me exercise is good for stress relief and I know that and I'm turning 35 in six months and I would like to look and feel good when I hit that milestone. Some of you think 35 is no big deal but whatever, it's a marker for me and this is what I want. However, lately, when I am not working, parenting, managing my home, his home and life in general, I watch TV. I watch TV while eating cookies. Or chocolate. Or chips. Or liquorice. And maybe drinking pop. Any combination of these things, really. And therefore, Sir Chubs A Lot here, is finding her clothes more than a little tight. Which is annoying.

When I become excessively stressed, I lose weight. I can't eat. So maybe this is a good sign that I am coping slightly better than I might have imagined. Although the vain shallow side of me wishes I couldn't eat. Wishes I could live on coffee and cigarettes alone. I quit smoking nine years ago but two days after he died, I had one. It tasted very good. However within minutes of finishing it, I was lightheaded and couldn't stand the way I smelled. Fuck.

I am really useless when it comes to all crutches with the exception of food.

So to sum things up, I am addressing guilt regarding writing with this post, so please honour it accordingly. I am not any smarter than my cat and pretty soon, she and I will have the same nickname. We used to call her "Fatty" before her stomach turned on her and pretty soon, if I don't get my shit together, I'll be answering to the same.

Oh well, at least we're both pretty.

Remembering

2011-09-13T21:00:00.000-07:00

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.

One Bike & a Ball Short

2011-08-30T20:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Darn.

2011-08-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

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?

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?

No.

Darn.

The Church of Penny Lane

2011-08-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

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.

yay.

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.

Summer Hiatus

2011-08-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

I realized the other day it's nearly been a month since my last post. Why, you ask? A lot of reasons. On July 13th I left for Toronto. My first real trip anywhere and it was business and pleasure! I sell lia sophia jewellery and the trip to Toronto was to attend the conference. Which was amazing! I also got to be a tourist for a day and a half which was beyond great.

I don't go anywhere except Regina, Saskatoon and back when I still worked for the infamous Fucknut Factory, I went to a multitude of small towns in Southern Saskatchewan. Towns where being openly racist and homophobic is still widely accepted. As are home perms.

So Toronto? Was a welcome change. I walked all over. I bought new shoes whilst walking and managed to mangle the hell out of my feet only to wear heels for the rest of the actual conference. I exhausted myself but came back inspired in regards to my business and life.

Some of you just vomited a little in your mouth. You're wondering who this sappy happy full of sunshine and light woman is. You are aching for me to say something mean. I don't think I can, not today anyway.

So I came back full of renewed purpose, drive and blisters (only on my feet-I should probably clarify that. No one wants to come back from a holiday, conference or otherwise with blisters anywhere but their feet. Unless it's from a sunburn, I guess.) I have been a busy girl since then. First I had to re-learn to walk on my now club foot. It has since returned to normal but slowed a girl down for about a week. Then I had to try and sleep. I returned to a serious heat wave. We don't have air conditioning. Our bedrooms are all on the second floor of our 'estate'. Sleep was quite elusive.

Then I set to work. Work on lia sophia, regular work, getting my house and life back on track after being gone for 4 days.

Things are now a little more settled and so, I think, I'm back!

My four year old continues to make life interesting and open up the world to me a little at a time. Here is a snippet of a recent conversation:

Rhett: You are not the boss of me.

Me: Actually, yes, yes I am.

Rhett: No, Jesus is.

We do not attend church. I have attended church a handful of times and went to Bible Camp as a child. Rhett, to date, has not set foot in a church and used to refer to the one downtown as "Santa's Castle".

Me: Who says?

Rhett: I do.

Time to try a different approach.

Me: Who is Jesus?

Rhett: Jesus rode his bike up, he rode his bike down and then he died.

Me: Okay.

Was there any other response? I didn't have one. Later I shared this story with my daughter who has been to church a lot more than I and also has attended Bible Camp. I also shared it with my husband who was more determined than I, out of pure curiousity, to determine where Rhett's new found boss had come from.

We learned it was from his friends at daycare. This did not surprise me. My children are one of the about 5 that don't attend the Catholic School less than a block from the daycare. We are heathens and apparently the children are attempting to save my son.

Ryan, my husband, came up with this stellar response: "Well, I'm God, and God is the boss of Jesus, so I'm the boss of you."

Now, we don't attend church or say Grace or really mention the Lord around here except to take his name in vain. Remember, we are heathens. That being said, as a very small child my Grandma made sure I attended Sunday School and when we moved, she arranged for Sunday School by correspondence. I prayed nightly before bed until I was probably 10. I attended the aforementioned Bible Camp. My other Grandma is Catholic and I've been to Mass with her once or twice. So, while I'm not sure I entirely buy into the whole Jesus 'thing', I have some modicum of respect for it. Which led me to ask Ryan to correct himself and let Rhett know he is not God.

Sigh.

Jesus has since popped up in conversation a few times. This makes me wonder if Rhett will be a little more interested at Christmas when I do the perfunctory reading of the Golden Book version of the Christmas Story. I have some sort of guilt that my younger children have no concept of the original meaning behind Christmas and so read this to them. They don't really get into it, but maybe this year...

Further wisdom from Rhett? "You're brain is in your nose Mom. Feel it." He said this with his finger in his nose. Dead serious. I declined but can only imagine or maybe hope he is refering to the structure of his nose and not the contents.

In summary, I'm having a pretty great summer; Jesus has joined us, I can now touch my brain whenever I feel the urge. Who's jealous?

National Holidays & Altercations at Super Wal-Mart

2011-07-01T19:52:00.000-07:00

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!

Cookie Monster is Not to Blame

2011-06-27T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Shave My Back, Ferris

2011-06-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Hm.

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...

Winning!

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.

CABS ARE HERE!!

Cherry Pie Worship

2011-06-17T09:36:00.000-07:00

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 ex-husband...so 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....

Wet Dreams & Dead Cats, Oh My

2011-06-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

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.

What.

The.

Fuck.

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...

Right?

Bouncy Balls are the Devil's Work

2011-06-13T09:29:00.000-07:00

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.

I'm Not Your Bitch

2011-06-08T19:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Mood Swing Martha is Going to Toronto!

2011-06-07T17:22:00.000-07:00

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?

Detour, Again

2011-06-06T12:57:00.000-07:00

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

Penis Benefits & Dinner Ideas

2011-06-01T18:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Memories

2011-05-30T10:43:00.000-07:00

Please note the date here people...I originally wrote this post almost exactly one year ago. However, as a treat, I am providing with a quick trip down Memory Lane. Back to the days when I was imprisoned by the infamous Fucknut Factory. Please do enjoy.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Delirium

I went on yet another work-related road trip today. By myself. This time I went to Prince Albert which is a good 3 1/2 hour drive from Moose Jaw. I was driving a precious little Cavalier again so had nothing but the radio to bide my time with. The crazy set in, just a little at a time. It began with a rousing solo sing-a-long to 'American Pie' by Don McLean. It had been a long time since I heard that one but you'll all be glad to know I still know most of the words. Then I became inexplicably excited at spotting a fox. Yes, a fox. Although the way he was trotting along the railroad tracks kind of reminded me of the 'The Littlest Hobo'. If you didn't grow up in rural Saskatchewan and/or you had cable, this means nothing to you. However, if you did grow up in the aforementioned place under the aforementioned circumstance, you know what I'm talking about. And you like it. "I'll just keep moving on". And then Littlest Hobo would crack a murder case. He was a dog.

Sorry, it's been a long day.

Okay, so I had my usual musings about the tons of cattle and the motives behind their actions. Tried to figure out whether the moose-like animals I saw were actually moose and if they were on a moose farm or free moose.

This is really mild in comparison with where the rest of the day took me. After I completed work in P.A. I travelled home through Saskatoon. I surprised my nearly 87 year old Grandma with a visit. Probably not a great idea to surprise her too often at this stage of the game but judging by the sheer brute strength with which she hugged me, she can take it. Grandma's apartment, for maybe the first time ever, smelled a little Grandma-ish. But hey, what can you do? What I liked is the tube of pomade she had in her bathroom. If you knew my Grandma, you'd know her favourite 'do is what we, in the family, refer to as the "wet wave". It's a style similar to that worn by young men in the 1920s. She was born in 1923, so fair is fair, I guess. And it's kind of her go-to 'do in between visits to the salon. Point being, pomade is likely unnecessary.

Then I stopped at my Uncle Steve's. Had a nice, but short, visit with him. Before I left he gave me a harmonica to give to my son, Steven. For those of you following along, yes, they have the same name, and yes that's on purpose. So guess what this lady did for a short period of time whilst driving back. If you guessed 'attempted to play the harmonica', you are correct! Turns out, I'm not good at it. Not sure if anyone noticed the woman attempting to play the harmonica while driving, but I can only venture to guess what they may have thought.

Then I got really worked up by an old Alabama song and sang along with wild abandon. I texted my daughter. Shame, shame, I know. And when I would look up and note I was headed for the shoulder, I giggled.

Nothing, though, nothing explains my need to eat like a 15 year old boy while on a road trip. I started the day like an adult with a banana and a coffee. Then at my first bathroom break stop I couldn't find anything really appetizing so settled on a puffed wheat and Rice Krispie snack thing. I actually threw the Rice Krispie part away because it tasted like ass. Then in P. A. I thought it best to stop at Wendy's and get a Baconator meal and eat the ass out of it. The only thing I have to say in my defense is I only got a single. However after finishing the entire meal within four minutes, tops, I was bloated. Who knew? So I was pretty full for awhile but about an hour away from home I was parched and stopped for a drink. So then upon looking around I decided the sensible choice for 'dinner' would be a giant strip of beef jerky and a bag of chocolate covered pretzels. Oh yeah, and a 30 calorie Gatorade. Because you know, all my other choices were totally calorie-conscious.

Then the woman working there asked me: "Do you have fuel?" and before I left she asked the next customer as well. I thought about how she chose to word that and then got the giggles at the prospect of her asking people, especially me: "Do you have gas?" God, I wish she would've asked me that. It's probably for the best she didn't though.

On the bright side, I finally got my very own copy of My Fair Lazy by the lovely, Jen Lancaster. Would've had it sooner if I didn't live in a town that is 'Surprisingly Unexpected'. That's our slogan. I think it means: you'll be surprised at how slow everyone drives in this town and at how difficult it is to come by new literature.

Now it's time to eat the chocolate bar I've saved for TV watching tonight. Surprisingly, I don't weigh 200 lbs. Yet. Nor do I weight 144 lbs., which we established last time I went to P. A. Nor will I tell you what I do weigh; nor will you guess. Topic is never up for discussion. End of story.

mmm, Clark bar....

Soapbox

2011-05-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

I am going to attempt to tread carefully and lightly here. I think we all know my reputation for that sort of behaviour but try try again.

Here in Saskatchewan the teachers are on strike. They took job action yesterday and today and it sounds like there is more to come. I do not begrudge them their right to strike.

I am irritated at present because I just had a call from my oldest son's teacher about their upcoming, been planned for three months now, Outdoor Ed. biking trip. It is being cut short as a result of the job action. I am not holding the teachers involved at fault. I'm not holding the government at fault. I am, however, irritated and slightly bitter.

I could never be a teacher. I don't want their job nor do I think I can do their job. Especially with Elementary School aged children. However, I heard from a number of teachers, over the 10 years I did Child Protection/Family Services, how they could never do my job either. And they were right.

As a Child Protection worker, I was never given the luxury of a day each month for Professional Development. I got four weeks holidays after having been there for 8 years. I officially worked 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. but often, I worked through lunch and well into the evening. For no extra pay. I put myself in what were often times dangerous situations because that is what the job calls for. Yet, time and time again, with the Union's help, Social Workers were treated to 'raises' along the lines of 0, 1 and 1. Yep, 0% raise. To add to that, teachers are widely applauded and respected for their work, as well they should be. Child Protection workers are not.

