Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Misery loves company, so get in here, bitches.

WARNING: This here is a post about PMS. If you have a penis or even just a weak stomach, you may want to stop reading here. This post is not intended for infants, the elderly, or basically anyone else including me. This post should not be used to mistreat or misdiagnose any exact medical conditions or any vague malaise, for that matter; if you suspect you have a horrific terminal disease, please Google your symptoms to confirm. (And if you're thinking about coming back here after diagnosing yourself with something seriously bad, like flesh-eating disease, and stealing my thunder with your complaints? You can fucking forget it. This is MY show and I will put you down with extreme prejudice.)

I am miserable. And not my regular type of miserable. The kind of miserable that calls up her BFFs Bitchy and Bloaty and they are all having a Pissy Attitude party and wearing 'I *heart* My Bad-itude' party hats and there's a matching tablecloth and banner. Did I mention the Pissy Attitude party was in my uterus? And Misery, Bitchy, and Bloaty are apparently smashing glass in there and then stomping on it. While slam-dancing. And practicing their WWE moves. Come to think of it, it's kind of like a bunch of 12 year old boys are having a sleepover.

My stomach hurts, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I don't want to eat, I can't stop eating. I stepped on the scale this morning and it said 165 lbs. Granted, I have put on 7 or 10 lbs from quitting smoking. (8 weeks today, heck yeah!) Possibly, it may also be due to factors such as eating 3.5 chocolate bars and two bags of chips in one day going a bit overboard with treats, on non-Free Day days. Really, though, I'm finding it hard enough to put down the damn fork long enough to type here. This chicken (fucking) casserole (AGAIN) is the first non-junk food thing I've eaten since breakfast. Seriously. If it weren't for drawstring work-out pants, I'd be forced to wear tight-ass jeans that would give me camel toe because of my bloated gut. Yeah, I'd pop the snap. So?

I'm cranky, and moody. One second I'm smiling and laughing, the next moment I'm the Thing What Is Trying To Kiss Sigorney Sigourney Sigurney ohfuckit The Chick In The Alien Movie. I have the best kids in the world who refuse to listen or pick up anything damn kids and I'm just a maid around here doing everything for these kids that are so awesome so Mama's handing out smoochers who wants one?

I want sex, no I don't want sex, I want sex but can you do all the work?

My face is breaking out in a giant Heater Patch with throbbing pimples everywhere. At last count, before I stopped counting, was five giant growths. On my face. One of them was like a collection of little pimples all mobbed together. I can't even exfoliate (and by that I mean "pick") because my skin is so sensitive what with all the effing PMS hormones racing around my bloodstream. I tried to pluck my eyebrows but noooooooo that hurt too much. So now I have giant Pizza face and grizzly bear eyebrows. What's that, grizzlies don't really have eyebrows because their faces are covered with hair? Yeah. Ex-ackally.

Can this stupid period just show up and put me out of my misery? The only thing worse than anticipating five days of gut-wrenching ass-dragging exhaustion is the actual gut-wrenching ass-dragging exhaustion. So can we do this already, uterus, and get it over with for another month?

Monday, September 28, 2009

A Totally Unoriginal Post

A while back, Hot Stuff called me unoriginal. Can you even imagine? Yeah, it's been rolling around in my brain, and I even made a small deal about it here.

What happened was, I had made a comment about something trivial and Hot Stuff said, "Don't say it like that, you sound just like Doreen. You always talk like your friends. Don't you have your own voice? You're so unoriginal."

Well, excuse the shite out of me.

You know what? I do sound like my friends. I pick up their little turns of phrase, their inflections, and their particular word choices, and I use them as my own. Usually, I sound like whichever friend I am talking to at that moment. Unconsciously (until now, obviously), I have been mimicking my friends. I never did it in a mocking way, I just did it.

Here's the really funny part: I see now that I have done it here, too. On my blog. Think you and I have a lot in common? We do. It's because I read you and like you and I have unconsciously taken your style of writing and added it to the mishmash of everything else I read and when I write something, a little bit of everyone shows up.

It's all about empathy: imitation is directly linked to building empathy. If I imitate you, then I will learn to better understand you, and therefore, I will have a better understanding of more people in the world. It's an automatic social behaviour.

If you see yourself here, do not be offended. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. I'm not copying you or "homaging" you or any of that bullshit. I am connecting with you, and I am subconsciously absorbing your style in order to bond better with you.

Don't you feel special now?

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Bedbugs, Bath, & Beyond

I don't know what is going on.

Yesterday, I was bullied by a daddy long legs in my daughter's room. Right before I went to bed, I read a newspaper article that said bedbugs are coming back with a vengeance. There are two moths that live on the wall in my upstairs bathroom. While I was in bed, a third moth flew in my face.

