Tomorrow was one of those mornings where I revelled in having four children and a menagerie of pets.
I had a pounding headache thanks to the head cold that has overstayed it's welcome and I was yet to have my coffee. I slept in. Really, all in all it was just a great start to my day.
Then I came downstairs. One child was on his hands and knees wiping something up with paper towel. I chose not to ask what or why. The oldest child needed help with something on the computer. The four year old was doing gymnastics on the couch. I so get why some mothers with a lot of kids get up at 5 a.m. just to get a moment to themselves. But some of them use that time to read the Bible (saw it on TLC, if you can imagine) and pretty sure I'm not giving up two hours of sleep for Bible study. I think Jebus prefers me well rested because I'm slightly less mean...
So I got people fed, provided some IT support and sat here at the computer desk taking it all in. By this time my 15 year old daughter had joined the fun. I was and still am in my pajamas. I was sitting with my legs crossed causing one pajama pant leg to ride up. Daughter noticed this instantly and asked if it didn't "drive (me) crazy"?! Um, no. They are pajamas. I don't care. She did not appreciate this response and so I adjusted said rebel pant leg and carried on.
By carrying on I mean I yelled at my two youngest boys to eat their breakfast and stop wrestling. Suddenly all four kids stopped and were laughing and calling out our older dog's name. It took me a minute to catch on. I could see the rapidly growing mess on the kids' table where they eat their breakfast. What I couldn't see was the 75 lb. Golden Retriever under the table attempting to help 'clean up' the mess being made by the hooligans. Yes, every time the dog moved ahead in an attempt to score another Froot Loop or some milk, the entire table moved causing more spillage.
I was left with no other choice but to laugh. There was a huge mess being made and I knew it would mean floor washing after everyone was gone to school but it was funny and all four of them were in the same room and were laughing and not hitting or yelling at each other.
Bliss.
Then the older children left for school and I resumed hurrying along the other ones to finish their breakfast. My 8 year old came up to me with his hand held up and milk running down his arm in sheer panic. Whatever should or could he hope to do about this situation?!
My reply: "We're not rich but we have the basics; running water, soap and towels. Head to the bathroom (a mere 15 feet away) and wash up."
He did so.
Some of you probably think this is too sarcastic and there is no place for that in parenting. Some of you should probably leave. This is a child who reads above grade level, has a real aptitude for math, can beat his father at XBox and runs his favourite hockey line like a pro. Washing his hands when they are dirty? Should not be a stumbling block in his day to day life.
Further to that, and this is where the positivity and sunlight come pouring in, it dawned on me, we are absolutely not rich. But we do have the basics. And I know there are many that don't. And I know that even though we do not go on vacations, we do not shop at will, there are things we want and can't afford, we have what we need.
And this morning, I needed to see those four maniacs sharing a laugh and one of those asinine animals was the cause of said laugh and it just made me feel good.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Hot & Bothered
I'm hot, flushed and short of breath.
Some of you are thinking, "Oh, you naughty girl! A little morning delight?"
Yep, that's exactly what it was that has gotten me in such a state. If by morning delight you mean cleaning up the offal of the menagerie of animals I've chosen to accumulate. Yes, chose. So I am entirely to blame but that doesn't mean I don't question my choices.
I have two cats and two dogs. Melody was the very first pet my two oldest children and I acquired almost 11 years ago. She was the cutest kitten ever. Justine, who was not quite five at the time, christened her 'Princess Melody'. Right off the bat, the Princess was quite vocal. I thought maybe this was because she was home alone all day while I was at work and the kids were at school. So, late November of the very same year, I brought home Callie. Callie is a bitchy Calico cat who is the only one who does no harm around here.
This is further proof that being a bitch is where it's at.
Then I married Ryan. Ryan is more of a dog person. So when his uncle offered to help us get a puppy to repay our son for a very good deed, I was swayed. Besides, who can resist a Golden Retriever puppy?! Not I. Welcome Toby. Welcome Toby and the roughly 17 pounds of hair he sheds each and every day whether I brush him religiously or not. Welcome Toby of the sensitive stomach who's vomit, when sick, is the only kind that has ever made me vomit while cleaning it up.
So, cut to July 2010. Probably losing my job. Seems like the best time ever to purchase yet another dog. Really didn't have any intention but went into a pet store, on a whim one day, and fell in love with the asshole we now call Chuy (pronounced 'Chewy' but if you spell it like get a clue and watch a little Chelsea Lately).
Chuy is a Shitzu-Yorkie mix. His dad was 5 lbs and his mom was 10 lbs (so clearly his dad was also a chubby chaser). I assumed this would yield roughly a 7-8 pound dog that I would tote along with me wherever I went, just like the celebs do.
Chuy weighs 15+ pounds and is a sloth who likes to eat bathroom garbage, shit in the basement and piss in my 8 year old's room when he can't get into ours. He is nearly two.
When I told my Dad about this problem he offered a suggestion I figured was worthwhile. He suggested I put puppy pads in the rooms where he still chooses to relieve himself in and at the very least it'd be easier to clean up and might the final step towards training him on all three levels of the house.
Great idea! Sure, why not. I have puppy pads already because Melody, the eldest, likes to stand in the litter box (which was upgraded to a Rubbermaid container a few years ago at the suggestion of a good friend who has a lot of cats and seems to know what she's doing) and piss up against the wall. So one corner of our laundry room is cordoned off with plastic walls, floor, puppy pads and a giant fucking container for a litter box and there is still piss everywhere.
So I set out the puppy pads. The ones I put in the basement seemed to create a nice soft place for Chuy to stand on while he shit on the carpet. His feet remained pristine, I imagine, while the carpet did not. The one I put in my son's room? Got kicked around the room and mangled untiI I threw it out. Besides, Chuy hadn't peed in there in ages. Seems like the problem was solved!
Or he was simply waiting for me to remove the offending pad so he could get right back in there and find new places to pee.
If I'm so uptight, why don't I get rid of them?
Ugh, because they are part of the freaking family. They all have middle names: Melody Ann, Callie Beatrice, Tobias Henry and Chuy Alejandro (our little Latino friend). I do specific 'voices' for each one.
I may be slightly crazy but mostly attached and can't imagine what would run through each of their individual minds if we were to find them new homes.
So instead, every day or every other day I am hunched in the corner of the laundry room, scooping litter, changing pads, wiping the entire area down with paper towel, Lysol wipes and then spraying it with a heavy-duty pet odour remover. Then if the door to the family room in the basement has accidentally been left open, I go in to take care of turd removal.