Child Protection workers are typically treated as pariahs who look for any excuse to take someones child away. Like we get some kind of thrill from it.

Child Protection workers are not allowed staff retreats, at least not those held in public places because of public perception. Child Protection workers get in-house training maybe three times a year that is typically irrelevant and useless. I'm not being harsh, that's simply the truth. Any of the "good" training that is offered is usually limited to one or two people from each office.

Some social workers are on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Which means they may miss Christmas morning, day or supper with their families. They might have to leave a birthday party or miss any number of family events. They are sometimes, if not more often, in dangerous situations armed with nothing more than a five year old cellphone and day timer.

So while I support every person's right to strike and to make their demands known, I think it's about time people took a closer look. People love nothing more than to bash Social Services and mistakes made. It's great gossip. It is one of the hardest jobs out there with what amounts to likely the least respect and recognition, both publicly and in-house.

And while I'm on my soapbox, let's talk about Child care (daycare) workers. In the past weeks I have heard teachers be compared to nurses, social workers and child care workers. Child care workers, especially those who run home day cares, barely make minimum wage, if that. And when those same workers want to take holidays, like anyone else does who works, they are often met with annoyed parents who wonder, how dare they? We leave our children with these people and expect them to care for them like their own, protect them and nurture them, but we don't want to pay for it. Again, I'm speaking in generalities but it's true.

So strike away. I hope you get a raise. If you get your 16% over three years, kudos to you and your union because it's far better equipped than the one I used to belong too.

And to the under appreciated social workers out there: You rock. You work harder than most people can even fathom. You keep children safe at the risk of your own well-being. You care. More than most. Don't let anyone take you for granted and don't be quiet. (Just remember not to write anything down...we all know where that gets you!)

To childcare workers: Thank You. Thank You for helping me care for each of my four children and doing a good job of it. Thank You for treating them as your own and having the patience to help them craft me gifts out of construction paper and glue.

To teachers: Thank You. Some of are fantastic, some are not. That goes for social workers and child care workers too. But I will say, to those of you that are fantastic, Thank You. To those of you who get the raise but don't deserve it?

I've really been working on my "If I don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" bit, so yeah, I'm out.

Sausage Fingers is Where I Draw the Line

2011-05-24T21:13:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-22T18:20:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-18T22:09:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-16T20:26:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-09T14:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Smoking the Grass While His Penis Watches

2011-05-06T10:05:00.000-07:00

The Snot Fairy visited me last night. Sometime around 8 p.m. was when she (or he?) arrived. Which was awesome because I was on a conference call for work. I'm sure everyone loved hearing my disgusting snorts and snuffles and attempts to muffle my nose blowing. I thought maybe it was just my allergies. I thought wrong.

I woke up this morning with my sinuses feeling like they were filled with cement and have not stopped producing ginormous sickening quantities of mucous despite having taken Buckley's and Advil Cold & Sinus. Buckley's burns. And not in a good way. In a way that requires I take a few deep breaths between spoonfuls so as not to vomit. Has anyone here ever puked up Buckley's? That would be horrific.

I have done some housework, checked my emails and am pretty much trying to function like my head does not weigh 18 pounds. This has not proved easy.

Highlights of the day include:

Driving my daughter to school and having her tell me that I used to be ridiculously angry when I worked at Fucknut Factory but now "(I) don't care about anything and might as well start smoking THE grass". She didn't emphasize' the', I did. Because number one, a 14 year old who refers to smoking weed or marijuana as "smoking the grass" does not smoke it. Score one for me. Secondly, apparently not being in a constant state of rage, tension and anxiety gives the impression I no longer care. About anything. Have I mentioned yet how much fun it is parenting an adolescent female?

Bathing my almost four year old and sitting next to the tub, while it's filling, and having him tell me that his penis is watching me. I couldn't make this up. Because he was in the tub, his penis was floating and pointing upward. Therefore, this meant it was apparently watching me and I was expected to acknowledge this. I left the room shortly after this exchange.

I have yet to brush my teeth or wash my face nor can I breathe through my left nostril. I'm giving JLo a run for her money in terms of sheer sex appeal.

I just want to sleep but there is no time for that. There is time only to parent, work, attend a meeting tonight, work a fundraiser tomorrow, watch a ball game, do a jewellery party, then work a fundraiser on Sunday from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. That's what there is time for.

Living large, not caring about a thing and trying to find someone who'll sell me the grass. TGIF.

Hideous Holes

2011-05-03T19:52:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-02T08:56:00.000-07:00

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.

A Blast From the Past

2011-05-01T20:09:00.000-07:00

This was written in June 2010. It was part of my blog: Searching. The one I had to end after being busted at work about it. So please keep this in mind, it was written nearly a year ago. I don't work there anymore. Go back and read 'You're Welome, Fish Belly' for further clarification.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Fish Bellies & Gold Stars

I think I'm actually just a big pussy. I can't even look my supervisor or her supervisor (my ultimate superior) in the eye right now because I hate them both with every fibre of my being. Which sucks. Because eventually, like tomorrow, I'm going to have to talk to ol' Fish Belly herself for work purposes. As an aside, I've recently nicknamed her Fish Belly because a) sometimes her tops are either too short, too tight, or both and I catch random little glimpses of her not overly toned but overly white belly and b) it makes me laugh. Anyway, tomorrow I know Fish Belly is finally going to buck up and approach me for conversation. She has currently not spoken directly to or looked at me since Friday. That's the day she sent me on a 7 hour road trip with no plan; told me to "watch my time" as in "don't be getting overtime"; and whined at the office about having to manage a different work issue for me, while I was gone. Whore. I got home at 9:30 that night. Then yesterday I had to go to Regina to continue managing the issue she pretended to on Friday, then today I had to go back again, as well as to Tugaske (don't worry if you don't know where that is; the 18 people who live there don't mind). This meant I was travelling from 11 a.m. to just about 5 p.m. again today.
While driving I have random bouts of Tourette's related to road rage. For example: Fuck Shit FUCK WHORE! Then after I get that out, I giggle, because seriously, I need help or at least a break from all the travelling. The other thing I do is fantasize about telling people off. Namely Fish Belly and her higher up, the Supreme Being herself, Gold Star. I just decided right now to officially begin referring to her as Gold Star. I am convinced somewhere there is a chart and this bitch is on fire when it comes to having the most Gold Stars and not in a cute Rachel Berry Glee kind of way but in a sick sad eventually she'll be in a nursing home muttering about gold stars in the corner while petting a cushion kind of way.

So I come up with all kinds of wickedly awesome retorts for Fish Belly and Gold Star but when given the opportunity to speak with either of them, I choose to go in the opposite direction. Pussy. The issue is I'm slightly afraid to start because I don't know if I'll be able to stop. Depending on how choked I am when I finally have to speak with Fish Belly, in particular, I'm afraid I may just go off the deep end. Which then, I guess at least I might get stress leave for the summer. Or she'll just pat me on the head, be defensive and throw some of her new vocab words at me. Fish Belly is obsessed with vocabulary in an attempt to sound well-read.
Gold Star and I seem to have reached a mutual dislike. This came to a head last Monday. Now I don't want to look at her either. Uggg, I don't want to look at any of them.
On the bright side, (I know, who knew I had a bright side?), this motivates me to pursue my dream of actually writing a book. I'm just not sure where to start. I'd like to blow the cover off the whole operation at the Fucknut Factory, and like be all hard core with my cutting edge journalism, but in reality, I just want to make people laugh and have them enjoy reading whatever it is I write.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Hardcore get fired from my job journalism or angry cynic with a humorous touch? Let me know and I'll keep you posted about Fish Belly and the Supreme Being that is Gold Star.

Never Say Never

2011-04-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

Today I found myself cruising the streets of Moose Jaw with Justin Bieber music blaring from the windows of my silver cross-over vehicle which is basically a minivan trying not be a minivan.

Yeah. I'm cool like that.

Why Bieber? Because I have a 7 year old boy who has discovered Bieber and thinks he is God's answer to music. His favourite song is 'Never Say Never'. If you don't have either a small child or a teenage daughter and/or you live under a rock, this is a song Bieber did with Jaden Smith and it's from the movie 'Karate Kid'.

So yes. Three times we listened to it today. All the while I reminded myself that there was a time I possessed a Milli Vanilli tape and thought it was AWESOME... We all have our moments. So I support his Justin Bieber fanaticism at present. At the very least he loves music and that's all I ask of any of my children.

What else should I write about?

Acting like an elderly woman on the brink of Alzheimer's? I was looking for my black work binder today. This led me to even checking my vehicle. Which led to me cleaning and organizing my pretend crossover vehicle. Which led me back in the house, hot and sweaty and I slumped down in my chair and wondered what the fuck I did with it and was slightly panicked. Then I looked to my right. And there it was. On top of my black printer. Which may or may not be located a mere foot away from my laptop. The whole time.

And it was Easter this weekend. Easter. How do we as society, who largely revolts against any sort of organized religion come together in such a wild frenzy of sugar and a, so I've been told, pretend Rabbit? We are not a religious family. My two youngest children know very little about Jesus. I think they know his 'last name' is Christ and that when I use His full name, I'm not impressed and I will be equally unimpressed if they choose to use His name in a moment of displeasure. And I have told them, I think, that Christmas is His birthday. But to connect Jesus with the Easter Bunny would never happen for them. I'm not even sure how Christians make the connection. What does a giant chocolate egg shitting rabbit have to do with the resurrection of Our Lord and Saviour? Why does he hide the eggs/candy? What's his deal? Santa Claus has the decency to celebrate the Lord's birth by bringing gifts and placing them in plain sight. In socks. Who decided that? None of this makes sense to me.

Instead I find myself exhausted at the end. Christmas is especially difficult. There are weeks of preparation involved and the day itself is a never ending stream of celebrating and cleaning and eating and then more cleaning. And not enough sleep. And oh, it's a time to spend with family and friends. As Easter is.

Super. Friends are super. Families have dynamics. They can be super. Super dynamics or super good times but why do we all decide that on this particular date we need to get together. What's wrong with July 17th? Nope. No way. There are no fictional characters bringing shit for anybody and so we will not eat together. It's not acceptable to celebrate as a family unless we are in the midst of commercializing a previously largely Christian/religious celebration.

Sigh, I sound bitter. Ha! I almost typed I "shound" bitter. Which may be more appropriate as I've nearly finished my second glass of wine.

Happy Easter Mothertruckers.

Does Don Cherry Suck it In?

2011-04-18T20:46:00.000-07:00

I like Don Cherry's jackets. Don't know who Don Cherry is? Well come on over to my house. All we are watching right now are NHL play offs. My husband excitedly shares scores with me and all kinds of interesting hockey-based facts on an almost hourly basis.

It's great. My very own Cliff Claven.

Which is probably why I felt compelled to eat a Reese Peanut Butter Bar and 20 five-cent candies while I read an In Touch magazine tonight. Not just any In Touch but an In Touch featuring a very pregnant Mariah Carey on the cover.

I hate Mariah Carey.

However, given she's 9 months pregnant with twins and I'm bloated (maybe due to the excessive candy and dairy intake; dairy because I am clearly unable to consume candy without milk, a giant glass of milk), the resemblance between her abdomen and mine is sadly very striking. She's got two babies in there. I don't.

My 17 year old is currently on the floor in front of me showing me some ab exercises he's learned in his Outdoor Ed. class. Core builders. My core is soft. The most exercise my abs have had as of late was this weekend. Saturday night I was at a party and Sunday I did a jewellery show. Both of these things required dressing like an adult. An adult who doesn't live in hooded sweatshirts and elastic waisted pants. So when this gal gets all gussied up like a woman, in public, she must suck in. At. All. Times. I swear to God I've been sucking in since I hit puberty. I was sucking in before I needed to suck in.