Today, one of my facebook friends found a BLACK WIDDER spider in her pantry. Also, I was completely creepered out by booshy's story. My daughter brought me a beetle by carrying it in her hand.

I wrote a post about Creepy Crawlies awhile ago. Just to refresh: I don't like bugs. I am afraid of bugs. However, it is against my spiritual beliefs to kill living things unless they give me a good reason, and fear just isn't a good enough reason. The only exceptions to that rule are:
A) My kids, because they give me lots of good reasons, but I'm (probably) going to let them live,
B)Mosquitoes, which I kill because they are an annoyance (not technically a good reason, but whatever), and
C) Any creeper, crawler, or flier that actually touches me, because then my phobia overrides my belief system and killing it is more like a reflex than intentional violence.

I fear the karmic retribution of killing bugs; specifically, that a large army of bugs will march in formation up my bedspread while I am in bed one night. Is all of this some kind of ominous warning or foreshadowing of events to come?

I am starting to get freaked out here, Universe. Do you want me to have a nervous breakdown?

Friday, September 25, 2009

Letters of Intent, Friday Sep 24/09

Letters of Intent

Letters of Intent is brought to you by Julie @ Foursons. Skip on over to her site and don't forget to bring your white-out.

Dear Government of Alberta,

This letter is in regards to the recent Child Tax Benefit* and GST Credit* assessment notices you sent me. Both letters state that I am not eligible because of my total family net income for 2008. Just in case no one has told you, and your computers are on the fritz, I wanted to point out that it is now 2009.

If I am reading these rejection letters correctly, it says that you are going to base my eligibility for Child Tax (and therefore, daycare subsidy) and GST for this year on income that was earned last year. Please note, last year's money has already been spent. We irresponsibly frittered it away on things like food, clothing, and shelter. There isn't any of it left for this year.

Frankly, Gov't of AB, your assessment criteria sucks. In today's economy, the financial stability of the common family fluctuates on a month-to-month, sometimes week-to-week, basis. How can you base eligibility and/or financial need using data that was only accurate 9 months ago? Does it not make more sense to use current financial information; say, income over the last six months or so?

I draw your attention to 2009; as you can see from our payroll taxes submitted so far this year, our income is much closer to take a penny than leave a penny.

I believe that I am entitled to special treatment, as I consider myself quite a unique snowflake, here for a short time but making the world better everyday. You guys go right ahead and bend the rules for me; just base my daycare subsidy on family income for the last six months (instead of on family income for all of 2008) so I qualify, and I will stop being Princess Pissypants about the whole thing. I would very much like to go back to work part-time and bring in some money, but we can't afford daycare for three children.

If you are not prepared to give me daycare subsidy, I will still (grudgingly) accept Child Tax Benefit and GST Credit in the form of direct deposit to my bank account. Again, with the entirely reasonable assessment criteria I have suggested, I will qualify. My bank account will always be ready to receive your funds, should there be any left after everyone in the various levels of your government has charged enough hookers to their expense accounts and diverted enough taxpayer money to their personal slush funds.

I will not be holding my breath waiting for your response. Benefit re-assessments will be done next July, so I am sure I will be hearing from you next September.


Stone Fox

*For my American friends, and also rich Canadian friends (bastards): child tax credit is a tax credit that the government pays monthly to families who qualify based on income and number of kids. GST credit is a monthly credit that the government pays to anybody who qualifies based on income. Amounts paid are dependent on income.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

In the words of my best friend, Doreen, "Do you want me to punch you in the head?"

Hot Stuff is the only person in my real life who knows I have a blog. Not even my sister or my best friends know about it: I am debating whether or not to tell them. So far, I have kept it private for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I want to be able to write what I want, when I want, about whomever I want. Secondly, I was a bit afraid my friends would think my writing was stupid.

I have come to realize that I am no less honest in real life than I am on my blog. I thought if people I knew in real life were reading, I might feel like I had to change the style or content so I don't offend anyone. You know what? The people who love me, love me. My people will tell me if their feelings get hurt. They know I'm tactless, blunt, and inappropriate. I make jokes about sensitive subject matter in real life way more that I do on my blog. At least here, I can edit out the really piss-poor stuff. All the other peripheral people in my real life who would be offended? They can kiss my ass if they don't like it.

As for being afraid my friends would think less of me because of my lack of mad writing skillz, well, I think that might just be a wee touch of the fear of failure/rejection that everyone has. They are my friends. They are my friends because they like me. Chances are, they would like the way I write.

I know what Doreen would say about all of this: "Do you want me to punch you in the head? Because I would gladly do that for you."


