Never Say Never

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

Yeah.  I'm cool like that.

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

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

What else should I write about?

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Easter Mothertruckers.

Does Don Cherry Suck it In?

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

It's great.  My very own Cliff Claven.

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

I hate Mariah Carey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello, Lover

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

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

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

I am nothing if not hardcore.

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

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

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

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

If you believe that?  We should be friends.

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

Again, You Must Travel

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

Common Denominator

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

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

I'm a winner.

Sorry. 

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

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

Need I say more?

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

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

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

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

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

Sinatra Inspires Shameful Confessions

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

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

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

Sinatra.

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

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

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

I was hot, frazzled and felt like ass. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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