And for this I'm grateful. Because despite having had four children and eating copious amounts of carbohydrates, sugar and drinking equally copious amounts of vodka, I do not have a visible gut. Sometimes I catch myself sucking in without even realizing I'm doing it. It's second nature.

Fuck you Spanx. Spanks? I don't know how to spell that and am not feeling inclined to Google it.

That's right, I have chicken legs, so don't require any spandex type of control garment there and 20 years or so of unconscious sucking in has allowed me to maintain some control of my abdomen.

Except for right now, of course. I am not sucking in right now. So right now I very much look like someone who has a long standing love affair with anything sold at 7-11 and who has birthed four children.

Come to think of it, so does Don Cherry. And they pile so much make up on that poor man thanks to HD, that he's a rather unsettling shade.

See how that came full circle? You're welcome.

TLC vs. The Leader's Debate...Winner?

2011-04-12T19:38:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the lack of posting as of late. I'm busy. And short on ideas. Which means things are kind of good and kind of bad. Good in that there is nothing happening to fuel any anger-filled ranting posts and bad in nothing funny is happening either and some days seem hard but I don't want to write depressing posts and therefore, I write nothing.

Then I feel guilty. Or I read someone else's great post and I want to write. I still don't know about what. I watched maybe half of the Leaders Debate tonight. Canadians will be heading back to the polls May 2. Our last election wasn't very long ago. Our choices are the droid who is currently in office, a highly unlikeable and stiff man who proclaimed to like the States better and I fear only returned to Canada because he thought he'd have a better chance of getting in office here (which turns out to not be the case) and a likable enough guy who doesn't hold a lot of political clout. Likely because he presents as someone who wants everyone to like him. There is also the leader of the Bloc Quebecois. He made some good points and looked mean and was enjoyable to listen to because of his strong French accent which is unlike any I've heard before.

I have no desire to vote for the droid currently in office. Wait! I forgot to mention that the one female candidate was not allowed to vote. I'm a poor PoliSci study though and can't really remember why she's not allowed in, but I think it likely has to do with her having a vagina and a b-r-a-i-n.

After the debate I did homework with my 7 year old. Those of you with young children or who've ever had young children will no doubt remember the joys of reading out loud with them. It's even better when said child is in French Immersion, which was your choice, but leaves you both sometimes and somewhat confused as to what the story might be about and the actual correct pronunciation. And it leaves you even more than a little weary of listening to your child read out loud. Yes, I love him and yes I'm very proud of him and to brag a little, he even reads above grade level. In French! So yay him! However, I will French kiss someone the day we are done with reading out loud. To clarify, I like reading to them. I'm not against reading. I clearly like words. Which is evidenced by my current inability to stop defending myself at present.

Then children in bed and I'm downstairs. TV on to TLC. A person doesn't even have to watch. Just listening to the programming and commercials is entertainment enough. TLC does not give anyone in North America a great vote of confidence when it comes to intelligence. Could it be more repetitive? Simplified? Addicting?

I'm sorry. I appear to be done. I'm being sucked into the Extreme Couponing vortex. What is wrong with these people? Where do they find the time? I'm tempted to make that weird sound people make while motioning as if stabbing someone. This little blond just pointed to her fliers and said, with more than a touch of crazy in her voice, "This is my money".

Um, okay. She clearly gets her make-up for free too.

Hello, Lover

2011-03-29T20:28:00.000-07:00

Today was a big girl day for me. I had a small meeting of sorts in Regina so dressed up in real pants, wore make-up and jewellery and heels. It also meant a small road trip. On the way into Regina, a forty minute drive, the roads were not great and so it was more than 40 minutes. I attempted to enjoy some Fleetwood Mac but was instead annoyed with the chickenshit in front of me driving what amounted to a child's red wagon and worried as I looked at the semi and four vehicles in the ditch. Did I really need to be on the road?

Maybe, maybe not, but I did get a free golf tee out of the trip and made it there and back safely.

I also was able to shop at Chapter's thanks to my mother and her one day early birthday gift of a gift card to said store. It was like being provided with a my very own hit of heroin! To be clear, I've never done heroin nor do I want to but those folks on Intervention seem to experience quite an intense high and this is how I feel when at Chapter's.

I am nothing if not hardcore.

I bought some books and a another notebook-y, to-do list agenda type of thing and still have a whole $5 left on the gift card. I then went to Starbucks and got a Caramel Macchiato and a brownie type of bar. And then I carried on home fueled by my two best friends, caffeine and sugar.

I literally have said: "Hello, Lover" to both coffee/chocolate items a few times in as many days. It's a line from Sex and the City uttered by Sarah Jessica Parker to shoes? a man? I don't remember and now my friends who are more devoted fans than I are rolling their eyes and silently shaming me.

The caffeine and sugar quickly kicked in and before I knew it I was performing a high-spirited rockin' rendition of 'Kiss with a Fist'. I do not know who sings it. I'm not even sure if that's the title. What I am sure of is how much I rocked at it and that someone should get it on film. I later switched gears and harmonized (snort) with Willie Nelson on his version of 'Always on My Mind'. There I sat crooning and swaying about how maybe "I didn't treat you as good as I should have" when I was prompted to shout "Cocksucker!" in a bout of Tourette's spurred by an asshole driver.

Seriously, when is someone going to outfit my vehicle with a camera? This is Jersey Shore material here. Except I will never ever be DTF on camera. Nor will I tan. I am vain and although I want to tan (not to Jersey Shore levels, mind you) I do not want to spark any further premature aging. My hair is already likely at least 40% grey; I do not need to add leathery skin to the mix. This is also why I carry around these extra five (twenty) pounds. To fill out the wrinkles and keep my skin looking soft and supple.

If you believe that? We should be friends.

For now it's off to scarf on some of the chocolate that accompanied my gift card today. Life is good.

Again, You Must Travel

2011-03-24T08:03:00.001-07:00

It's that oh so special week where one must travel over to PMS Chronicles to read my brilliant musings....

Common Denominator

2011-03-21T15:31:00.000-07:00

My children were recently given their report cards. The teenagers received theirs last week but only brought them home today. Not for the reason you'd think though. My first grader brought his home today.

The verdict? They are all geniuses and further to that, they have me to thank for excelling academically, socially, athletically and of course, for their looks.

I'm a winner.

Sorry.

So, let's back that up a bit. The teenagers share the same DNA. That is, their father was my first husband. The first grader, along with Rhett, the 3 year old, share the same father, my current (and forever) husband. So, when it comes down to how academically gifted they are? I appear to be the common denominator. It's basic math.

I'm smart. I will not comment on my ex-husband's level of intelligence, but will say, again, that I am intelligent. As are the two children born of that relationship. Ryan, my now and forever husband? Possesses more common sense than I. I have asked him some of the stupidest questions in the free world but they are never about things like literature or mathematics or biology. It's about time zones or hockey or something else basic that most people who are verbal can comprehend. That being said, when discussing Reese's report card, we are talking about academics, not time zones and he's smart. And so am I. Common Denominator.

Need I say more?

I may have gotten slightly carried away with the athletic part of things. In fact, I may have lied. I have to admit this should any of you ever witness any attempt I make to play volleyball, swim or skate. And forget baseball. The last time I attempted to play Slo-Pitch I nearly garnered a concussion playing catch. I treated the head injury with a jello shot and a cigarette though, so no permanent damage was done. Ah, to be 23 again...

Socially? Well that's all me again. At least when it comes to the two older children. My ex-husband is a nice enough person but contact with another human being often leaves him looking like a deer in the headlights. I know, I'm the one who married him...remember the lack of common sense plays a big part in some of the misguided choices I've made in life.

The little boys are in a different boat. The two older children are a nice balance of not knowing when to shut up (me) and not being able to speak aloud outside one's own home (ex). They are lovely people and well liked by peers, teachers and most people they meet. The little boys? Well they are 'blessed' with the gift of two very social parents. This, I fear, will spell big trouble in the years to come...should I still be blogging, their adolescent antics should provide enough fodder for an honest to goodness book.

And looks...well just take a look at my profile picture. Do you know anyone else besides myself and Steven Tyler who can rock a scarf like that?

And if you're at all taking this seriously you need to take a few minutes to go back and read up. I swear to God I'm not an actual egomaniac. Just of above average intelligence, looks and social skills. Oh, and I'm one hell of a writer!

Sinatra Inspires Shameful Confessions

2011-03-16T18:22:00.000-07:00

I am inspired and cheerful at present. My house smells like a fabulous combination of coconut and lemon instead of it's usual stench of pets and gas. 'Megamind' is on in the background and I so enjoy Will Ferrell. But this is not where it ends.

For my more faithful followers you may recall a longing I shared a few weeks back about a notebook. It is actually a journal. And? It is currently in my hot little hands. Did I strike it rich? Nope. I actually fondled said journals just last Wednesday when I was at Indigo Books in Saskatoon. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to engage in such a frivolous purchase and instead bought a discount book for $7.

Nope, friends, I now am in possession of these journals because of the many worthwhile connections I have made since moving to a city I once despised and swore I'd never live in.

Sinatra.

Not ringing any bells? Check this out; she is the thrower of the still un-contested most fabulous baby shower of all time.

I met Sinatra through 'Stacey'. They recently went to Vegas together and stumbled upon a giant rabbit. It was all very Hangover-ish.

Anyway, I went to swimming lessons tonight. Not for myself, for Rhett. We were nearly there when it was discovered we had forgotten his actual swimming trunks and towel. So back home we went. Once at the pool I nearly took off the poor kid's nose with his sweater while undressing him at mock speed. Got him in the water and went to join Sinatra, Stacey, and Sinatra's kind-but-elderly husband, George (not his real name, but George seems to embody a sweet befuddled-ness that comes only with age).

I was hot, frazzled and felt like ass.

Then, mere moments after sitting down, Sinatra presented me with not one, but two of the coveted journals.

It was all I could do but to stop myself from fondling these fresh new journals in an obscene and likely disturbing manner to the others seated on the bleachers. I was thrilled. The only thing missing were the Cosmos.

I was immediately inspired to blog and couldn't wait to get home to do so. I couldn't read the one with quotes in it on the way home because that would make me carsick (I'm a true nerd at heart) but I did hold them.

There is one other item worth mentioning here....I asked Ryan to take Rhett to change to prevent the ogling of women. Turns out he not only likes to observe women. Apparently while Rhett was changing, a man was as well. Said man was naked at one point. This led Rhett to observe, vocally, that this man, in fact, has the same penis as his dad. As in: "Dad, that guy has the same penis as you!" He, from the sounds of it, was quite pleased with this discovery. I am quite pleased Ryan has been able to share in some of the joys of parenting Rhett to the fullest.

"I don't have pet peeves, I have whole kennels of irritation." Whoopi Goldberg. I detest 'The View' as well as Whoopi on 'The View', but I like this very much. The journal is rife with quotes of similar nature. Guaranteed to make this bitch smile on the worst of days!

And so I shall write in it and come up with my own very quotable quotes.

And finally, as a small thank you to Sinatra, I will make a confession that nearly makes me vomit out of pure shame: Sometimes, I sing along to Michael Buble.

I Didn't Mean To

2011-03-07T14:28:00.000-08:00

I have had an incredibly productive day on the home front. And now I am exhausted and would kill for a nap. This level of fatigue combined with four children and a sugar crash are a dangerous combination.

My day began with registering my youngest for Pre-Kindergarten. Actually let's back that up. The day began with getting everyone and myself ready and then driving my daughter to school, stopping for a much needed coffee, and then carrying on to the elementary school to drop off Reese (in Grade 1) and register Rhett.

We sat in chairs thoughtfully provided to us by staff and filled out paperwork. Rhett sat between myself and one of my very best good friends. My coffee, another one of my very best good friends, sat on the floor between Rhett and I. Rhett was bored and wanted no part of this process this morning and was fidgety. At least twice I asked him to watch out for my coffee. Yes, I should have just moved it. I should've have moved it because after the second or third time I told him to watch out, he said, in a monotone: "Sorry, Mom".