Last night, Hot Stuff came home with his chest all puffed out like he was cock of the walk ('cock' *snicker*) because the girl at the dry cleaners hit on him when he went in to drop off his work clothes. The conversation:

"The hottie at the dry cleaner's hit on me today."

"Mm-hmm. I'm sure she did honey."

"No, but she did. Seriously."

What did she say, exactly?"

"She said, 'MMMM.. You smell great!'"

"Oh yeah? What did you say?"

"And I taste even better."

Please refer to title of post.


Do you know anybody who deserves a punch in the head today?

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

How the Princess Got Borned.

Back in 'ought-seven, I calved for the second time in my life, and this time the fruit of my labor had a vagina of her own.

Just to back up a bit, when I found out we were having a girl, my first feeling was one of panic. A girl? What am I going to do with a girl? I don't know about girls. I'm not a girly-girl. What if she wants to get a mani/pedi or something? Ohmygod, whatamIgonnado? Because, yes, newborn baby girls frequently want to go get mani/pedis with their mothers - practically seconds after they come shooting out, they want to go visit a nail salon. Definitely a top priority for babies who still smell like vagina.

This labor was my introduction to induced labor. It was also the shittiest experience of my life. I love my kid, I would do it all again, blah blah, so on and so forth, but COME ON. SURELY modern medicine has a better way to git 'er done than an evil, evil thing known only as the insert.

Sidenote: I am not afraid of needles. I am deathly afraid of epidurals. Don't be messing with my back, yo. I don't want to end up wheeling my baby around because some cracked out doctor zigged when he should have zagged while inserting the epidural needle.

At my 39 week check up, the nurse scheduled me for an induction, "Only if you don't go on your own, which you probably will!! Most women do!!" Back all up offa me, crazy bitch, I'm 10 months jacked on pregnancy hormones and you definitely do not want to piss off this water buffalo. Of course there was no natural labor start for me; I end up going into the hospital on my scheduled day and get the insert. It looks like a tiny piece of paper on a string. And, it gets inserted. Let me interject some truth here. The insert, although it appears innocuous, is really a tiny scrap of paper that has been soaked in gasoline and prune juice, and rolled in jagged shards of glass. The jagged shards of glass actually turn into tiny creatures once it is inserted, and the tiny creatures run throughout your uterus repeatedly stabbing at the walls with their little homemade shivs. Then it gets worse.

After the insert was placed, I went home and walked. And tried to sleep. And walked some more. I walked along a dirt road that borders a field in front of our house; 2km down the road and back. That was the most excruciating walk I have ever done. I stayed at home until about 4pm, at which time I returned to the hospital feeling extremely uncomfortable and contracting every 3 or 4 minutes. They checked me in and I pretty much hung around until my doctor came to see me at 10-ish. When I first arrived at the hospital, I was about 2cm. When the doctor arrived, I was still 2cm. In order that I might start progressing, the doctor broke my water.

At midnight, I was still not progressing; the next step in this zany misadventure was to be hooked up to a Pitocin drip. Pitocin is the "common" name of the drug, the "trade" name (actual chemical name) is: Cocktail of Liquefied Splinters, Evil Ghosts, and A Giant's Hand Reaching Into Your Body and Squeezing Your Uterus And Punching Your Lungs.

Thankfully, I was in great hands. I had a senior nurse and a student nurse. Sr. Nurse was an old-timer with 24 years in maternity nursing; she didn't take any shit, and she didn't wanna hear no whining. Student Nurse was a 25 year old girl with some relevant life experience; she was pregnant with her 4th child at the time.

A night of sheer misery ensued. Being on the Pitocin meant being constantly hooked up to the fetal heart monitor. (I'm not sure why. Now they just hook you up for a certain amount of time every hour, don't they?) Being on constant fetal heart monitoring meant strict bedrest. I cannot begin to describe how awful it is to be in active back labor and stuck in bed. I could not walk. I could not bounce. I could not even pee. Every two hours I could be disconnected from the monitor and allowed to roll onto my other side. Since Demerol worked okay for me with the Hurricane, I assumed it would work again this time. WRONG. Demerol didn't even take the edge off.

At just after 5 in the morning, the senior nurse came in and checked me. Nothing. Hanging around at 4cm. She asked me if I was having pushing pains. At that exact second, I was not, and so advised her. Six seconds later, I was having pushing pains. Hot Stuff noticed the cords and veins standing out on my neck as I tried to breathe through a pushing-pain contraction, and called the nurse back in. Have you ever had a catheter inserted? For your first time, do not pick the exact moment your cervix decides to pop open like a meth-addicted jack-in-the-box.

Sidenote: Hot Stuff actually had the nerve to catnap during the night. I am surprised he didn't die in his sleep from all the Death Glares I was shooting at him during the two hours at a time that I was facing him.