So here I sit, hot, sweaty and slightly grateful for the head cold ruining my very existence right now because it meant today I was unable to smell anything. I am grateful for this. See? See how I put a positive spin on everything?! Man, I'm getting so good at this positivity stuff.
Some of you are thinking, "Oh, you naughty girl! A little morning delight?"
Yep, that's exactly what it was that has gotten me in such a state. If by morning delight you mean cleaning up the offal of the menagerie of animals I've chosen to accumulate. Yes, chose. So I am entirely to blame but that doesn't mean I don't question my choices.
I have two cats and two dogs. Melody was the very first pet my two oldest children and I acquired almost 11 years ago. She was the cutest kitten ever. Justine, who was not quite five at the time, christened her 'Princess Melody'. Right off the bat, the Princess was quite vocal. I thought maybe this was because she was home alone all day while I was at work and the kids were at school. So, late November of the very same year, I brought home Callie. Callie is a bitchy Calico cat who is the only one who does no harm around here.
This is further proof that being a bitch is where it's at.
Then I married Ryan. Ryan is more of a dog person. So when his uncle offered to help us get a puppy to repay our son for a very good deed, I was swayed. Besides, who can resist a Golden Retriever puppy?! Not I. Welcome Toby. Welcome Toby and the roughly 17 pounds of hair he sheds each and every day whether I brush him religiously or not. Welcome Toby of the sensitive stomach who's vomit, when sick, is the only kind that has ever made me vomit while cleaning it up.
So, cut to July 2010. Probably losing my job. Seems like the best time ever to purchase yet another dog. Really didn't have any intention but went into a pet store, on a whim one day, and fell in love with the asshole we now call Chuy (pronounced 'Chewy' but if you spell it like get a clue and watch a little Chelsea Lately).
Chuy is a Shitzu-Yorkie mix. His dad was 5 lbs and his mom was 10 lbs (so clearly his dad was also a chubby chaser). I assumed this would yield roughly a 7-8 pound dog that I would tote along with me wherever I went, just like the celebs do.
Chuy weighs 15+ pounds and is a sloth who likes to eat bathroom garbage, shit in the basement and piss in my 8 year old's room when he can't get into ours. He is nearly two.
When I told my Dad about this problem he offered a suggestion I figured was worthwhile. He suggested I put puppy pads in the rooms where he still chooses to relieve himself in and at the very least it'd be easier to clean up and might the final step towards training him on all three levels of the house.
Great idea! Sure, why not. I have puppy pads already because Melody, the eldest, likes to stand in the litter box (which was upgraded to a Rubbermaid container a few years ago at the suggestion of a good friend who has a lot of cats and seems to know what she's doing) and piss up against the wall. So one corner of our laundry room is cordoned off with plastic walls, floor, puppy pads and a giant fucking container for a litter box and there is still piss everywhere.
So I set out the puppy pads. The ones I put in the basement seemed to create a nice soft place for Chuy to stand on while he shit on the carpet. His feet remained pristine, I imagine, while the carpet did not. The one I put in my son's room? Got kicked around the room and mangled untiI I threw it out. Besides, Chuy hadn't peed in there in ages. Seems like the problem was solved!
Or he was simply waiting for me to remove the offending pad so he could get right back in there and find new places to pee.
If I'm so uptight, why don't I get rid of them?
Ugh, because they are part of the freaking family. They all have middle names: Melody Ann, Callie Beatrice, Tobias Henry and Chuy Alejandro (our little Latino friend). I do specific 'voices' for each one.
I may be slightly crazy but mostly attached and can't imagine what would run through each of their individual minds if we were to find them new homes.
So instead, every day or every other day I am hunched in the corner of the laundry room, scooping litter, changing pads, wiping the entire area down with paper towel, Lysol wipes and then spraying it with a heavy-duty pet odour remover. Then if the door to the family room in the basement has accidentally been left open, I go in to take care of turd removal.
So here I sit, hot, sweaty and slightly grateful for the head cold ruining my very existence right now because it meant today I was unable to smell anything. I am grateful for this. See? See how I put a positive spin on everything?! Man, I'm getting so good at this positivity stuff.
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Seventh Deadly Sin
I have had a few different posts rattle through my brains in the past couple of days but this is the first I've thought to sit down and try to get them out. Problem is I was quite angry when these posts hit me (as is usually the case) and I am not angry now. I am sort of defeated and fighting the beginnings of a head cold but not really angry.
Why was I so enraged? When aren't I enraged (with the exception of this morning)?
Hockey. Small towns. People's inability to respect other people's (specifically my own, time).
Morning. Eating chocolate. Drinking vodka. Sleeping.
If you aren't following, the first list contains the answers to self-imposed question one and the second list, answers to self-imposed question 2.
I am kind of a morning person. I like mornings and am generally more productive in the morning. Chocolate always makes me happy until I realize its consumption leads to tight pants. Drinking vodka used to be tons of fun but is now something I rarely do and even more so, something I seem to enjoy less. The hangover isn't worth it and/or I'm with people I am uncomfortable actually getting drunk with. Boo. Sleeping is pretty self-explanatory although I do sometimes, shockingly, have angry dreams.
Hockey in general does not make me angry. I quite like it. I really like watching my 8 year old son play. He is good at it. This may sound like bragging and potentially it is, but honestly being someone who can still not stop on skates without the aid of the boards or another body? His 'prowess' delights and intrigues me! My son, a skater! And he loves hockey and he studies it and he knows it. This leads to my having turned into one of the crazies who thinks maybe, just maybe, he'll go somewhere with it.
However, given where we live, I am going to potentially have to make some drastic changes to my way of life, or really, just my personality. I despise hypocrites. I go out of my way to not be one and unfortunately in my slightly underdeveloped brain this equates with my thinking if I do not like someone, they should know this in no uncertain terms. However, based on this small town I live in, hockey politics (sadly they do exist outside of the NHL, in full force; even in Novice B hockey), and the actions of a friend yesterday, I think I need to grow the fuck up and learn how to tolerate, politely, those whom I cannot stand.
I am capable of this. I managed it quite well in my previous professional career, to an extent. When it served my well being I suppose, and I guess it's time to go back there. Smile and nod. If I haven't got anything nice to say, make some shit up. Deal. Grow the fuck up.
I am almost 35 and have a failed career, to an extent, to show for it. I am capable of a stubbornness like no other and this has brought me to this very financially unstable place I am today.