It took a minute to register and then I looked at floor and saw the rapidly spreading puddle of coffee.

Fuck.

So the vice-principal, whom I happen to be related too (kind of distantly), proceeded to bring me some paper towel. You know, that brown stiff kind that has the absorbency of a paper bag. Then he mopped up the remainder of the mess.

All the while, his thin wife, wearing make-up, was sitting across from my fiasco with her two clean well behaved little girls. Rhett was relatively clean. I am not thin nor was I wearing make-up and Rhett was doing his best to not be well behaved.

This afternoon was spent cleaning while trying to keep Rhett entertained. This means he "helped" me with the dishes and he "helped" me with the vacuuming and the laundry. Then for whatever Godforsaken reason we had to 'race' across the living room floor. Then we baked cookies. Then finally, he relented and agreed to watch a movie. I let him eat three cookies and watch TV. Bad parenting?

Nope.

You see, I'm still sober. Had he not relented, I cannot promise that would be the case.

I did enjoy a cookie or two (five) myself. Which explains the sugar crash. You'd think I'd learn but given my proclivity for both sugar and alcohol, and repeated hangovers and sugar crashes, it's not happening. This is the one area in life where I can honestly say I'm a slow learner.

Well, that and a great deal of sports-related topics.

Okay, well I just had to take a little writing break to hobble off the couch and state: "I didn't mean to have four kids either, but here we are" while putting Rhett on a time out. His newest trick is blatantly disobeying us and then when we move towards disciplining him he pleads "I didn't mean to!". So obviously, the best parents respond with a sarcastic comment regarding misguided family planning...

And I'm hobbling because my body reacts to financial stress by completely seizing up on the left side. Isn't that fun? So after sitting still here for the last twenty minutes, my gait resembles someone with a stick shoved up their you-know-what.

Never mind a nap. Never mind a cookie. I need something much stronger. I need daycare!

And tomorrow, I get just that to allow me some uninterrupted work-time. I've never looked more forward to work in my life.

So yes, daycare is the solution. And maybe just one more cookie?

Cookies & Crack

2011-03-04T14:20:00.000-08:00

I went to Chapter's last night. By myself. Without money. That's like sending Charlie Sheen to a brothel without his penis or blow. It was almost physically uncomfortable. So many books. Office supplies. Fun sarcastic sticky notes and notebooks in and on which I could and would create. Books books books. Funny books. Sad books. Biographies. Hair magazines.

And what did I buy?

Zip. Zero. Nada. Nothing.

I simply basked in the glow of the atmosphere and longed for a some Godiva chocolates and to live back in the city where I could go to Chapter's more than once every three months. Oh and money. I longed for money. Money that would allow me to enter the store and buy whatever caught my fancy.

tee hee. My fancy. That's what I'm calling 'it' now.

Just kidding. But seriously they have these new notebooks there now that are super cool. I must have them and I will. My birthday is at the end of the month and I've already decided I will be requesting a gift card. I keep asking for one CD that I've yet to get so I'm going to give up on that and go the gift card route and get me some new notebooks. I can also go into Staples and get just as excited about the stationary and office supplies there.

It's a sad strange addiction.

As is my addiction to cookies. Which I baked this afternoon. So that's awesome. I have freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies in my house. And milk. So now I'm bloated. Instead of "seven rocks" a day like our friend Charlie, I have approximately put away seven cookies and a glass of milk at this point. So instead of having a hangover (or withdrawal-whatever Mr. Sheen's demon is), I am bloated and tired and working my way quickly to a Type 2 Diabetes diagnosis before I'm 40.

And it's Friday. Friday night, right? Good times. Um, yeah, no. Instead I'll likely watch recorded episodes of Grey's Anatomy or Harry's Law and Chelsea Lately. Hopefully Shameless too. I have wine. And vodka, but I am so tired (long week + sugar crash) that having a drink doesn't even appeal to me at this point. I want only to sleep. And eat vast amounts of comfort food. And buy a new notebook.

I don't think these are outlandish requests but, like Charlie Sheen, the planets are currently aligning against me. He and I are simply and sadly misunderstood.

Penny & Charlie
Charlie & Penny
Cookies & Crack
Crack & Cookies....it's all really just the same.

Well, except that Charlie could actually buy himself an actual Chapter's franchise and I can't even get a fucking notebook. That just doesn't seem fair.

I need another cookie.

Miss Obscurity

2011-02-27T19:25:00.000-08:00

I miss obscurity. Ha ha. How egotistical does that sound? Clearly there are not millions (or even thousands) reading my blog. Hundreds is probably pushing it. What I mean is there are times I'd like to vent and can't because I know who's reading and I really don't want to hurt any feelings. I have to admit, and I think a good number of you will agree that I'm at my best when I'm angry. The words flow through me like they have a life of their own when I'm good and pissed off. I either need to be angry or rely on PMS or the antics of my many children to form a half decent post.

Yet here I am; not angry, no longer PMS-ing, and the kids, while by no means quiet, haven't done anything so wonderful as ogling half-naked women in a change room as of late. I'm listening to a hockey game. The Oscars are not on at my house. I watched bits and pieces of the Red Carpet but seriously, the inane small talk coupled with Robin's (last name?) freakishly deep voice are enough to make me want to rip out my own ovaries.

I'm slightly excited tomorrow marks the last day of February. March is almost Spring. Hope springs eternal. Which is ridiculous because this is Saskatchewan and we are nowhere near done with winter but a girl can dream, can't she?

Tomorrow also marks my husband's return to his job. The job he had, much like my old job, that promised security, a steady pay cheque, of sorts, and benefits. A job, that often times, he hated. But he's going back. Which I give him huge credit for because I couldn't do it. I couldn't go back to my old job. Number one, it's not actually feasible. I don't think you can be fired and then re-hired by the Government. At least not within the year and certainly not by the same branch. But he's doing it. He didn't get fired though. He quit to pursue his dream career.

And then his dream promptly kicked him in the balls. More than once. Ah, it's not fair to blame the dream. It's fair to blame Dwayne Shpaiuk. It's fair to blame a few others too but he's the only one I'm willing to name. And again, his company is called Calibur Contracting. Just in case you missed it. Should I ever, ever find out any one of you is paying this man for his services? Well let's just say I will blog like a motherfucker and you are not going to come out looking good.

I will.

Ryan is good at Carpentry and he likes it. He will still be able to do it but it's no longer going to be his full time job. This also means he is no longer going to be home on weekends. Well, some he will and some he won't but we will never have any idea in advance when...

But I'm not complaining. I'm thankful. There are some out there who questioned Ryan's reluctance to return. Thought perhaps he was being selfish or stupid in not going back right away. Come to think of it, those who were critical? Are those who either don't work or work doing something they actually enjoy doing. Or those who are currently in no position to advise but seem to think they are.

Some of you who know me well are surprised at my vehement defence. Some of you may never understand how deeply I hated my job and the feeling that grips me at the mere thought of having to return.

So right now, I am simply grateful. His hand was a forced one, to an extent, but he's handling it with more grace than I would and there's something to be said for that.

Look Over Here

2011-02-23T17:37:00.001-08:00

Currently, given the present circumstances, I'm posting over here today:

http://77cher2.blogspot.com/

So hurry up and get over there!

Active Bacteria

2011-02-18T10:42:00.000-08:00

My throat has recently earned me the following luxuries:

Nearly 48 straight hours in bed. Flowers. Ice cream sandwiches and Slurpees.

No, I didn't do that.

I'm sick. And never before have I been treated so royally when sick as I was this time around. There are perks to having your husband home simply because he is currently without work (only for a few more days though).

In fact, this is the first time I've been sick, in recent memory, where it felt like I had a penis. Not literally. I mean there's nothing new growing down there. Just that I really got to be sick. I laid in bed and slept and watched TV (discovered an awesome new series, Shameless, check it out) and had flowers brought to me, and Slurpees and an 'ice bun' (that's what Rhett, my three year old, calls an ice cream sandwich). My husband kept the bedroom door shut and entertained our two little boys who have also been sick and stuck in the house for a week and are starting to show signs of a fever, the cabin variety. My oldest son went to the store for me Wednesday night and got me Neo-Citran and covered me up with an extra blanket when I was freezing.

Despite desperately wanting to be able to swallow my own saliva without it feeling like I am swallowing razorblades, the headache, the fever and body aches, it was pretty sweet. I even got caught up on Big Love.

I did have one blip on the radar when I drove my bedraggled self to the walk-in clinic yesterday afternoon. I drove myself because Ryan had to stay with the boys. I went to the walk-in clinic because my Dr. is on holidays. Nice for him. When I got there the waiting room was empty. It didn't take long until I was escorted into an examining room. There I waited. Long enough that I was tempted to lay on the table and just go back to sleep. Finally the doctor came and wrote the precious prescription. Then it was off to Zeller's to fill it. This too happened fairly quickly but the pharmacist did feel the need to explain to the point of nauseousness, my own, how I should eat Activia to prevent a yeast infection from the penicillin. Thanks Tips. But speaking to me softly about active bacteria and my vag when I'm having difficulty standing upright and sweating like a motherfucker isn't exactly helpful.

But I made it home. And about an hour ago, I emerged from my cocoon-like bedroom a slightly bedraggled butterfly with wicked case of bedhead. I am now firmly ensconced on my couch enjoying The Muppet's Take Manhattan.

Who knew a post about throats, penis and itchy vaginas could be so wholesome?

Dad's Dead

2011-02-15T19:07:00.000-08:00

I don't really know what I want to write about but I do know I want to write, so bear with me. I need to do something I like and that generally makes me feel good. You see, I just finished working on our budget. Fuck me. What budget? I just made an executive decision and we will not be paying the phone bill this month. It is all up to date, so I can miss a month.

This always seemed funnier on Roseanne.

Remember when she would send a cheque for bill payment but not sign it and then feign innocence/ignorance when the phone/gas/power company called? I do. I thought it was high-larious! Now it's me. Except I do all my banking on the Internet and NBC or ABC or whoever it was, isn't footing the bill or playing a laugh track.

It's just me. And the cat who's perched on the top shelf of the desk glaring at me as I type. She can fuck off because I spent $10 on her sister's special "Sensitive System" cat food today. For a tiny little bag. Which also makes me think of my former profession and how people would wonder at those who were financially limited and their associated affinity for pets. Pets they couldn't necessarily afford. In my defense, I could afford them when I got them...

I applied for a job yesterday. A job outside of my home that will necessitate professional dress and make-up. Every day. I highly doubt I'll get it but on the off chance that I do, I'm torn. It would be nice to be a 'professional' again but I think some of the folks I live with are enjoying and benefiting from my current profession of managing this household. Today they enjoyed homemade sugar cookies and got to spend time decorating and eating them after school. Then we chilled and watched a couple of recorded episodes of American Idol.

My youngest wore his Spider-Man costume for the entire day today. And then proceeded to fall asleep at the table after his cookie snack.

He's livin' the life. We all are, sans cash.

And the budget isn't as bleak as it looks there on black and white. There is some income I left off as it is unpredictable but I know it will be there. All is not lost. My husband is starting a new, maybe temporary, maybe not, job next week. There is a silver lining.

No laugh track though. No Jackie screaming "DAD's DEAD" into the phone. No Darlene. No Dan. Not even Becky.

Just us.

Happy Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T18:33:00.000-08:00

Well folks, it's here, and I'm not sure where to begin when describing the many unexpected and surprising directions this particular Valentine's Day has taken...

It's been raw, wet, hot, a little dirty and I even saw the 'doctor', if you know what I mean... Allow me to elaborate:

Raw: The cinnamon buns I attempted to bake for my family as a special treat. They were of the frozen variety and were supposed to defrost for six to 8 hours or overnight prior to baking them. I went with six hours. Mistake. They are burnt (this is where the hot part of my day comes in) on the outside and undercooked on the inside. Mmmmm.