Some words of comfort from my senior nurse during this hardest part of labor: "There is no way in hell your doctor is going to make it before this kid is born. You mind if I just go ahead and deliver you?" You mean, I have a choice? Like, if I want, I can keep going through the torture that is back labor? Well, hell yeah. Sign me up!

After about fifteen minutes of pushing, the Princess arrived and began ruling over her fiefdom at 5: 36am. We cooed. I cried, a little bit. No Korean women came bursting in the room to push back our cuticles or buff off the dead skin of our feet.

The doctor, who indeed did not make it to the party in time, arrived just after the Big Event to weigh the baby, check her over, etc. After baby was declared awesome (I have seen the actual Apgar sheets for my girl, and yes, the boxed marked 'Awesome' is checked), the doctor dragged the senior nurse outside of the room and started yelling at her about not paging him soon enough. Like I said, that senior nurse did not take shit. From anyone. Not even the doctor. She handed him his ass verbally and walked back in, smiling. Hearing two medical professionals duke it out really made up for my shitty night.

I mean, having a baby was good, too, though.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

First time's free, then you gotta pay.

I'm not really sure what I was thinking. Oh yeah, I was thinking, "I love my sheeple! I want to talk to them in the comments! I will get me some comment thingy that will let me reply to comments."

I'm not really sure why I thought I could get that sort of thing for free. In my rush to get what I want, notnowbutrightnow, I did not read the fine print. Or the medium print. Or, likely, even the large print.

ECHO is not free, and I am not paying $12/month. It was fun while it lasted.

I promise not to screw around with my blog anymore. For a little while, at least.

Thanks for your patience.

The Management

Conversations With a 4 Year Old

"Mom, what are those?"


"What are bison?"

"They are like cows with big fur coats."

"What do bison do?"

"They taste good on hamburger buns."

"They taste good on hamburger buns with their fur coats?"

"No, honey, they don't wear fur coats on hamburger buns. Just the meat is on the hamburger buns."

"What do they have in them? Bones?"

"Bones, meat, guts."

"Do we eat the bones?"


"Where do they go? Do we throw them on the ground?"

"No, sweetie, when the butcher cuts up the bison, he takes the meat off the bones, but I don't know what he does with the bones after."

"What about the fur coats?"

"The butcher takes those off, too."

silence.. then..

"Mom, what do bison do?"

"They eat grass."

"They keep off your ass?"

Monday, September 21, 2009

Thrift Store Junkie

Neither Hot Stuff nor I are big "clothes" people. I mean, we wear clothes (your eyes are thanking me) most of the time, but neither of us are big garment-hounds. I spend my days binge drinking and online gambling doting on my precious children and Hot Stuff also has a job that requires him to get dirty just about every day, so we don't spend a lot of money on finery around here.

This weekend, I took a mosey on over to Valeux Veelahje (aka Value Village) to get a few shirts for Hot Stuff and some jammies for my Princess. I barely made it out alive two and a half hours later and $200 poorer. Yeah, you read that right. I spent $200 in the thrift store. Imagine, for a moment, how much stuff you get for $200 at the thrift store. It is like two big green garbage bagfuls, except the garbage bags are white and they say "Value Village" all over them.

I bought enough shirts for Hot Stuff to wear a different one every day for at least a week and a half. I bought enough jammers for my kid to more than double her current supply of four. (Yes, my daughter only had four pairs of pjs; if she would stop growing, we would not have this problem.) I am not talking about crap clothes, either. Name brands, people. A pair of adidas pants for my man at $12.99. Never been worn!! (I could tell because: light colored men's pants, with NO food and/or beer stains? NO weird, mysterious stains right at the crotch? Yeah, right.) BANG! American Eagle cap-sleeve shirt for $7.49 for me. BANG! Baby Gap jimmy-jams for $3.00 for my girl. BANG! I feel like the Slap Chop guy of Sham-Wow fame (perhaps lesser-known for getting tossed in the clink for punching a hooker who bit him when he tried to kiss her. Yeah, no shit, true story).

Thrift stores are pretty cool. It was way busier on Saturday than I expected; seems like everyone decided to shop there at the exact same time as me. Hello, do you not know who I am? I cannot be crowded while I rifle through the racks. I need space. I can't rub elbows with the unwashed masses as I rummage through the cast-off clothes of the privileged. I found a Happy Bunny shirt that read, "It's all about Me. You should know that by now," which I was tempted to wear around the store to let the people know. What stopped me was the vision I had of myself forgetting I was wearing the shirt, and getting arrested seconds after I walked out of the store.