Being a Type A control freak who borders on perfectionism (I am scarily in danger of becoming a real loser as I shy away from doing things I don't think I am instantly and perfectly able to), this is hard to swallow. I am smarter than this. I am capable. I was mature before my time in many ways but in the last two years I have regressed to an unacceptable place. It's paralyzing. I crave control and right now it eludes me. I have control over very little-or at least not the level of control I want or the right kind. So it's time to change this up. I don't even know how or why. I only know that whether or not my son is destined for the NHL or otherwise, I will not get in his way because of pride.
Pride has gotten me to where I am today and there are much less accolades and rewards than I imagined. There is only loneliness, a sense of failure, loss and frustration. Time to turn around.
Why was I so enraged? When aren't I enraged (with the exception of this morning)?
Hockey. Small towns. People's inability to respect other people's (specifically my own, time).
Morning. Eating chocolate. Drinking vodka. Sleeping.
If you aren't following, the first list contains the answers to self-imposed question one and the second list, answers to self-imposed question 2.
I am kind of a morning person. I like mornings and am generally more productive in the morning. Chocolate always makes me happy until I realize its consumption leads to tight pants. Drinking vodka used to be tons of fun but is now something I rarely do and even more so, something I seem to enjoy less. The hangover isn't worth it and/or I'm with people I am uncomfortable actually getting drunk with. Boo. Sleeping is pretty self-explanatory although I do sometimes, shockingly, have angry dreams.
Hockey in general does not make me angry. I quite like it. I really like watching my 8 year old son play. He is good at it. This may sound like bragging and potentially it is, but honestly being someone who can still not stop on skates without the aid of the boards or another body? His 'prowess' delights and intrigues me! My son, a skater! And he loves hockey and he studies it and he knows it. This leads to my having turned into one of the crazies who thinks maybe, just maybe, he'll go somewhere with it.
However, given where we live, I am going to potentially have to make some drastic changes to my way of life, or really, just my personality. I despise hypocrites. I go out of my way to not be one and unfortunately in my slightly underdeveloped brain this equates with my thinking if I do not like someone, they should know this in no uncertain terms. However, based on this small town I live in, hockey politics (sadly they do exist outside of the NHL, in full force; even in Novice B hockey), and the actions of a friend yesterday, I think I need to grow the fuck up and learn how to tolerate, politely, those whom I cannot stand.
I am capable of this. I managed it quite well in my previous professional career, to an extent. When it served my well being I suppose, and I guess it's time to go back there. Smile and nod. If I haven't got anything nice to say, make some shit up. Deal. Grow the fuck up.
I am almost 35 and have a failed career, to an extent, to show for it. I am capable of a stubbornness like no other and this has brought me to this very financially unstable place I am today.
Being a Type A control freak who borders on perfectionism (I am scarily in danger of becoming a real loser as I shy away from doing things I don't think I am instantly and perfectly able to), this is hard to swallow. I am smarter than this. I am capable. I was mature before my time in many ways but in the last two years I have regressed to an unacceptable place. It's paralyzing. I crave control and right now it eludes me. I have control over very little-or at least not the level of control I want or the right kind. So it's time to change this up. I don't even know how or why. I only know that whether or not my son is destined for the NHL or otherwise, I will not get in his way because of pride.
Pride has gotten me to where I am today and there are much less accolades and rewards than I imagined. There is only loneliness, a sense of failure, loss and frustration. Time to turn around.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Drama School's Out
Couple of days ago I went on ad nauseum about how much I like my kids.
We are now two days into a week long break from school.
I still like them but I think we need a break. Nothing permanent, maybe just to see other people for awhile. You know, to remind us of how good we have it at home.
I banished the two youngest ones outside for roughly an hour this afternoon. It was a gorgeous day and they had a good time when they got out there. Of course they are my children so part of the play included "pretend hockey fighting". They had each other by their jacket collars and were throwing "pretend" punches at each other's heads. And they laughed while they did so.
I was so grateful for the quiet inside the house that when I witnessed this 'fun' game, the best I could muster up was a "be careful". Not, hey, don't engage in physical violence with one another. Or even a "hands off". Just "be careful".
The four year old came in with a bit of a nosebleed. He was unconcerned. I dealt with it quickly, provided him with a Kleenex to take outside with him and sent him back for Round 2.
Desperation for quiet makes even the most conscientious parent (not that I ever claimed to be such a thing) loosen the reins a little.
Then I allowed them in to watch TV and have popcorn. This guaranteed me another half hour of quiet. Then, all hell broke loose and at one point then both ended up in their respective rooms trying to outcry one another. And because we didn't leave the house today and because they are both ridiculous drama queens? I laughed. The keened like Irish women of old who'd lost their husband at sea...and they took turns trying to outdo one another.
This dramatic flair comes from their father. As much as I am quick tempered, impatient, critical and sometimes a downright Ice Queen, I am not dramatic. If I'm mad, I'm mad. The end. There is no great flair or flourish aside from my idiot savant use of foul language. Ryan, my husband, is fairly even tempered, patient, tolerant and friendly. And dramatic. We are definitely the epitome of opposites who attract and this in turn, has created quite the combination of traits in our offspring.
And so here we are; impatient, hot tempered, dramatic and stuck together for five more days before they return to school. And this doesn't even include the teenagers. One is away and the other is here. The other spent time designing a tattoo he hopes to get next month upon his 18th birthday. One is shopping and planning a ski trip later this week.
And me? I am eating too much chocolate (stupid discount Valentine chocolate). I am attempting to get some work done in the midst of requests for 75 snacks a day. I am attempting to talk to my grandma on the phone while tracking the sound of a pop bottle opening in the kitchen (Diet Root Beer is not allowed at 10:30 a.m.). I am trying to enjoy my children and I am trying not to run away from home and/or get day drunk.
All that being said, I do still like them.
Most of the time...
We are now two days into a week long break from school.
I still like them but I think we need a break. Nothing permanent, maybe just to see other people for awhile. You know, to remind us of how good we have it at home.
I banished the two youngest ones outside for roughly an hour this afternoon. It was a gorgeous day and they had a good time when they got out there. Of course they are my children so part of the play included "pretend hockey fighting". They had each other by their jacket collars and were throwing "pretend" punches at each other's heads. And they laughed while they did so.
I was so grateful for the quiet inside the house that when I witnessed this 'fun' game, the best I could muster up was a "be careful". Not, hey, don't engage in physical violence with one another. Or even a "hands off". Just "be careful".
The four year old came in with a bit of a nosebleed. He was unconcerned. I dealt with it quickly, provided him with a Kleenex to take outside with him and sent him back for Round 2.
Desperation for quiet makes even the most conscientious parent (not that I ever claimed to be such a thing) loosen the reins a little.