Wet: The couch after I used my Little Bissell Green Machine to clean the vomit off of it. This morning. Before coffee. Not sure if it was the cat or dog who puked but it was special all the same.

Dirty: The poop I cleaned up first thing this morning, before my coffee was even made. Again, I am not sure if it was the cat or the dog (the small one obviously, if it were the Golden Retriever, there'd be no mistaking it and he doesn't do that, he's a good dog).

'Doctor': My two youngest children were ill all weekend. The seven year old was not feeling better and developed a weird rash on his face. Turns out he has a "nasty" chest infection, possibly pneumonia (just waiting to hear back from the x-ray results), and "Fifth Disease". Fifth Disease sounds worse than it is. It's just a fairly benign viral rash.

Just call me Dr. Oz. Or don't, because I'd find that fairly insulting.

So, as you can see, this day has been unparalleled in sights, sounds, and circumstance. I am a lucky lady. Lucky in love and lucky in life. I did buy myself a box of hair dye. It's a new kind that foams up. So that's exciting. It's supposed to cover 100% grey, so that's even more exciting. I do have some peanut butter cups for later.

Isn't love grand?

Scooby Porn & Hef's Mom

2011-02-09T20:01:00.000-08:00

My youngest son, Rhett, worries me.

He is charming, almost to a fault, handsome as hell, in love with his own penis, and today, I confirmed, the female form.

He is currently taking swimming lessons and as he is three, I take him into the women's change room to get him ready. However, I think today may have been the end of that. I say this because I practically had to put him in some sort of illegal hold to keep him from ogling a woman in the room who was changing. Some of you are thinking I need to get the stick out of my ass and accept his natural curiousity. However, I think he's past curious.

It was about a year ago when his penis fixation was at it's highest point. Check out Do You Have a Penis?; I think this will provide you with some valuable background information. Anyway, he's now less concerned with who has a penis and who doesn't and has settled into an easy acceptance of his own good fortune of having one.

Case in point, last week I was working in the dining room. He and I were the only ones home and he was watching TV in the living room. I needed a Kleenex and went into the living room to get one. Instead of finding Kleenex I found Rhett, underwear down, leisurely 'enjoying' himself whilst watching Scooby Doo. He was unconcerned. When he realized I noticed what he was doing he broke out into what could almost be described as a sly smile.

I'm all for healthy sexuality and didn't want to make him uncomfortable but did suggest that he move to his bedroom. His response? "No. I like it here." Okay then. I guess who's to argue? When you're 3 1/2 and have the good fortune of being a boy with a penis and you can hang out and watch Scooby Doo and 'explore' said penis, then why not? He did have the room to himself... I was clearly in the wrong as I was the intruder.

I don't change in front of him anymore. That too had gotten past the point of natural curiousity and his mission to see me in the buff was a little too unsettling. Although maybe not quite as unsettling as watching one's three and a half year old ogle another woman while she changed. My other two boys, who are now 16 and 7, would've looked too. They would've looked and then they would've carried on.

Rhett was mesmerized by this woman's ass.

Therefore, I advised Ryan, my husband, that from now on, he will be getting Rhett ready for swimming in the men's change room.

So that takes care of that. What it doesn't take care of his adolescence. He's turning four in May. Hormones haven't even come into play yet. I'm 33, soon to be 34. I currently have a 16 year old and a 14 year old. Forget 2 a.m. feedings, teenagers will wear you down with their mind games. And my teenagers, by most standards, are 'good'. So, in ten years or so, after surviving three other teenagers at that point, I don't know if I'll have any game left. That, coupled with the fact Rhett already has me wrapped around his little finger means I'm fucked.

So here's what I'm asking: in the next ten years ago can someone please invent a viable male birth control pill? Perhaps a condom that can be left on at all times? A Grape Vodka patch (this, of course, would be a little something for me)... Any and all other suggestions can be left in the comment section. Thanking you in advance, I, Penny Lane, mother to a junior Hugh Hefner in the making.

Jesse's Girl

2011-02-08T18:50:00.000-08:00

Today was a good day. Some of you are confused now. You're wondering, this can't be Angela a.k.a Penny Lane? It simply can't. She's angry all of the time. And bitchy.

Well fuck you because I had a good day.

My kids had a daycare day.

The End.

Just kidding.

Well, except for the part where my two youngest did actually attend daycare today. And so I worked, largely uninterrupted, for hours on end. It would've been completely without interruption if I wasn't running a petting zoo. And if I was single. Between the dogs, cats and my husband, I wasn't entirely without interruption but really it was all pretty minor in comparison to what a regular day entails.

Now, it wasn't perfect because it wouldn't be me if I didn't have something to bitch about. I was attempting to update a website and was fighting with html code and becoming thoroughly angry. Hunched here in front of my desk shouting the odd obscenity and sucking back coffee wishing it was something stronger. Perhaps something that starts with a V and ends with an A....

Anyway, at this precise moment the dogs decided they needed out. And the radio started playing New Kids on the Block. Recipe for disaster, or so you would think. Instead I changed the station and lo and behold, Jesse's Girl by Rick Springfield came on.

Some of you Judgey McJudgerson's are now questioning my taste in music but don't tell me you've never sung along to that song or danced or even tapped your foot. Don't tell me because I won't stand for your bullshit and lies. Not when we've come this far together.

Anyway, Jesse's Girl got this girl moving. And singing. To my dogs and one cat. I don't know where the other cat was but word around the house is, she's sorry she missed it. Callie, the cat who did witness this J-Lo like spectacle couldn't have been less impressed but she's a total bitch. Chuy, the puppy, looked confused but then, when doesn't he? Toby, who's been around for seven years now, didn't even look twice. It's old hat for him now.

I was busting out some of my sauciest moves. Made saucier yet by my attire of a cat hair covered hoodie and pink fuzzy slippers. And sweat pants. The day that I'm being 'saucy' in only the hairy sweatshirt and slippers but sans pants? Is the day I begin considering the merits of once again having an office job.

That being said, I was immediately cheered by my small Glee-like work break and soon after resolved my website woes. And that my friends, is why working at home really is awesome sometimes. Were I to launch into song and dance at an actual office (never mind wear nothing but hairy cotton elastic-waisted garments and slippers), I'd likely lose my job. Or at the very least people would keep their distance and question my stability. Which come to think of it, they did at my last 'office' job but mostly because they were frightened.

That had more to do with an unhealthy level of anger than unsanctioned dancing and poor wardrobe choices.

Today though, nobody questioned what was happening save for maybe Callie (the cat). And I'm telling you that bitch has had it out for me from the beginning. Truth be told, she's a real pain in the ass. Thinks nothing of finishing off the coffee but would never dream of making a fresh pot. And she always brings store bought baking to our potlucks.

I guess it's the thought that counts.

Ass Hats and More

2011-02-06T16:51:00.000-08:00

Well, here we are, February 6th and I'm failing miserably at my resolution to write daily. In some aspects though, I've really picked up the slack when it comes to procrastination, so that's something. The reason I haven't been writing much this last week is honestly for lack of material.

The one thing I can comment on is how sad of a start this year is having. I went to my second funeral of the year on Friday. There was another I likely should've attended in January but it was a former colleague and wasn't sure how my presence would be accepted were I to attend. So I didn't. I chickened out. I'm kind of ashamed of that. I would've had to go by myself because Ryan would've stayed home with the boys. I tried to be all honourable about it and said I wanted to make sure the day was about the person who passed, and not myself, but out of respect for that person, and myself, I have to admit I chickened out.

Why I choose to care what anyone there thinks of me, is beyond me. But I guess I must.

I guess I'll never get over the fact that I didn't leave there on my own terms. In one sense I did, given that had I done what they asked of me immediately upon finding the blog, I may still have my job. Further than that, had I apologized to Gold Star, Fish Belly, and the rest of them, I may have also had a better chance of remaining. Truth is, I didn't want to stay. I wanted out so bad that I made sure, in my own highly immature and impulsive way, that I got out. It's a conundrum though, as apologizing to either of those people would've caused me to lose respect for myself.

I do that often enough to myself with alcohol, food, and elastic waisted pants that there's really no reason to add to that list.

On another note, when my husband and I parked, on a residential street, to attend the most recent funeral, some fucknut stood on his front porch and repeatedly stated: "This is not a parking lot. This is a residential street." He then added that people had shovelled the spots in front of their homes for themselves not us. We were not the only ones parking there as it was in close proximity to the church where THE FUNERAL was being held. This made me angry. It's a fucking funeral. We don't plan on returning there every afternoon to park.

My feelings prompted me to share the following with this asshat:

"IT'S A FUNERAL, YOU FUCKNUT."

I think it may be prudent at this point to clarify that Ryan and I were the only ones left on the street. The other people who'd parked there had made there way on to the church. Ryan shouted something at him too.

Asshat's response was to threaten to tow our vehicle. Good luck buddy. There are no signs there stating we can't park.

So after the service, yep, our car was still there and he was not.

ASS. HAT.

Hm, let's see, what else...I watched UFC last night. It was dumb. I also enjoyed some Vodka. Sadly it was not Three Olives Grape Vodka, but it was Vodka all the same. I said some very funny things whilst watching grown men bounce around and hit and kick at each other but thanks to Vodka and my friends, I cannot recall them. One friend suggested I blog about it. That same friend should've been taking notes because those one-liners and observations now escape me.

Further to that, we were home by midnight and didn't get started until just before 9 p.m.

LAME.

So, in a nutshell, I've already let half of my New Year's resolutions fall to the wayside, there's a man living on Monk Ave. in Moose Jaw who is a ginormous ass hat, and I can no longer party for a full three hours or remember what I said during those three hours. Never mind 2012, I think 2011 is about to give it a run for it's money, end of the world or not.

Greasy Alphabet

2011-01-26T18:59:00.000-08:00

I should probably post this over at PMS Chronicles but frankly I'm too lazy to at this point. Is it wrong that I am eating chips and dip for a second time today? As a meal? Or how about the fact that I continue to wipe my greasy fingers off on my bloated belly?

I don't think so.

Well, okay, maybe the belly wiping of the greasy digits is a bit much but fuck you.

Harsh?

That literally sums up my general mood at present. My poor children are being alternately mothered by Joan Crawford and June Cleaver. Case in point, Rhett, who is 3, and I went to the grocery story tonight and upon coming home, after dark, he slipped and fell on the ice. It was a small tumble but still I did feel bad for the poor little guy and also had my arms full of groceries.

Initial Reaction: "Are you okay, Baby?"

Yes, I call him Baby. We all do. He is soft and he is a Baby and despite his monstrous size I suspect he will always be Baby. Much like Frances in Dirty Dancing except he won't end up whoring it up at a family resort. We can't afford trips like that.

Rhett said no he wasn't okay and whined a little bit and slowly got up.

June: "Come on Loving, when we get inside Mommy will snuggle you".

Rhett: Okay.

He then proceeded to move very slowly and ask me about watching Caillou. I am still holding all the groceries and like that, Estrogen reared it's ugly head...

Joan: HURRY UP AND GET IN THE HOUSE!!!! NOW!

June (guiltily): "And then we can snuggle".

I'm sure at this point he was looking forward to snuggling about as much as one would a cavity search.

Also during this evening's sojourn I called home, twice, in an effort to have my grocery list read over the phone to me as it was an unexpected grocery store visit and I didn't have it with me. I spoke to both my oldest son and my husband like one speaks to those they deem less than sharp and seethed when neither of them could find the list. I knew EXACTLY where it was and told them EXACTLY where to find it. I could not believe their stupidity in not being able to find one goddamn piece of paper that I was thoroughly convinced was right in front of there stupid non-seeing eyes.

Then I got home.

And found it.

Buried underneath a notebook, a section of the newspaper and various other things. On top of a box.

I told them to look on the kitchen counter and/or table.

Oops.