I wonder if the thrift store people would press charges. I mean, really, I just spent $200 there. How often does that happen? It's like I'm a Thrift Store High Roller now. The next time I go, they will probably roll out the red carpet. Or, they will roll out several previously loved carpets in many different colors, artfully arranged to hide the bare spots and dog pee stains.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Some things and some stuff

Saw a mouse in the kitchen a few nights ago while I was standing at the sink shoveling in some chocolate chip cookies. I saw him and he saw me. We both froze, then I crammed in the last cookie (whole) and leapt toward him. He ran back behind the fridge, so I put out a mousetrap by the fridge. No mouse in mousetrap the following morning. Saw the same mouse later that evening running amok in the living room. I moved the mousetrap to side of couch. The mouse came out from under the couch and sat right next to the mousetrap. (Mice are known for being stupid, and this little guy did nothing to dispel that stereotype.) I talked on the phone and ate my granola bar as he gave me the stink eye. I knew what was coming, so I held a couch pillow over one ear and turned up the volume on the phone. It was a short time later I heard the trap snap and then some Mouse-In-Throes-Of-Death sounds. I felt kind of bad that he was dead because he was very cute. Then I remembered that mice are disgusting, filthy, plague-ridden, germ-carrying, cupboard-raiding vermin. I didn't feel bad anymore. Just in case there were any more death throes, I waited an hour before I put rubber gloves on, covered them with plastic grocery bags, and disposed of him.


I might be the best form of birth control ever. I went grocery shopping today with my three children of the corn darling babies. In the produce section, which is fertile to begin with (hell, it's called produce *snicker*), I noticed a young couple in love. It was kind of sweet the way they were giving each other flirty, coy looks and casually touching each other - but not hanging off of each other, which I find extremely annoying. I'm not sure if it was the man or the woman who noticed me first, but they both saw me. Perhaps they noticed me because my two babies were quickly heading into Nap-time Nuclear Meltdown mode. Or perhaps it was because while these two sweethearts were picking out some apples, the Hurricane was busy touching all of the rest of the fruit. I felt it appropriate to say to him, in my usual robust manner, "UGH! Gross! Stop touching! Why? Because I just watched you pick your nose, and I don't think other people want your boogers on their fruit, that's why!" So, I'm sure lots of other people noticed us, but it was this young couple that I noticed noticing us. Here's what went down: the woman looked at me. The man looked at me. They looked at each other. They looked at my kids. They looked at each other. I could read their thoughts. They were both thinking:


Nothing screams, "Condom! IUD! Diaphragm! Put condoms on your IUD and your Diaphragm! This could be you!!" like three kids under five at the grocery store on Sunday.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

This is just a test

This is just a test of the JS-Kit comments widget.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Letters of Intent: Friday Sep 18, 2009

Grab My Button!

Thank you to Foursons for Letters of Intent; head on over there when you're done here (obviously) and see who else has dug out the old Smith-Corona and put in a new ribbon.

Dear Dentist's Office,

Although I do appreciate the kindness and warmth with which you have consistently overcharged me, it is time for us to part ways; don't fear, there are more suckers out there who will pay your exhorbitant fees! You will forget about me soon enough.

Please know that I will cherish the memories of each and every one of my appointments. There was always plenty of time, usually about half an hour (sometimes even 40 minutes.. yay!), for me to read the ancient magazines in the waiting room. And the bathroom! Oh! The bathroom. It was very opulent - spa-like, even - with low lighting, top quality fixtures and cabinetry, and of course, marble countertops. I'm glad you found a good use for my hard earned money, Dentist's Office. But just one request? Maybe, for your future patients, you could actually turn the heat on in the bathroom.

I am so glad that I got the opportunity to spend about 2 hours with you at my last appointment, even though I was only scheduled for a couple of x-rays and an exam. I would have been sad to only have been with you for the 30 minutes it should have taken. It's a very good thing that my time is not valuable, and I really had nothing better to do but sit around at your office.

I remember the first time I took my Hurricane to see you, and we sat in your waiting room for over two hours. Do you know, it is really, really hard to keep a 3 year old boy occupied for two hours in a waiting room? Thankfully, it only took me going up to the desk once to say, "Hey, I think we've been waiting for well over an hour, are we going to see the dentist anytime soon?" for my little boy to be brought to the back within a half an hour.

I hope you can be mature and see that what I am about to tell you is constructive, and not destructive, criticism.

One of the reasons for the breakdown of our relationship is this, Dentist's Office; you cost too much money. You are the most expensive dentist in town, and I think you have more nerve than a bad tooth (pun intended) charging so much money for what amounts to an x-ray machine that can send images to a desktop PC. I have also begun to question why you gave me so many white fillings instead of fissure sealant. I have never had a cavity on my adult teeth and all my previous dentists have been fine with doing fissure sealants.