Then I allowed them in to watch TV and have popcorn. This guaranteed me another half hour of quiet. Then, all hell broke loose and at one point then both ended up in their respective rooms trying to outcry one another. And because we didn't leave the house today and because they are both ridiculous drama queens? I laughed. The keened like Irish women of old who'd lost their husband at sea...and they took turns trying to outdo one another.
This dramatic flair comes from their father. As much as I am quick tempered, impatient, critical and sometimes a downright Ice Queen, I am not dramatic. If I'm mad, I'm mad. The end. There is no great flair or flourish aside from my idiot savant use of foul language. Ryan, my husband, is fairly even tempered, patient, tolerant and friendly. And dramatic. We are definitely the epitome of opposites who attract and this in turn, has created quite the combination of traits in our offspring.
And so here we are; impatient, hot tempered, dramatic and stuck together for five more days before they return to school. And this doesn't even include the teenagers. One is away and the other is here. The other spent time designing a tattoo he hopes to get next month upon his 18th birthday. One is shopping and planning a ski trip later this week.
And me? I am eating too much chocolate (stupid discount Valentine chocolate). I am attempting to get some work done in the midst of requests for 75 snacks a day. I am attempting to talk to my grandma on the phone while tracking the sound of a pop bottle opening in the kitchen (Diet Root Beer is not allowed at 10:30 a.m.). I am trying to enjoy my children and I am trying not to run away from home and/or get day drunk.
All that being said, I do still like them.
Most of the time...
Monday, February 20, 2012
Winning & Welfare
Today was not the day I had planned. I am well known for being fairly rigid and not adapting well to not getting my way; whatever way that happens to be. And today was no exception.
It is Family Day here in Saskatchewan. People had their Family Day plans plastered all over Facebook and so Ryan and I decided we would jump on the bandwagon and take the boys skating this afternoon. Family fun! Skating, then maybe hot chocolate, maybe cookies, maybe a movie-hell for all I knew we were going to break out into a choreographed song and dance routine on the ice. (Highly unlikely as I can barely skate. Or sing. Or dance without the aid of alcohol).
Instead our day was very unlike this. There was singing. In the car. We let our 8 year old run the iPod. So we listened to a lot of popular music and ended with a little Justin Bieber. Then we settled on the radio for a bit. My husband turned up the volume on a song that made me question if maybe he was about to get his period for the first time...but I digress.
Before we even left town we stopped for a heart and family friendly lunch at McDonald's. This was due to the fact we needed groceries and nobody was much interested in another lunch of Kraft Dinner or peanut butter toast. So McDonald's is the obvious alternative (at least in the minds of our 8 and 4 year old).
We sat eating our cholesterol raising, Type 2 Diabetes promoting, heart attack waiting to happen lunch when I began eavesdropping on the folks behind me. And then the heart attack began stemming from my angry place more so than my lunch.
According to these, I'm sure highly educated folk, people on "welfare" would likely be better off living with one of them "shovelling their walks, cutting and watering their grass, and washing floors" then on actual assistance. That was the highlight of, again, what was a very intellectual conversation involving immigration. I angrily sucked back my child size chocolate shake (my attempt to pretend I am making healthy choices). And when I could stand it no more, I turned The Prophet himself was a nearly 400 lb. man. So apparently he can make choices that will continue to cost me as a tax payer but we shan't have immigrants coming in or anybody else for that matter living off of assistance.
This man could sit and spout bullshit all day long while his heart screamed in protest as he swallowed yet another Big Mac whole and then when his heart finally figures what's the point and stops screaming and attacks him instead? He will end up in hospital. We are lucky enough to not have to pay for a hospital stay here in Canada but that does not mean it's free. It's called taxes. Taxes I willingly and gladly pay for this privilege, just so we're clear. He will be told to make lifestyle changes. He will not listen. But I think I have the answer-you see if he really doesn't want to make any big changes, he could come to my house a few times a week and wash floors, clean bathrooms, clean the litter box, pick up dog shit...you know, things that would get him moving. An active lifestyle goes a long way toward health and longevity. And furthermore he'd be practising what he preaches. It's really win-win all the way around.
So my day didn't go as planned but I was lucky enough to end up with fodder for this post without revealing the real upset of my day and I made homemade Snickers bars. Again, I'm winning in a fashion that would make Charlie Sheen blush.
It is Family Day here in Saskatchewan. People had their Family Day plans plastered all over Facebook and so Ryan and I decided we would jump on the bandwagon and take the boys skating this afternoon. Family fun! Skating, then maybe hot chocolate, maybe cookies, maybe a movie-hell for all I knew we were going to break out into a choreographed song and dance routine on the ice. (Highly unlikely as I can barely skate. Or sing. Or dance without the aid of alcohol).
Instead our day was very unlike this. There was singing. In the car. We let our 8 year old run the iPod. So we listened to a lot of popular music and ended with a little Justin Bieber. Then we settled on the radio for a bit. My husband turned up the volume on a song that made me question if maybe he was about to get his period for the first time...but I digress.
Before we even left town we stopped for a heart and family friendly lunch at McDonald's. This was due to the fact we needed groceries and nobody was much interested in another lunch of Kraft Dinner or peanut butter toast. So McDonald's is the obvious alternative (at least in the minds of our 8 and 4 year old).
We sat eating our cholesterol raising, Type 2 Diabetes promoting, heart attack waiting to happen lunch when I began eavesdropping on the folks behind me. And then the heart attack began stemming from my angry place more so than my lunch.
According to these, I'm sure highly educated folk, people on "welfare" would likely be better off living with one of them "shovelling their walks, cutting and watering their grass, and washing floors" then on actual assistance. That was the highlight of, again, what was a very intellectual conversation involving immigration. I angrily sucked back my child size chocolate shake (my attempt to pretend I am making healthy choices). And when I could stand it no more, I turned The Prophet himself was a nearly 400 lb. man. So apparently he can make choices that will continue to cost me as a tax payer but we shan't have immigrants coming in or anybody else for that matter living off of assistance.
This man could sit and spout bullshit all day long while his heart screamed in protest as he swallowed yet another Big Mac whole and then when his heart finally figures what's the point and stops screaming and attacks him instead? He will end up in hospital. We are lucky enough to not have to pay for a hospital stay here in Canada but that does not mean it's free. It's called taxes. Taxes I willingly and gladly pay for this privilege, just so we're clear. He will be told to make lifestyle changes. He will not listen. But I think I have the answer-you see if he really doesn't want to make any big changes, he could come to my house a few times a week and wash floors, clean bathrooms, clean the litter box, pick up dog shit...you know, things that would get him moving. An active lifestyle goes a long way toward health and longevity. And furthermore he'd be practising what he preaches. It's really win-win all the way around.