Which is pretty much what I said as I giggled.

One last thing on the good news front, I purchased a pair of nylons tonight. I'm not sure when I last wore any but I plan on wearing a skirt to an event I'm hosting tomorrow evening and thought it best to pick up a pair. And this is just so fucking great; I'm really excited to tell you! Since the last time I bought a pair, I've gone up a letter. Which is like going up a size. Super terrific. I am now a letter of the Alphabet (nylons are like bras in that they are sized alphabetically) that I used to mock. Pity, even. Well, look who's laughing now.

Lastly, there is not enough chocolate in the free world right now (my house) to satisfy my needs.

A Slight Detour

2011-01-26T11:36:00.000-08:00

For those of you who may be getting impatient and might be keeping track of whether or not I'm posting daily? I actually did post yesterday. Just not here.

Instead head over to PMS Chronicles.

Please and Thank You.

Oh and in case you're wondering this is also my blog. I only post on it about once a month, oddly enough...

Top Gun

2011-01-23T18:24:00.000-08:00

Today the weather finally broke and it was not 100 degrees below zero so we took our two youngest children tobogganing. The teenagers couldn't be bothered. The girl said she was going to study for finals. However, when I left she was watching Jersey Shore. The boy didn't give a reason but was also watching Jersey Shore when we left. In their defence, I may have actually been the one to introduce Snooki and the gang to them. Yes, I'm hanging my head in shame.

Anyway, back to the tobogganing. I am not really an outdoorsy girl. I am so not one of those people who loves to be outside. Instead, when it's nice out, I either force myself out, or feel guilty for not being out, or bitchily wish it was cloudy and gross so I had a reason to sloth out on the couch. So it was to my surprise when I really had a great time sledding today. I even went down by myself a few times when my three year old was busy on the swings. I raced my seven year old, one of his friends and their older brothers. My ass was literally wet from the snow. A pair of yoga pants with long underwear underneath are not effective wetness protection... Just in case you're wondering.

When Rhett (3 year old) and I went down together, we both laughed just as hard and I took great pride in us making it all the way to the ice shack. For those of you who live in places meant to be inhabited by humans and are therefore wondering what the fuck an ice shack is, it's a building put up by outdoor rinks where one can put their skates on, etc.

While I was revelling in the world of snow sports I realized I like tobogganing more than swimming. This could be because I swim like a brick. I'm about as home in the water as Snooki is in the library.

There are a number of reasons for this:

1. I don't feel like an incompetent ass because really, who can't sled down a hill? Lots of people can't swim and I happen to be one of them. I can dog paddle I suppose but I fear that doesn't count.

2. I was wearing clothing that did not expose any of my repeated therapy sessions with my doctor, Mr. Peanut Butter Cup. I looked all sporty and did not spend the entire time trying to position myself in such a way to suggest I actually have abs and that my thighs don't touch.

3. I was the only Mom there but if any others had been there? Even if they were 'hot'? No one can really tell the difference. Yeah she may look smaller and maybe have a prettier face but it's not as glaring as being side by side on a beach with fucking Heidi Klum and feeling like, well, like Snooki, I guess.

Why is this post entitled Top Gun? Well, I've also decided my love of tobogganing comes from my need for speed. I used to enjoy skiing a lot when I was younger. I'm sure I still would but the opportunity hasn't presented itself. I also used to love boat rides in our family's ancient 'motorboat' when I was a kid too. I like to drive fast.

Clearly, I like to live life on the edge. And you can't get much edgier than a Sunday afternoon spent tobogganing on what barely qualifies as a hill, with your kids, followed by a trip to Tim Horton's.

Signing off,

Lane, Penny Lane.

I've Developed a Slight Sensitivity to Nuts

2011-01-20T16:06:00.000-08:00

So I sort of feel like I should lighten the mood a bit after last nights explosion of frustration and angst. Then there was Carlie's comment. If you haven't read it yet, head on back over to What the Fuck Happened to Tim McGraw and take a look. The only thing I can say is I feel legit with a hater like her on board.

Where to begin? Well it's interesting and sort of pathetic to note that around 4:45 p.m. I realized I hadn't eaten since before 9 a.m. That's right, I forgot to eat! I have always blasted those women who profess having forgotten to eat but today I joined their esteemed flat tummied ranks!! Not that my stomach is flat. I think it might take a few more times of this kind of forgetfulness to really make any difference.

The chances of this happening are slim.

So anyway, I was hungry so ate some leftover pasta for supper and decided that I deserved an almond Sweet 'n' Salty granola bar for dessert. You know, in light of my near having starved today. It was good. Except, I'm now discovering, not actually a good choice. My mouth and throat are itchy. So some slight food sensitivity kicking in there. Lame.

Other than that, I've decided I'm going to go the library and check out the Feminine Mystique. I think I read it once before, in University but I'm now actually wondering if I can pick up where Ms. Friedan left off. Here we are some 40 years later and maybe it's time to re-evaluate. Or wake up the sleeping masses anyway.

Despite Carlie's unhappiness and judgement of my previous post, I stand by my assertion that the Women's Movement is dead. Or at the very least, very sound asleep. I should like to re-awaken it.

I should also like to thank Carlie for waking me up to the miscalculations and misunderstandings of my life. Children require self-sacrifice? Why didn't someone tell me? Oh and in case any one's wondering Carlie also waxes because she prefers it to "being hairy". Good to know. Finally, I'd like to thank Carlie for using her name. The last asshole who got on my case for using the word "mothertruckers" too much wouldn't even step up to that plate, so if nothing else, Carlie means what she says and has a bigger set than that motherfucker, Anonymous.

So cheers to me and my new pal Carlie and our respectively waxed bits.

'Night, mothertruckers.

What the Fuck Happened to Tim McGraw?

2011-01-19T19:10:00.000-08:00

This was going to be a rant but I'm currently being distracted by an old recorded episode of Ellen with Tim McGraw on it. And he's wearing glasses and has stupid hair. Glasses and no cowboy hat=no sexy.

So why would I rant? Because I still can't wrap my head around the death of the women's movement or at the very least my own morphisis (sp?) into a simpering stupid housewife. So no I'm not really stupid nor do I really simper but despite being pissed off at my husband I just spent the last 45 minutes running around cleaning up so it's neat and tidy because I don't feel like I can relax until it is clean.

The other day I made some half-joking half-not comments to my husband about the leisurely life he leads in where he gets up to children fed, maybe dressed, coffee made. Then if he hasn't dressed already he goes upstairs to the closet and to his dresser to find clothing that week after week just magically re-appears there, clean.

He never has to plan a meal. He rarely cooks. He detests cleaning.

These are the things I don't do: shovel, mow the lawn, talk to bankers or car salesmen. This list used to include picking up dog shit but this summer I wasn't interested in waiting for him to do it any longer, so out I went.

I loved school. Especially university because I loved Sociology and Feminism and talk of the Women's Movement and feeling like I was going to be one of these liberated intelligent driven women.

Oops.

Instead I have grown my hair long, wear gel nails and am waxed to the hilt because these are all things my husband finds attractive.

Fuck.

I work two part-time jobs and yes I consider my jewellery hawking a job because I put a great deal of time into it. And I do everything else too.

Fuck.

Tonight my husband asked if I was going to come to the hockey game with him. This was after we'd already established neither of our older children would be available to watch the two younger children. To make this painfully clear, WE DID NOT HAVE A BABYSITTER AND HE KNEW THIS. So when I gave a curt "no" followed by an equally curt explanation of our child care situation he became "curt" as well and said he was merely asking a question.

What kind of stupid piece of shit question is that? You know the fucking answer. Yes I'd like to go but that doesn't mean I'm able too and if you have not done anything to remedy that situation this afternoon then go fuck yourself.

Instead he's at the hockey game and I did homework with the seven year old, cleaned up the kitchen, tidied the living room and put both boys to bed.

Fuck.

Sometimes I see older couples out and the man will be well groomed and attractive; sometimes only because he appears to really take care of himself. Then I'll look at his wife and wonder what the fuck happened to her. She might be overweight, have three inch roots, just essentially look like a bag of shit and I'll wonder what she looked like when they met and why she let herself go like that.

I think I now know the answer. It's so tempting sometimes to just say fuck it and throw in the towel. Fuck cleaning. Fuck make-up. Fuck. it. all.

As far as I can tell the Women's Movement resulted in us being able to work outside of the home (still for less than equal pay). We can wear pants. Um...yeah, so there's that. To date, I only know of one marriage that even resembles an equal partnership. And I'm quite good friends with this couple. And its hard not to seethe with envy or spend copious amounts of time comparing circumstances. Often I'm left wondering what I've done to not deserve the same kind of treatment. Then I give my head a shake.

The worst part may be what my children are learning. My daughter currently states she will never marry or have children. I can't say that I blame her. My seven year old brought me down an arm load of socks today for me to fold. We bought him new ones yesterday and upon taking a pair out of the pack to wear today, he thought it prudent to get the rest down to me ASAP so I could get busy doing what I'm here for.

What. the. fuck.

So if I don't like it, change it?

Sure, how?

Thoughts? Suggestions?

Maybe we could hold a forum, sponsored by Three Olives Grape Vodka, to discuss? Maybe I need to write the next 'Feminine Mystique'? Wish I'd been born a walrus?

For now it appears I will problem solve with peanut butter cups.

Fuck it.

I Prefer a Firm Noodle

2011-01-18T07:19:00.000-08:00

This title came to me the other day after my husband made mac & cheese and I complained that it was too mushy. I like firm noodles. Which is what I thought to myself and then giggled a little because sometimes my mind pretends I'm a 13 year old boy. Further to that point I've been coveting an article from Saturday's paper. I wanted to post about it. Then slightly panicked the other day when I almost recycled it.

What is this astounding piece of literature I'm holding so near and dear to my heart? Well, it's about walruses. Walruses with giant penises.

I may need to get out more.

The whole article is about how they're in danger of becoming extinct because the Arctic Ice is melting so they're trying to breed captive Walruses. Trouble is, the girls are ready to rock when the boy isn't and vice versa. So instead, people are spending a lot of time, and I'm guessing money to figure out how to jack off a Walrus.

What?!

Well, it's no easy feat given that a Walrus penis weighs in at 30 pounds, is 3 feet long and is 22" in circumference!!! No I'm not making that up! Which just led me to wonder about the capacity of a Walrus vagina, but I guess we'll leave that for another day. Anyway, they essentially are fashioning an artificial Walrus vagina out of PVC pipe and such, making sure it can support his 2900 pounds and his giant schlong. Then they have to make it attractive to him so he gets in the mood. Apparently his turn-ons are strollers, running children and power tools. For real. It's like Playboy for walruses. He lives in a zoo. When construction is being done at the zoo he growls and postures and is ready for some lovemaking. Say that last part like Will Ferrell in Anchorman and it's even funnier.

You're welcome.

Why all this trouble to fashion an artificial walrus vagina? Why for artificial insemination of course.

The moral of this story is my aspirations of becoming a published paid writer someday may be a little far off given how easily distracted I am by limp noodles and stories of giant Walrus penises.

Clean Up in Aisle Hell

2011-01-13T16:28:00.000-08:00

I'm not exactly sure where to begin....I berated 2010 for being a pretty awful year but 2011 seems to be starting out only sad. Thankfully the sadness is only touching my life and not invading it. What I mean is my family is safe, happy and healthy. We ourselves have not met any tragedy so soon into the New Year. We are lucky.

I am torn between acknowledging the pain and loss of others or doing what I think I sometimes do best, and that's making people laugh (duh). So I think that's what I'll aim for and if I miss the mark, at the very least I hope I've provided a small distraction for a moment that was at the very least somewhat enjoyable.

As has been discussed ad nauseum here at Driven, I was fired this summer. Before being fired, I worked a 40+ hour work week at times. Now I stay home and have a couple of part-time gigs. And I am left feeling just as strapped for time, if not more so. Why?