Here's the biggest thing, though, Dentist's Office: the last time I brought the Hurricane in, I was very unhappy. Your dental assistant was nice and all, but I made a "Dentist" appointment, not a "Dental Assistant" appointment. If I make a "Dentist" appointment for my kid, I expect my kid to see a "Dentist." I do not expect to hear, "Actually, there aren't any dentists here right now, but your son's teeth look fine to me," from your dental assistant. And I certainly do not expect to be charged $25 over and above what the Alberta government pays you for children's dental. Why are you the only one whose rates for children are higher than the government's? None of the other dentists here do that.

So, Dental Office, it is with this letter that I say goodbye. I will miss your fancy bathroom, but not your expensive, overpriced services. I expect that you really will take my $114 credit (which was a result of your stupid computer not knowing what 80% is so I had to pay up front and then AB Blue Cross reimbursed you when they should have reimbursed me, but you didn't bother to let me know, no, you deposited the money and gave me a credit on my account without so much as a phone call to ask if that would be okay, as I am the client and it is my money, so thanks, assholes) and write me a cheque and put it in the mail.


Stone Fox

Thursday, September 17, 2009


So first of all, thank you guys so much for making me feel better.

Secondly, today was better. Not fantastic, but my brain did not turn into mush and my face did not melt off, a la yesterday's nuclear meltdown.

You know what? I changed my mind: today was pretty good. Except for the part where the Hurricane took his folding Diego chair and smashed out a pane of his door because he didn't like being in time-out in his room.

In case you are wondering, yes there is a tiny elf in my brain who does a funky dance kind of like he has to go pee when stuff like this happens. Only instead of peeing, he's giggling and saying, "Ooooh, the shit is gonna hit the fan."

He looks sort of like this, only with a green hat and shoes, and red knickers. And also, if possible, more menacing:

(It's the lightbulb that does it for me.)

I was solid, people. I am going to the ParentLink centre tomorrow to pick up some home study stuff; knowing that, a small issue like vacuuming up broken glass was water off a ducks ass. Especially because the Hurricane felt genuinely bad about it.

Later this evening we talked and he informed me that he is pretty mad at me because he wants us to spend more time together. With some further questioning, I learned that he is pulling this crap to get my attention. Well. Ok. For such a smart person, I am pretty stupid sometimes, because that makes perfect sense.

I am going to re-name this blog, "I Don't Know The Answer, Let Me Go Ask The 4 Year Old"

Catchy as all hell, isn't it?


Mr. Taekwondo's rating on the Mesmerizing-O-Meter was up and down this week. Up, because his hair looked good today, and up even more because he has really nice teeth. Down, way down, because he drives a minivan. Sorry, but it's hard to be hypnotized by someone who rolls up in a Windstar. I am well aware of how superficial this is; sadly, Mr. T. may not be able to recover from this. I will try to smell him next week, maybe that will give his rating a badly needed boost.

Although I didn't get a picture of Mr. T. I did manage to not be a moron while talking to him; I toned it down to weird and spastic this week. There were a bunch of flies in the gym (I swear his rating will plummet off the charts if his hobbies include "long walks on the beach, taekwondo, and cutting up dead hookers and hiding their bodies in the civic centre") and they all seemed to be buzzing around my face, so I was swatting at the air the whole time we talked. I felt like Pigpen. It was sexy.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Stone Fox's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

This post is a complete downer, so if you are looking for my usual witty repartee, skip this.

This is not a 'look at me blog about how un-perfect I am, but with a happy ending' post, either. I almost don't want to Publish, but if I'm going to call this a "journal" it should have the ugly parts, too.

This is me as a parent today: EPIC FAIL.

Why? How could this happen? Where did it go so, so wrong?

I got up this morning after a solid 8 hours of sleep, which hasn't happened for a while, usually one of the kids, or my bladder, is waking me up at least once a night.

About an hour after my 8 hours of sleep, I was dozing on the couch. Big kids were playing on the deck; Little Dude was rolling around on the floor. Since I was only resting my eyes, I was able to get up every few minutes and check on the big kids to make sure they weren't trying to kill each other or burn down the house.

Then I fell asleep.

Then I woke up to a faceful of Spray 'N Wash.

My son had somehow reached the top shelf of our bathroom towel rack (I am mystified as to how he did this. The shelf is almost 6 feet tall and there was no chair or stool in the bathroom. The shelving unit would never support his weight and isn't bolted to the wall) and handed his sister a bottle of Comet bathroom spray and got himself a bottle of Spray 'N Wash. Princess, I think, just carried her bottle around. The Hurricane proceeded to spray numerous different things, including the front of the dryer, and some walls, the baby's high chair tray, and my laptop. Once he started spraying the dog, she came and sat next to where I was asleep.