So my day didn't go as planned but I was lucky enough to end up with fodder for this post without revealing the real upset of my day and I made homemade Snickers bars. Again, I'm winning in a fashion that would make Charlie Sheen blush.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
I Like My Children
Some of you will read that title and think: "Duh. Of course you do. Their your children." I, however, am of the belief that children are not instantaneously likeable by the mere fact that they are shorter and have charming speech impediments. Children are people, believe it or not. They have very distinct personalities. There are some people who proclaim "I LOVE KIDS!!". They also probably love anything animated, pastel and musicals*.
In short, they are annoying.
I barely like people so I apply the same rules to children as I do to adults. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate kids, I just don't believe in giving them a free pass because they have yet to see an R rated movie (depending on who their parents are, I suppose. I 'carefully' monitor what my children watch, to an extent, but have no problem whatsoever dropping the f word like it's hot and perhaps akin to oxygen in relation to my very existence).
This is why when I recently decided to begin volunteering in my 8 year old's classroom I had my doubts. I have a history of not really gelling with other people's children and figured this would really put things to the test. Great news though-apparently my son does not have to spend much time with assholes (aside from Yours Truly). The kids were all pretty decent and the ones that weren't, were just assholish enough that I appreciated it. The child who sat down to read for me and refused to make eye contact with me or the book and commanded that I read it to him? I admired his style. Especially when the bell rang and he looked at me over his glasses (which, for the record, is bad enough when adults do it but he's 7...and perhaps headed for his own episode on TLC's The Virgin Diaries) and announced "It's recess." Yep. Look at that, it is. And you will enjoy recess as soon as you read this book because I know that you can. To his credit, he read it. With zero expression but he read it. In a hurry. And then proceeded on to recess.
There were other highlights as well. Like when the entire class sang O Canada. Some of these kids are clearly waiting, with baited breath, for Canadian Idol to make a comeback. I snuck a glance or two at the teacher and noticed she was enjoying this as much as I. Some of the children were attempting to harmonize...enough said.
So what makes my children so great? Well, obviously yes they do have an advantage because they are mine and have inherited the gift of sarcasm. Sarcasm is really the way to my heart. And vodka. And chocolate. So basically if you are sarcastic (and not stupid-the two don't always go hand in hand), have chocolate and/or vodka, I will probably get along with you. They all love music. And decent music. Again, I will try pretty hard, until they are about 12 to make sure they don't catch a glimpse of an errant breast or 'worse' on TV but I will let them listen to Eminem's "Shake That Ass" or Sublime's "Wrong Way"... My children do not have college funds, per se (read: they don't have college funds. As of yet. Parenting fail.) but they do know who Ray Charles is and when the right time is (Night Time, keep up).
They don't take shit from anyone. Including me. My two older children impress me with their levels of assertiveness and confidence. The two little boys are only 8 and 4 but hold their own.
I just like them. Plain and simple. And I honestly believe this is key. I do happen to believe you love your child no matter what. There is no other love like it. But you can love somebody and not like them and I happen to be lucky enough to like my children. All four of them. That's not to say they are perfect and that at times I would prefer to be drunk on a beach far far away from each and everyone of them. But often, in those situations, they are acting an awful like their mother. I do possess a great deal of insight. This doesn't make it any easier but I do recognize when my own 'charm' is coming back to bite me in my fantastic ass.
And folks, this is yet another step towards the ray of sunshine that is part of my new positive perspective on life. Step One, in case it isn't clear, is liking your own offspring. Stay tuned for more inspiring tidbits of sunshiny optimism!
*For the record, I like musicals...it just fit well there (this is purely so my daughter, who I like very much, keeps liking me (the little bit that she does) ;)
In short, they are annoying.
I barely like people so I apply the same rules to children as I do to adults. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate kids, I just don't believe in giving them a free pass because they have yet to see an R rated movie (depending on who their parents are, I suppose. I 'carefully' monitor what my children watch, to an extent, but have no problem whatsoever dropping the f word like it's hot and perhaps akin to oxygen in relation to my very existence).
This is why when I recently decided to begin volunteering in my 8 year old's classroom I had my doubts. I have a history of not really gelling with other people's children and figured this would really put things to the test. Great news though-apparently my son does not have to spend much time with assholes (aside from Yours Truly). The kids were all pretty decent and the ones that weren't, were just assholish enough that I appreciated it. The child who sat down to read for me and refused to make eye contact with me or the book and commanded that I read it to him? I admired his style. Especially when the bell rang and he looked at me over his glasses (which, for the record, is bad enough when adults do it but he's 7...and perhaps headed for his own episode on TLC's The Virgin Diaries) and announced "It's recess." Yep. Look at that, it is. And you will enjoy recess as soon as you read this book because I know that you can. To his credit, he read it. With zero expression but he read it. In a hurry. And then proceeded on to recess.
There were other highlights as well. Like when the entire class sang O Canada. Some of these kids are clearly waiting, with baited breath, for Canadian Idol to make a comeback. I snuck a glance or two at the teacher and noticed she was enjoying this as much as I. Some of the children were attempting to harmonize...enough said.
So what makes my children so great? Well, obviously yes they do have an advantage because they are mine and have inherited the gift of sarcasm. Sarcasm is really the way to my heart. And vodka. And chocolate. So basically if you are sarcastic (and not stupid-the two don't always go hand in hand), have chocolate and/or vodka, I will probably get along with you. They all love music. And decent music. Again, I will try pretty hard, until they are about 12 to make sure they don't catch a glimpse of an errant breast or 'worse' on TV but I will let them listen to Eminem's "Shake That Ass" or Sublime's "Wrong Way"... My children do not have college funds, per se (read: they don't have college funds. As of yet. Parenting fail.) but they do know who Ray Charles is and when the right time is (Night Time, keep up).
They don't take shit from anyone. Including me. My two older children impress me with their levels of assertiveness and confidence. The two little boys are only 8 and 4 but hold their own.
I just like them. Plain and simple. And I honestly believe this is key. I do happen to believe you love your child no matter what. There is no other love like it. But you can love somebody and not like them and I happen to be lucky enough to like my children. All four of them. That's not to say they are perfect and that at times I would prefer to be drunk on a beach far far away from each and everyone of them. But often, in those situations, they are acting an awful like their mother. I do possess a great deal of insight. This doesn't make it any easier but I do recognize when my own 'charm' is coming back to bite me in my fantastic ass.