Well I no longer set an alarm. I typically wake up between 7:30 and twenty to eight every morning. Except for yesterday morning when I was woken by a telephone call at five after eight. A phone call from my credit card company letting me know I don't currently owe them any money. Yep, you read that right; they were calling to let me know I do NOT owe them money. Thanks Tips. However it was good they called as it did get me up. Next my 16 year old son was in our bedroom asking for a ride to school because he had neglected to plug his car in and so it wouldn't start. For those of you living somewhere decent and always have, the rest of us here in the tundra need to plug our vehicles in on these nights when it drops to -30 (Celsius). Anyway, I needed to get my ass in gear as he and his sister needed to be at school in twenty minutes.

Downstairs I went, bedhead and all, to find my cat had vomited on the floor and on the couch. My six year old had also slept in and needed to be fed and readied for school as well. This all needed to happen in the next half hour. Never mind the mob of animals surrounding me for their breakfast, which by this point was nearly half an hour late as well. It was pandemonium.

Luckily, Steven's car started. I got Reese fed and cleaned up all of the cats offenses and just when I thought I might get cheeky and sit down for the first time since I'd gotten out of bed? This call came from the bathroom: "Mom, I pooped in my underwear".

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

He hadn't had an accident since I don't know when.

So off to the bathroom I went and sure as shit (tee hee) he had pooped in his underwear. And not just a little. So it was off to the tub for him. While waiting for the tub to fill he said he was sorry for pooping in his underwear and that he didn't mean to. Which of course I knew he didn't, but it was some timing.

I carried on with my day. By 2 p.m. I was in full swing of getting ready for a meeting I had to attend last night. During make-up application, the underwear pooper decided he needed to brush his teeth. Fine. Then he fell in the toilet. Don't see the connection? Neither do I. All I know is that it necessitated another clean up in Aisle Hell.

Off I went to the meeting. It was facilitated by a less than dynamic speaker. And lucky for those of us attending, a number of the guest speakers could be described as 'less than dynamic' as well. And the meeting finished with my favourite thing of all: we were read aloud to. I think I've covered this before but I am 33, possess a University Degree and by every definition am highly literate. My feeling is I was not alone in my level of literacy. Yet, there we all sat, being read to. Not that anyone was listening anymore. At this point people had lost all focus completely and a number of conversations were being held as the facilitator spoke. It was a monumental waste of time that ended with driving home in near white-out conditions to find my dog eating sticky tack on the couch while my husband and oldest son sat near by completely oblivious.

On days like yesterday, I long for an office. An office where I would go and drink coffee quietly in the morning. That office would be free of vomiting cats. I would read silently to myself. Bliss.

In the meantime I will be grateful for the fact that my family is happy, healthy and in tact. I will be grateful that I no longer work at a job that I hate and brings out the absolute worst in me. And finally, I will be grateful that yesterday is over and today, everyone managed to keep their bodily functions in check.

Oprah & Play Doh

2011-01-10T18:37:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm sticking to my resolution to blog everyday, or at the very least trying to, but I can't think of anything to write about. My day was largely uneventful. I did a little cleaning. One load of laundry. I got groceries. Did some work and attended a fundraising meeting. Blah. Boring. Blah. I did make a huge effort and wore jeans to the meeting. Then came home a whole hour later and slipped right into my pajama pants. I'm nothing if not high maintenance. I haven't worn make-up since Saturday when work necessitated it. No I'm not a streetwalker or stripper. Work didn't actually request I wear make-up, I just feel a little less like Rosie O'Donnell with it on. I am wearing my glasses which people assure me look fine but I feel about 70% less confident/attractive in but my contacts are bugging me again so I have no choice. Hair in sloppy ponytail...wait, is that Vogue calling?

I am taking part in an on-line seminar at 9 p.m. in regards to my hawking of the jewellery. It's referred to as a 'Webinar' but when I say that I feel like a giant douche bag. Douche bag makes me think of Chelsea Handler and Jo Koy and my immense gratitude to the TV Gods who saw it fit to make E! available on my cable service again. Chelsea, Chuy and the gang are all back every night at 10 p.m. If you haven't watched Chelsea Lately, please do. Even if it's only to earn back my respect for a moment. If you have watched it and find it crass or un-funny. Fuck off.

My boys are going to daycare tomorrow to provide me with a day of uninterrupted working time. This should be great. I always feel like a million bucks by the end of the day. Number one, I accomplish things. I accomplish things without interruption to "wipe off (some body's)bum". I complete tasks without having to stop to get the Wii to work. I listen to music and not Toy Story 3 or Diary of a "Wumpy" (that's how my three year old pronounces it) Kid" for the umpteenth time. Nor do I have to play Play Doh. To be honest though, I like the Play Doh part. Those assholes make a lot of money off that shit though and it's shoddy at best. I mean the actual Play Doh is good and smells good (don't judge me) and all that jazz but I'm telling you right now, the ice cream maker contraption does not work like it suggests it will on the front of the box. Nor does the sprinkle maker. Do they even try this shit out? And if they do, can someone hook me up with a job there? How sweet of a job would that be? Playing with Play Doh every day? I wonder how much they get paid and if they'll let you work from home...

Yeah, so um anyway, this might be a good place to stop. At the very least, my resolution is holding on and it's the 10th already! Eat your heart out Oprah! (Oprah likely resolved to be more grateful and aware and rich this year and to dispel the lesbian rumours). I don't think she's a lesbian at all and am even more confused why people would be so alarmed if it was...

Okay, yeah, so stopping here instead.

Perfect Function

2011-01-09T08:51:00.000-08:00

I've done a lot of thinking about family lately. Mine, yours, everyones. It's baffles and mystifies me on a daily basis. I think family, in any form, is the most telling in reference to human capacity for good and 'evil'.

I am constantly on the look out for good. Some of you won't believe that about me because I am generally highly negative but this is where that comes from. I idealize things. I love nostalgia. And I love the idea of a genuinely good person or family. A family with no faults. A family that does everything right and truly takes care of one another. And every time I think I've found that family and then proceed to seethe with envy and admiration? They reveal the chink in their armour. I can't help but think that's unfair though. It truly comes back to the old adage of nobody being perfect.

Yet I can't stop looking for perfect. In myself, in my family and in everything. I've often been told I put too much pressure on myself. I can't deny that but I also haven't come to the level of awareness or maturity that it would require to want to stop. I take pride in how hard I push myself. Isn't pride one of the Seven Deadly Sins? I'm not religious though, so whatever.

I am harsh. I expect too much... I just re-read this and I am going to change that. All I expect is decency and accountability. Is that really too much? Time and time again I'm disappointed by society as a whole. I literally just finished reading an article in O magazine where she interviewed Tyler Perry. I always thought Tyler Perry was a woman. Wrong. He's a man. A man who was severely physically and emotionally abused (I don't think you can actually be physically abused without suffering emotional abuse) by his father for his entire childhood. A man who now says he's grateful for what his father did for him. His father was abused as a child too. Which isn't surprising. What is surprising to me is Mr. Perry's willingness to let go. To accept. To perhaps maybe even forgive a little or at the very least, understand.

I prefer to stay mad. When I was still working at the Fucknut Factory, just prior to my termination, I was seeing a counselor. This is one of the dangers of the placing an expectation of perfection on one's self. I believed there had to be something wrong with me and that's why I couldn't cope with that place. Everyone else was coping. Yes they disliked the Fucknut Factory too but they managed to do their work and maintain a life and, ultimately, their job. My point is, one of things that came out of this short lived therapy was a new awareness of my need for anger. It fuels me. I like the adrenaline. I think I like feeling justified and I think I like feeling better about myself in the face of other's faults. Fucked up, no?

I often lack the capacity to forgive. At the same time I long for different familial relationships. What I've come to realize though is families are not ripe for change. Families are embedded in generational patterns of behaviour. One must either choose to fit in to and accept the dysfunction or remove oneself from it all. But who wants to do that? Harsh, angry and cynical aside, I still appreciate, want and need family.

There are things I have forgiven and accepted. My Dad and I have never been close but as an adult I just figure that's who he is and I can't change that and he's the only one I've got. Truth be told I have two. One who was there for the conception and one who was there for the rest. Mr. Conception chose to stop talking to me about ten years ago when I chose to leave my first husband. Mr. Conception is a man firmly entrenched in some strongly stereotypical beliefs about men and women and I? I am his offspring and yet somehow reject every one of the beliefs he holds near and dear to his ignorant little heart. So good enough. I'll stick with the guy who was there. Who I did, at one time, 'tell off' and who still chose to talk to me anyway. Did he change? In some small ways, yes, but fundamentally, no. So be it.

I met a woman yesterday who appears to have her boundaries firmly in tact and I was in awe. She was utterly convincing in her conviction. I, sadly, do not think I have the balls to pull that off. For all my love of anger I dislike conflict. I cry easily. I'm way beyond sensitive.

I just want people to "get it" and quit being assholes.

This is not going to happen.

Which leaves me where? Do I grow a set and establish my own boundaries? Try to make the best of a bad situation? Suck it up and kill it with kindness?

I don't know. I don't have a neat and tidy answer. The best I can do is work at making my family, and by that I mean myself, my husband and our four kids, the best we can be. Supportive of one another. Affectionate. Honest. For the love of God, honest. And accountable to one another and ourselves. This is what we'll strive for and I think we are headed in the right direction. We are not nor will we ever be perfect. There are patterns of behaviour learned and hard to forget. We are human. We have great capacity for right and wrong and I'd be remiss to think there hasn't been and won't be some more 'wrong' along the way.

I could write and write and write. Part of me wants to blame and lambaste and challenge and confront. The rational part of me knows its not worth it. It never is. So this is where I'll stop. Knowing I am honest, I am accountable and I am only responsible for myself and my family.

Miss Popularity

2011-01-06T17:56:00.000-08:00

Okay, so now that I'm thoroughly back in the swing of things in the blogging world I am discovering some things I had forgotten. Being part of the blogging world is like being part of a big high school. It's a giant limitless popularity contest. Much the same as when I was actually in high school I continue to fail in this regard. I was not hated or bullied or bothered. I was also not popular. I was just there and in Grade 11 I became known as another one of the myriad of girls in the school who was pregnant and then as one of the girls with a baby in the daycare at school.

Now, I don't even have that notoriety. Does it bother me? Duh. Why do you think I'm writing about it. I know it shouldn't bother me and that first and foremost I should write for myself and I do but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate appreciation. I want to be a 'Top Blogger' or get some other kind of blogging award that no one else will acknowledge or know what it means unless they happen to blog as well. I have read a number of blogs in the past few days. Some of my old favourites and one or two new ones. The ones that are official looking and have little buttons declaring their popularity make me jealous. They are the popular rich girls who never say or do anything embarrassing or get knocked up. They have all the name brand clothes and perfect hair. Sigh.

Blogging is a job for some people. They have put in some serious time and effort to attain the level of notoriety they have amongst other bloggers. This summer I put in a pretty solid effort myself but then let it go. It's time to get back in there. Shut down the pity party and break out my acid wash jeans and curling iron and make these bangs as big as they can be.

Stay tuned. By the time Spring rolls around I should be a shoe-in for Prom Queen!

Day 2

2011-01-05T19:45:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of Resolutions and such I'm here to report. Obviously I'm so far sticking with the blogging resolution and I'm not doing horribly with the procrastination issue either. I'm sorry, I need to digress here for a minute to talk about how much I dislike Queen Latifah. I attempted to watch the People's Choice awards for about thirty seconds but gave up because she's too much. She's not funny. Neither are the Kardashians and why is that one so much taller and bigger than the other two?

Sidetracked.

Anyway, I did get some laundry done but this is nothing...

Okay, twenty-five minutes later and I'm back. Where did I go? Well in the midst of promoting a successful productive life in the day of this modern-day do it all woman, I realized I forgot to pick my daughter up from rehearsal.