Asleep. No, I didn't wake up while my son went willy-nilly through three different rooms in the house randomly spraying stuff.

I knew instantly, instantly, what that smell was. I did what any parent would do when being woken up by a faceful of laundry cleaner: I freaked out. I had a complete and total meltdown. I ran from child to child to check their breath and their eyes and see who was crying and then I was crying. And I was yelling. As ashamed as I am to admit this, I scared my Hurricane. I made him fear me. I sent him to his room while I checked and double checked little kids and (thank God!!!) everyone was okay. I gave the dog a bath, and checked her eyes, and she was okay, too. I went to my oldest son's room and sat on his bed and cried while I explained how dangerous chemicals are, how they could make little kids blind, or sick, or dead. I went over, again and again, how important it is to stay out of stuff that he knows is only for grown-ups .

I want to throw up when I think about what could have happened. I'm still scared when I think about how close I came to rushing my daughter to emerg because she swallowed some Comet, or my baby losing his sight because he got stain remover in his eyes. I am swallowed up in the guilt, because I never, ever, should have allowed myself to fall asleep.

After our chat, the Hurricane and I came downstairs, and I began to clean up the random sprays of stain remover and check kids again and again for signs of poisoning. As I come around the corner into the kitchen, I see:

my Hurricane standing

on the counter

digging in the medicine cupboard.

Words cannot explain. Words. Cannot. Explain. There is no word to describe the sensation of my patience and sanity snapping. I did not yell. I screamed. I screamed at the top of my lungs. Again, I am ashamed to admit, I scared a little kid. My little boy.

But I did not hit. I almost did. I almost went to a dark place, but I didn't. I sat down on the floor and cried really, really hard. My boy ran off to his room.

What does everyone with a vagina do when lying on the floor of her kitchen sobbing? I called my best friend, Doreen. I babbled incoherently about being at the end of my rope, not knowing what to do, how did a 4 year old break me, I can't do this, what am I doing wrong, I did things the way you're supposed to and put chemicals and medicines up really high and how did he get into them, I am a terrible mother and a lousy human being, etc.. She let me run out of steam, and then said, "Call Social Services. They are not going to take your kids away. They will tell you where to get help."

So I did. I told the social worker that my child seems to have some kind of internal message that tells him he is allowed to give himself permission to do whatever he wants; that he does not have to follow rules at home. The social worker gave me some resources. I will do whatever they want, I will try whatever they have. I thought the Hurricane and I were figuring things out, but we are not.

Right now, I look back at today and I'm still beating myself up. I am so eternally grateful that today did not have a tragic result. I will go to bed and when I wake up tomorrow, today will be all over. I will not forget, but I will move on.

Fates, I know that was my one free one.

Monday, September 14, 2009

10 Quirky Things About My Husband

1. When he doesn't know the words to a song, he will either make up his own, or sing, "Peanut butter and jelly," repeatedly to the song's melody.

2. He is scared of mice. Up on a chair making a high-pitched whistling sound scared of mice.

3. Most of his pants are floods because he is quite tall and it's mostly legs.

4. He has some funky dance moves, including: the shopping cart, the salt-n-pepper shaker, the moonwalk, the 'i'm blocking punches' move, and my favorites: the sprinkler and thread-the-needle.

5. He appreciates fine bone china and fancy candles.

6. He refuses to watch Talladega Nights because he thinks they are making fun of NASCAR.

7. One of his eyeteeth is a bit recessed and he won't get it fixed because Jewel (the singer) has one just like it; he is convinced it is a sign they are destined to be together.

8. He loves Hawkin's Cheezies and gets huffy if there aren't any in the house.

9. Guaranteed, he will be sleeping on the couch by 8:30pm unless America's Got Talent is on. Conversation must wait until commercial breaks.

10. He will be very offended when he reads this because he will think I am making fun of him. Which I kind of am, but in that hey I love your quirks and want the world to know it kind of way. Also in the you called me unoriginal so I'm showing you how unoriginal I can be, jackass way, and of course the thanks for always hitting on my friends and my sister when they come over and this is why we can't have nice friends and now I'm getting you back for it way. (He's inappropriate like that.)

Is your signif other this weird, too?

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Stone Fox

For a laugh, I googled my nickname. Just to see. Would my blog come up?

No. No, my blog didn't come up.

This is what did:

"Stone Fox is a book about a ten year old boy named Willy who must win the big dogsled race in order to pay the taxes on his grandfather's farm." And so on and so forth.