And folks, this is yet another step towards the ray of sunshine that is part of my new positive perspective on life. Step One, in case it isn't clear, is liking your own offspring. Stay tuned for more inspiring tidbits of sunshiny optimism!
*For the record, I like musicals...it just fit well there (this is purely so my daughter, who I like very much, keeps liking me (the little bit that she does) ;)
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
No Control
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.
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.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Shit that which Disturbs Me
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....
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....
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Chapped Lips & a Perm
I am now officially a hockey mom. This is my 7 year old son's third year in hockey but this is his first year where he actually gets to play games, for points, where someone notices who's won and who's lost. It is a big deal.
It is a big deal for most of these little boys who have been practising and learning to skate for at least two to three years prior to their first real game. Further to that, it's a big deal for their mothers. A bigger deal than I might have imagined. A bigger deal than I might think is normal or within the realm of common sense and decency.
I don't think I'm cut out to be a hockey mom. I like hockey. I like my children. You would think, therefore, there wouldn't be a problem. Wrong. See I generally am not a fan of small talk. I also am not a fan of those who 'put on airs'. I am not a fan of women. Don't get your panties in a bunch. I have some really good female friends. Oddly enough though, the three women I have at sometime or now still do consider my best friends, are women who generally get along better with men than women. My best friend ladies swear. They are direct. They are intelligent. They, I am quite certain, know the measure of importance that should be allotted to a Novice 'B' hockey game. For those of you unfamiliar with hockey, the Novice division is for 7 year old children.
7 Years Old.
This is important to remember for a number of reasons. Some of these children, it could be argued, are playing hockey because their parents want them too. Some of these children are playing hockey because they love it and have dreams of the NHL. Some of these children are playing because it's fun.
I do believe their mothers fall in the same category. I am not intentionally picking on moms. They are just who I'm spending time in the stands with at the rink. I have heard horror stories about the dads too and I'm sure in the years to come I will have those observations to share as well.
Some of the moms have encouraged their sons to play hockey because they love hockey or their husband loves hockey or because it's just what boys (in Canada, at least) are supposed to do. Some of the moms are supporting their sons playing hockey because their child loves it and is having fun. Some of the moms are supporting their children playing hockey because it apparently, in some way or another, defines who they are as a woman, a mother and human being.
These are the women I take issue with. The woman who sat in the stands at the very first game last weekend and literally screamed at her seven year old child and his team. She didn't scream anything that warranted intervention but one could surmise it was fairly intense and unnecessary at this level (or any for that matter) of hockey. And one other woman did surmise this. How she found the time to come to this realization is beyond me as she spends the better part of her time at the rink applying lip balm. It comes in handy when you kiss as much coordinator ass as she does. That being said, she did notice and instead of moving or choosing to ignore immature behaviour, she told this woman to "Shut up!" Apparently this was not well received.
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.
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.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Better
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Assholes & Cowards
I guess somewhere along the way I missed a memo. You know, the one that says adults should bully one another in the wake of someone else's passing. The one that said e-mail is an effective form of said bullying with Facebook being a close second. You see I thought this sort of behaviour only existed among the pre-teen and teenager crowd. Little did I know it's a new phenomenon among the Baby Boomer set.
My uncle passed away last month. For those of you who follow along, you know this. I spoke at his funeral. I wrote a eulogy and shared it. In said eulogy I spoke of his generosity, kindness, coolness, sense of humour, and maybe most importantly at present, his non-judgemental demeanour.
See some of these people he treated with such kindness and tolerance and not to mention generosity of the grandest kind, have chosen to act like complete assholes since his passing and in direct relation to his passing. They have chosen to bully.
They are not bullying me. Nope. And I'm not sure if it's because I'm still viewed as a child by these people who've known me since I was a child or if it's because I'm not an easy target. Or at least not viewed as such.
I would actually prefer if these cowards directed their dick-less sentiments towards myself as I am more equipped and prepared to deal with them than others. I don't like it. I don't like shaking and then weeping from anger. I don't like feeling like my life was sort of settling down and back under control only to have to manage another shit storm, but I will do it. I will do it because nobody deserves to be bullied.
I will do it because I can.
I will do it because I want to.
I will do it because there are far too many people on this Godforsaken planet that think it's okay to victimize, bully and disrespect rather than engage in open discussion, respect and tolerance. They would rather judge without knowing. Blame without thinking. Hurt without caring.
Even though it is no longer my profession to protect vulnerable individuals, I will continue to do so as long as I'm able. Should those individuals be related to me, expect me to come at you with force.
My son recently wrote an assignment for English where he likened me to a mother lion. It made me laugh at the time but there is truth in that. I will go to great lengths to protect and defend my own and anyone who chooses to willfully and knowingly hurt them, physically or emotionally, will not go uncorrected.
My uncle, as I said, was kind, generous, patient and without judgement.
I am kind, generous and without judgement in the grand scheme of things. I am not patient. I am not tolerant of assholes but more importantly, I am not tolerant of cowardice and lately, I am faced with both of these attributes much more than I might have ever imagined. At least among the supposedly educated, spiritual and mature individuals presenting in this manner.
It is exhausting, disappointing and frustrating but then again, so are assholes and cowards.
My uncle passed away last month. For those of you who follow along, you know this. I spoke at his funeral. I wrote a eulogy and shared it. In said eulogy I spoke of his generosity, kindness, coolness, sense of humour, and maybe most importantly at present, his non-judgemental demeanour.
See some of these people he treated with such kindness and tolerance and not to mention generosity of the grandest kind, have chosen to act like complete assholes since his passing and in direct relation to his passing. They have chosen to bully.
They are not bullying me. Nope. And I'm not sure if it's because I'm still viewed as a child by these people who've known me since I was a child or if it's because I'm not an easy target. Or at least not viewed as such.
I would actually prefer if these cowards directed their dick-less sentiments towards myself as I am more equipped and prepared to deal with them than others. I don't like it. I don't like shaking and then weeping from anger. I don't like feeling like my life was sort of settling down and back under control only to have to manage another shit storm, but I will do it. I will do it because nobody deserves to be bullied.
I will do it because I can.
I will do it because I want to.
I will do it because there are far too many people on this Godforsaken planet that think it's okay to victimize, bully and disrespect rather than engage in open discussion, respect and tolerance. They would rather judge without knowing. Blame without thinking. Hurt without caring.
Even though it is no longer my profession to protect vulnerable individuals, I will continue to do so as long as I'm able. Should those individuals be related to me, expect me to come at you with force.