Oops.

To be fair it was only five after nine and I was supposed to be there at 9 and we only live about five minutes away. Yes, I am defensive but also had a good laugh at myself. She found it funny too. Eventually.

Heh heh.

Okay, so anyway, I did some laundry. My son's. This is because he started cleaning his room the other day and this led to mass dumping of a clothing and other articles in the laundry room. Clothing we thought was lost for good. Clothing that likely hasn't fit him for at least two years. Clean clothing. As in still folded but because he failed to put it away properly so it eventually ended up on his floor and as such, he's decided to just put it back in the laundry. Teenage boys are a special gift.

As are teenage girls but at least they are clean.

I got a solid five hours of work done today. Not bad in between parenting the three year old, the 14 year olds orthodontist appointment, pick ups and drop offs of the six year old and the stupid laundry and making supper. So I forgot to pick up a kid, big deal! In all reality, something had to give.

I had to run out to pay a bill too and stopped at the store to buy some dishwasher detergent and picked up some discount Christmas candy too so part of my multitasking included mass consumption of grocery-store brand chocolates. So basically I'm efficient and pretty...Pretty on the couch stuffing my face full of candy but too lazy/tired to get up off the couch and go get the drink of milk I was desperately craving.

So, all in all, not a bad day. I'm a bit rambly and scattered I know but deal with it. This is a much more positive post than the one I was/am contemplating about the capacity of humans, especially family members, to be such complete assholes to one another, but I'll save that for another day. But seriously, how can some people be so desperately unaware and ignorant?

Ooops. That was a little slip into Negative Nelly land. So sorry.

Not.

Happy New Year

2011-01-04T17:19:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm not big on resolutions but given that 2010 sucked, a lot, in a variety of ways, I've decided to make 2011 better any way that I can. And just how am I going to do this? Well first of all, I'm going to get back to blogging on a daily basis! Starting today. I know, I know, resolutions are supposed to start on the first but given it felt like a creature from a Stephen King novel had burrowed itself into my brain and I vomited like it was 1999 on the first? I was in no shape to blog. Then on the second I felt so good not being hungover that I tackled a number of household duties and prepared for my mother's visit the next day.

Which leads me to resolution number 2: quit procrastinating!!!

What I was preparing,on January 2nd, for my mother's visit, was her and her husband's gift. Yes. I'm aware that is late. However I knew I wouldn't seen them until after Christmas so I left it. Longer than I should have. I leave everything longer than I should. And then when I finish whatever it is I left, I feel so good. You'd think I'd learn but much like hangovers, I'm not a real quick learner of the whole action and consequence thing. Slow slow learner, in fact.

So there it is, blogging and no more procrastination. Of course I have plans to return to the gym too. Who doesn't? Given that I was blessed with PMS during the yuletide season I'm sure my intestines are currently coated in chocolate and the Type 2 Diabetes fairy is chuckling with glee at my future of finger pricks (as opposed to the kind I'm used to dealing with, heh heh) and sugar spikes and drops.

As luck would have it though I purchased a lovely new pair of elastic waisted pants just prior to Christmas and they are divine. I'm wearing them right now. And just to the left of me is a small-ish pile of wrappers from some after dinner chocolates I was enjoying. Again, reference the slow learner paragraph above.

So tomorrow it is off to book my son's birthday party, drop off some donations and tackle some work projects and laundry. And with any luck at all? No one in this house is on short supply of clean underwear because who am I kidding?!

Happy New Year!

I Need

2010-12-14T19:22:00.000-08:00

Over the last several weeks I nearly withdrew completely from the blogging world that was so near and dear to my heart over the summer. I spent a great deal of time in front of this very same computer posting, reading, commenting, Tweeting with fellow bloggers and all in all fully immersing myself in this world. Then life took over. And I let it. Whereas before, even when I worked at the Fucknut Factory, I took great pains to make time for posting.

Then I lost the urge.

Why? Was it financial stress? Scrambling to make some sense out of my life again? It is almost comparable to when I became pregnant at 16 and took it upon myself to prove, beyond all doubt, that this was not the end of me. I would rise above 'it' and be just as successful as anyone else, if not more so. And in some ways, you could say that's what I did. I graduated from high school, I attained a Bachelor's Degree and then secured full time employment. A government job. I was set.

Or was I?

I think we all know the answer to that now. I was not set. I was nearly sent to an asylum when all was said and done but instead I was merely fired.

And then I had to rise above that.

My husband constantly reassures me that my getting fired was the best thing ever. He never wants me to work there again (even if it were actually an option, which it is not). My children are happier. I, for the most part, am too.

And what part isn't?

The part that has been putting a huge amount of pressure on herself since she was able to do so. The part that still feels she has failed. The part who has always had a very strong feeling about the dangers of debt but currently can't avoid it. Those parts. And those parts will not be quiet. The happy girl tries to ignore them and adopt her husband's optimistic attitude but I've generally always carried a glass that is half empty so it's not easy.

And so I strayed from the one thing that kept me sane. I stopped writing and I even stopped reading. I attempted, once, to be one of Pretty All True's featured bloggers but didn't make the cut. And now? I haven't read her blog since I don't know when and I don't know why. I idolized Kris all summer. I wanted to meet her, to be her and when she commented on one of my posts or responded to a comment of mine on hers? I was over the moon. And now I'm acting like an insolent child. 'Shunned' once and unwilling to return.

I know it's ridiculous. The only thing that makes it slightly less ridiculous is that she's not the only one I stopped reading. I haven't read anyone. One or two stops at Sara Swears A Lot and tonight a return trip to The Sassy Curmudgeon and that's it.

If I were to self analyze, and believe me I do, I'd say I feel the blogging universe let me down. I'm absolutely fantastic at placing the blame elsewhere and this time, it seems the blog is getting it. Not me. Not my impulsivity, impatience and irrationality.

So I snubbed blogging and all that goes with it. I still don't know that I'm fully ready to embrace it. I'm too busy scrambling for footing and proving...what to who? I don't know. At least I'd like to pretend I don't know. The answer? Proving to myself I didn't fuck up by throwing away a perfectly secure, albeit difficult, to say the least, career. A career. And as long as I'm being honest, it's not the career, it's the pay cheque and the security that came with it.

So for now gone again is the dream and the drive to really pursue writing. I need to make ends meet and I need to show everyone I'm okay and we're okay and be okay. I need to try and parent two teenagers who are currently at each other's throat 90% of the time. And a sensitive six year old who never feels as though he's getting his share of attention and maybe he's not. And a three year old who demands attention but does. not. give. a. fuck. about my authority in the least.

Most importantly though?

I need to write.

Temporary Insanity?

2010-12-13T07:18:00.000-08:00

I put a question mark behind the title because I'm not sure how temporary this state is. I am tired. This is a recurring theme. I seem to have reached a new level of exhaustion and I can't even blame it on work anymore. I don't work a 40 hour plus week anymore. Not outside of the home anyway. Yet last night I was in bed by quarter after 8. I read for a little while and then it was lights out somewhere around 8:30 and yet, I find myself fighting the urge to either be-head someone or cry.

This could be due in part to the fact that around 12 a.m. my three year old made his nightly appearance in our bed. I took him back to his bed by 1 a.m. and roughly an hour later I was on the couch having given up sleeping with fucking Shrek.

Shrek is my husband. Who has some serious sinus or adenoid issues because the snoring is getting out of hand. Yesterday morning I gave up and went and slept in my daughter's bed. She was out of town so I had roughly an hour of silent sleep there. I currently roam my house at night searching for quiet and slumber.

My arms are literally tired from trying to hold them up to type this. I have zero energy.

My husband? Rolled out of bed sometime after 8. He then huffed and puffed for awhile because the dog pissed on his jacket. Not good behaviour on the dog's part but at least it saved me from having to do it.

Do I hate him? No. But motherfucker if that guy can't sleep his way through life. There is nothing short of mind numbing pain that he can't sleep through. Until whatever time he pleases. You know how a lot of adults say they can't sleep in anymore? He is not one of those people.

I am. Although given my current state I think I could actually sleep in. It feels like I could sleep for days and not be rested. There are still Christmas cards to mail, presents to wrap, a meal to plan, baking to do and don't forget actual work. Oh and I'm not done shopping yet either.

This is not a good time to be fading. Yet here I am. Faded.

Shortly I will leave to take my oldest child to the orthodontist and I will be hitting Starbucks first to get a White Chocolate Peppermint Mocha. Artificial energy is my only friend at present.

I am considering giving up all together and letting my youngest sleep with my husband and just taking the kids bed. Why? Because when I went back to my room this morning they were snuggled up like two peas in a pod despite the fact that my husband continued to sound like he was choking on a fucking chainsaw. The little man slept right through it. So perhaps they'd be better off together and I can sleep a whole night through in Jr's bed.

Worth a shot? I think it might be. It's that or manslaughter charges...I plan to plead not guilty by, you guessed it, reason of temporary insanity.

A Blast From the Past

2010-12-02T07:02:00.000-08:00

Friday, August 21, 2009

Out of the comfort zone

The other day my husband suggested I try something completely out of my comfort zone in response to my 100 millionth bitch about my job... I hate my job. This will be a recurring theme so may as well get it out of the way now. However, I have four kids, a mortgage, a car payment and a husband embarking on a new career so I'm stuck with it. I'm ridiculously envious of him because he's doing what he's always wanted to. And unless someone out there wants to pay me to make fun of others, that's not an attainable goal for me.

So here I am. I wish, more than anything in the world, to be a writer. Original, I know. However after having just finished another Jen Lancaster book I'm sure this is my calling. Oh, and to write for the Chelsea Handler show and maybe someday make the round table....euphoria. However, when one lives in Saskatchewan and began breeding just about as soon as physically capable and didn't stop until a full 13 years later, my chances are greater that I will be spat on by a client.

I'm quite positive I'm not at liberty to divulge what my current job is but believe me, being spit on is entirely possible.

Posted by 77Cher at 8:37 PM

Out

2010-12-02T06:56:00.000-08:00

I was bitchy yesterday. All day. It had me wondering what was up and if I'm one of those people who'll never be content. Then I showered, did my hair, put on some make-up and clean, semi-fitted clothing and left the house. Lo and behold, I found myself in a better mood!

You see, like everything else, slob-ness must be done in moderation. I spent the better part of my day in my favourite pair of sweatpants. I left my house yesterday morning and I paired the sweats with a fleece hoody and tucked my hair up under my hat. I looked like ass. And it turns out, it meant I felt like ass too.

I'm not placing all the blame on my sweats. There are other factors at play here. Like my children. The youngest continues to be an asshole and this time I'm referring to his tendency to come sleep with us in the night. There is not enough room at the inn. So I take him back to bed, and within an hour or two, he's back. We sometimes do this up to three times a night. This does not equal a rested me. It actually itches a very bitchy me. Especially first thing in the morning.

Christmas is coming and I can't quite decide how I feel about that just yet. I like Christmas. However, Christmas requires money. I don't care you are. And money is still in somewhat limited supply around here. Not as bad as last year when the piece of shit my husband was working for stopped paying him, but it's still tight. On the positive side though I am at home. I can shop on a Monday morning. I don't have to cram my baking into the two days before Christmas if I was lucky enough to get them off of work. I don't have to return to work after Christmas. I'll be working, but from my home. So there definitely is an upside.

Bottom line is, and that my friends, was one of Gold Star's all time favourite sayings, I need to get myself out of this house. Not allow myself to be lulled by the promise of sweats and un-styled hair every day. It just doesn't do this body good. And as a kind friend warned me, I need to keep an eye on 'things' because sweat pants don't get tight. Or at least not until a good 20 or 30 pounds has been gained, so jeans, once or twice a week (I'm not going to get crazy here), will serve more than one purpose.

As a special festive treat to you all, I've decided to re-post some of the infamous blogs that got me fired. Why not? What can they say about it now? I guess I'll find out!