Miss Obscurity

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.

Just Call Me Grace

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

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

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

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

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

No joke.

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

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

Just call me Grace.