My son recently wrote an assignment for English where he likened me to a mother lion. It made me laugh at the time but there is truth in that. I will go to great lengths to protect and defend my own and anyone who chooses to willfully and knowingly hurt them, physically or emotionally, will not go uncorrected.
My uncle, as I said, was kind, generous, patient and without judgement.
I am kind, generous and without judgement in the grand scheme of things. I am not patient. I am not tolerant of assholes but more importantly, I am not tolerant of cowardice and lately, I am faced with both of these attributes much more than I might have ever imagined. At least among the supposedly educated, spiritual and mature individuals presenting in this manner.
It is exhausting, disappointing and frustrating but then again, so are assholes and cowards.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Remembering
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.
My uncle died on September 1st. He was only 49 when he died. His death was not entirely unexpected but that doesn't make it any easier and I'm sure anyone who's lost anyone can attest to this.
My uncle was a quadriplegic and had been for nearly 30 years at the time of his death.
For those of you who don't know what that means, it means he was paralyzed from the neck down. Actually, he did have some range of motion in his shoulders so he could operate his power chair, feed himself, type, etc. However, for many people this would not have been enough. This would have given them every excuse to be a bitter hateful and angry person.
Steve was the opposite of all of these things.
There is nobody I tried harder to be funnier around and secretly swelled with pride when something I said did make him laugh. He was so fucking funny. He was smart. We took one University class together and it was another of the proudest moments of my life. I kept up with him in class and took great delight in this. Not out of competitive spirit, well maybe a little, but mostly out of pride and the sheer desire to make him proud of me.
And I know that he was because he told me.
This was a man who rarely had a negative word for anyone unless they truly deserved it and in the end he usually could find something good about absolutely anyone. When I think of how negative and critical I often am, it makes me feel badly that I'm not as generous in spirit as he was.
Music makes our world go round in this house and that is due to two people, my mother and Steve. Steve bought me my first record-Michael Jackson's Thriller. He bought me cassette tapes for my birthday and gritted his teeth when I chose Milli Vanilli and agreed only to buy it if I got Belinda Carlisle as well.
He was a better writer than I can ever hope to be, which is clearly evidenced by this post. Thanks for bearing with me through my memories.
Our family is not functional and we don't even come close to putting the "fun in dysfunctional". There is nothing fun about it. Especially this evening.
There is only hate and pettiness and hurt.
These are words I would never associate with Steve but tonight, someone else chose to invoke those exact sentiments with their words.
I miss my uncle terribly. Heartbreakingly so. Today though, I had a better day. I started to feel like life was resuming some normalcy. And not thirty minutes ago I sat in front of this very computer vibrating with anger.
It was one of those moments where I was tempted to use my phrase: "I hate people". Something, again, Steve wouldn't say but tonight, it's how I felt. Only people work as hard to hurt one another as badly as possible and in this case, as publicly as possible.
To do that right now though, when maybe our best has been lost? Is beyond my comprehension.
All I can do is my best not to do that. At anytime. Unless called for...
We all remember my penchant for mafia and retaliation, right?
If not, I once was delighted to receive my very own limited edition of Scarface for Christmas from my husband, then another Christmas it was The Godfather Trilogy. I loved the Sopranos and now I have a club of motorcycle enthusiasts after my own heart in Charming (Sons of Anarchy, keep up, won't you?) Bottom line is, while I do not endorse the murder or any other illegal activities, I do endorse protecting your own and making those who hurt yours, pay. I'm not going to shank anyone or anything like that. I've always been much better with words. And words, I will use and with more effect, style and strength than he could ever hope to.
In closing, I choose to believe in Heaven. A Heaven where Steve walks and runs and dances to all the greatest music this world has to offer. He is up there having a great time with my uncles Ken and Doug. And I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm even a little jealous because he gets to be with his dad, my Grandpa, again. Losing Steve has only been second to losing my Grandpa for me and now they are together. Trying to outdo one another with their humour, wit and maybe even playing some dirty pool. I would say may the best man win, but in this case it can only ever be a tie.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
One Bike & a Ball Short
Do optimists ever have days when they just say fuck it? Or do they truly look at every situation, no matter how shit filled and say, "On the bright side, it's solid shit and therefore easier to clean up than diarrhea."
I can't help but ponder these sorts of things. I've been feeling quite upbeat and positive lately but I keep hitting roadblocks and feel myself slip into the comfortable role of angry victim. Thing is I'm tired of being an angry victim and the people or situations creating that opportunity for the angry victim to emerge? Are not angry. Or victimized. Or even aware they are being assholes.
So why would I waste my energy on being angry and indignant when they're fucking sitting in la-la land thinking about what a great awesome better than whoever person they are. The same goes for situations beyond ones control.
Some things though, are in my control and I do believe it's time to start acting on them.
For instance, 40 year old men ogling my 14 YEAR OLD daughter, are going to fucking start feeling victimized. And angry. They will be angry I wrecked their bike when I hit them with my fucking Crossover SUV/minivan type of vehicle. They will feel victimized when I've lopped off one of their balls and placed it every so gently in their mouths while repeatedly kicking them in what's left of their diseased pervert penis.
Seriously. I've started noticing this more and more lately. My daughter is a pretty girl. When boys her age look, I notice, am not thrilled, but I am not stupid enough to think they aren't going to notice and that it's not normal behaviour. But, if you are a 40 year old man, all "tatted up", tanned in a fashion to make Snooki jealous and have your greasy sick pedophile hair in a pony tail on the top of your head and you check her out once? You are sick and fucked and I really wish I would've just given you a gentle nudge with my minivan on steroids. But when you turn around to get a second look?
If only I didn't have the bare minimum of normals and impulse control I could handle this in a fashion to make Tony Soprano or Jax Teller proud and carry on with my day. And because I wish I was either affiliated with the mob (only in a fictional TV, Good Fellas sense) or some body's "old lady" (again, only in a SOA, again fictional sense), this is the way I will choose to handle any further over-aged leering at my daughter.
So anyway, while trying to find my positive inner self, I'm faced with obstacles such as the one mentioned above.
There are others as well. Too numerous and ultimately personal to mention. I am not one of those lucky bloggers who can write freely. I need watch my P's and Q's for the greater good. Apparently my old job was not for the greater good.
And I'm okay with that.
So I guess today's moral is, positivity is a state of mind. Assholes are generally not aware they are assholes nor do they care. And middle aged leering creeps? Shall soon be one bike and a ball short.
I can't help but ponder these sorts of things. I've been feeling quite upbeat and positive lately but I keep hitting roadblocks and feel myself slip into the comfortable role of angry victim. Thing is I'm tired of being an angry victim and the people or situations creating that opportunity for the angry victim to emerge? Are not angry. Or victimized. Or even aware they are being assholes.
So why would I waste my energy on being angry and indignant when they're fucking sitting in la-la land thinking about what a great awesome better than whoever person they are. The same goes for situations beyond ones control.
Some things though, are in my control and I do believe it's time to start acting on them.
For instance, 40 year old men ogling my 14 YEAR OLD daughter, are going to fucking start feeling victimized. And angry. They will be angry I wrecked their bike when I hit them with my fucking Crossover SUV/minivan type of vehicle. They will feel victimized when I've lopped off one of their balls and placed it every so gently in their mouths while repeatedly kicking them in what's left of their diseased pervert penis.
Seriously. I've started noticing this more and more lately. My daughter is a pretty girl. When boys her age look, I notice, am not thrilled, but I am not stupid enough to think they aren't going to notice and that it's not normal behaviour. But, if you are a 40 year old man, all "tatted up", tanned in a fashion to make Snooki jealous and have your greasy sick pedophile hair in a pony tail on the top of your head and you check her out once? You are sick and fucked and I really wish I would've just given you a gentle nudge with my minivan on steroids. But when you turn around to get a second look?
If only I didn't have the bare minimum of normals and impulse control I could handle this in a fashion to make Tony Soprano or Jax Teller proud and carry on with my day. And because I wish I was either affiliated with the mob (only in a fictional TV, Good Fellas sense) or some body's "old lady" (again, only in a SOA, again fictional sense), this is the way I will choose to handle any further over-aged leering at my daughter.
So anyway, while trying to find my positive inner self, I'm faced with obstacles such as the one mentioned above.
There are others as well. Too numerous and ultimately personal to mention. I am not one of those lucky bloggers who can write freely. I need watch my P's and Q's for the greater good. Apparently my old job was not for the greater good.
And I'm okay with that.
So I guess today's moral is, positivity is a state of mind. Assholes are generally not aware they are assholes nor do they care. And middle aged leering creeps? Shall soon be one bike and a ball short.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Darn.
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.
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.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
The Church of Penny Lane
This morning I had two visitors at my door. I wondered who the heck would be coming to our house this morning and using the front door, no less. I peered out the window and immediately figured out who and also immediately wondered why.
Nonetheless, I opened the door. I did not open the screen door but this did not stop the young man for launching into conversation. Turns out, as luck would have it, he was here, with his friend Ken, to tell me about God.
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.
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.
Friday, July 1, 2011
National Holidays & Altercations at Super Wal-Mart
I should begin by wishing all my fellow Canadians the Happiest of Canada Days! Mine was quite unpatriotic. We spent a good part of the day getting ready to go camping tomorrow and then saw Transformers 3. In 3-D. I add that only because it was the first time I'd done so and I liked it.
Part of our camping preparation included a trip to Super Wal-Mart in Regina after dropping off our daughter. She has chosen to instead camp with her best friend and said best friend's family rather than her own. She's 14.
Anyway, off we went. Shopped and shopped and by the time we were done, both my caffeine and patience had worn off. I was unloading the cart and my boys asked me if they could go look at the games. You know, those godforsaken sort of mini-arcade games that you could likely feed $100 to in 10 minutes and still not get a crappy stuffed animal? Those ones. They just wanted to look and since it was right within my line of vision, I let them. My husband and I continued unloading. They continued playing and at one point asked me for money with which to play the game. I said no.
Next time I looked up, the fucking Crypt Keeper (elderly female Greeter) was speaking sternly to my boys. At this point I feel I may have resembled a predator who catches the scent of it's prey. Dramatic? Yes, but I generally come off as very unapproachable unless I make a conscious effort not to (read: I look bitchy ALL of the time; mostly because I am). Then the boys returned to our check out and Reese, my 7 year old, was flushed and trying very hard not to cry.
What. The. Fuck.
For the record (what record, I'm not sure), they were simply pretending to play the game. They were not 'reefing' on the stupid joystick and the goddamn game was out of order anyway. Reese kept telling us that he didn't see the 'Out of Order' sign. We told him that he had done nothing wrong.This is important for later.
Ryan and I begin to discuss this old bitch's fate while we finished checking out. Find a manager? At this point I'd had my fill of people. Oh wait, new detail: Reese tells Ryan that the old bitch grabbed him by the wrist when she approached them. Really?! REALLY?! What is it about MY children that makes people think it is okay to physically discipline them in any way whatsoever? Yes, this was only one woman. I am not at liberty to discuss any and all previous incident(s).
This explains the near tears. He's a sensitive boy but had she just said: "Please don't touch", and left it at that, I doubt he would've looked quite as stricken.
So, we took our boys and made our way to the doors. Myself, 5'7", of formidable size and looking motherfucking pissed off, followed by my 6'4" 250 lb+ husband, appearing equally pissed off. I walk faster than my spouse on any given day, and I was mad, and his ankle was sore, and he was pushing the cart, so he was more than a few steps behind.
I beelined for her. Ryan said he watched her see me and attempt to avoid. Um, guess what Grandma, you have nowhere to go. Stay at the fucking door and greet me. Once confronted, one of us on each side, she kept repeating: "The machine is broken". My husband replied: "How are they going to make it any more broken?" He was like a machine. This makes him infuriating to argue with but is super when watching him apply his tactics to others. I shared it was 'unnecessary' to touch my child EVER. She denied it. Um, no. He has no fucking reason to lie and is about as good as hiding his emotions as I am and is a bad liar to boot. HE WAS NOT LYING AND NOW YOU SHALL BURN IN YOU KNOW WHERE AND BY THE THE LOOKS OF YOU, IT WON'T BE LONG.
I walked away, Ryan shared a few more words with her and we left.
We don't spank our children. I did spank my two oldest ones and I regret it. I am older now and more empathetic and do not see how hitting them is going to get any sort of message across about behaviour. Now this old 'see you next Tuesday' does not know this but given she doesn't know my children and is an employee? Hands-the-fuck-off. I am contemplating writing a strongly worded letter.
The rational side of me has only this to say in her defense: She should be retired. She was for real old and her out-of-the-box red hair is not hiding that in any way, shape or form. Must suck, at her age, to have to be a Wal-Mart greeter. That being said, if dealing with the public isn't your "thing", go the fuck home or get a different job.
Then the real me takes over and wishes I would've went off on her a little harder.
I recognize this does not paint me in a favourable light but if you haven't figured out by now that I'm mean, I can't help you. Mean and protective of things that are mine.
In hindsight, she's lucky I didn't drop her.
Happy Canada Day!
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!
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