People, this is not why I chose this nickname. My real name is not Willy, and as a matter of fact, I don't even have one. I also am not Native Indian (or First Nations, or Aboriginal, or please insert whichever term you are most comfortable with), I don't run dogsled, and I will talk to white people. Unless you are one of those white people on www.peopleofwalmart.com (thank you, Snarky Mom).

This is why I chose this nickname:

urbandictonary.com definition for stone fox: One who is so awesome that not only are they foxy, they are also solid.

I didn't get it from urbandictonary.com first, I actually got it from TV. I was watching The Rockford Files one day and Jim Rockford called a smokin' babe a stone fox and I thought, 'Me like.' (We're not really into complex thoughts up in our Penthouse Suite.)

Let's pause for a moment.

Actor who played Jim Rockford: James Garner
Author of Stone Fox: John Gardiner

Coincidence? I think probably.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

The Flop Sweat

Dictionary of Fox:
Flop Sweat: (n), a total body sweat that is the result of both exertion and stress. Usually presents with mild confusion and a distinct lack of coordination.

I spent most of the day in a flop sweat. Drop off clothes here. Pick up high chair here (SO glad to be rid of my old, ugly behemoth). Feed starving rabid animals children. Doctor's appointment because Little Dude is now sporting the Latest Rage in Scrotum Accessories; a supersized, raised, Zincofax-ain't-gonna-do-it diaper rash. Pharmacy. Call screetching halt to everything in order to buy 2 bottles of Diet Pepsi and some party mix to wash it down with. Home. House clean like speed freak hopped up on PCP (is that the same thing? I'm not current with my drug lingo). No time to cook a decent meal, defrost tupperware of frozen stew (that even I thought was tasteless the first time around). Drag Hurricane and siblings to Tack-win-dow.

Whoa, whoa. Let me stop here. I need to describe the teacher who runs the taekwondo class. Firstly, he is well groomed and pleasant looking, but no Brad Pitt. BUT, and rarely do you meet someone like this (and f*ck, this is going to sound cheesy), he has this intangible quality that is almost.. mesmerizing (yeah, cheesy but true). Kind of like you know that if you give him bullshit, he will put you down. Down down to funkytown. With sexy results. Immediately I get the sweats and start fumbling around and stuttering like a complete moron when trying to talk to him.

Class started, and the teacher talked to the kids for a bit about what they did over the summer. Then, it was time to run laps. Hurricane made a beeline for me yelling, "I don't wanna play no more!" I told him that I knew he was scared, but he was gonna do this. The teacher walked over to my son and I, put his big stone-mason hands on my little boy's shoulders and said, "You will go run laps now." I watched my openly-defiant kid fold like a cheap tent. I knew that my presence was making the Hurricane act like a Mama's Boy, so I figured I should go. I sweat some more as I stumble around and ramble on about how I'm leaving and I'll be back and I have no frigging clue what I said; I can feel all the other parents and the teacher are staring at me, wondering if I am "special with an R." I finally manage to get our shit together enough to carry Little Dude in my arms and push an empty stroller out of the gym. Why wouldn't I just put the baby in the stroller and calmly stroll out? Why, because I have gone temporarily brain dead. Oh yeah, and the Princess is trying to climb in the stroller at the same time I am trying to push the stroller out the door.

I was so flustered that I loaded the kids and forgot the stroller. Until I drove over it's front wheels. Silver lining: I hated that stroller and it's stupid non-swivelling front wheels and lack of umbrella. We paid $10 for it and I don't even feel guilty about throwing it right in the trash.

(Used stroller for sale. Cheap. Right front wheel has 360 degree swivel! Right front tire not included.)

Wouldn't you know it, the Hurricane enjoyed his Tack-win-dow. Awesome. I get to be awkward and have a shiny forehead again next week. How lucky for me.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

The Hurricane

This is one of those posts I am writing for OAP Me. When I am old and aged, I will want to remember my children before they grew up and stuck me in a nursing home where I was forced to talk to boring old people ("Goodness! Back in my day, 'spam' wasn't something you got over the email, it was canned ham. We ate a lot of it when I was a child. It was cheap, and we didn't have a lot of money, but we did have a cat. Later on we had a dog. That dog was such a beggar, always hanging around the stove waiting for scraps, especially fried ham.. what was it called? Oh yes, Spam. Goodness! Back in my day, 'spam' wasn't something you got over the email...")

The Hurricane. He's 4. I get it. He's "busy." "Busy" I can handle. Openly defiant, bossy, mouthy, giving attitude, not listening.. I didn't really sign up for that. I signed up for one of those easy kids that other mothers seem to have.

The absolute worst crazy-maker: he specifically, repeatedly, does things he knows are wrong. Oooooohhhh, things like getting in his sister's face, getting into/playing with things that aren't his (laptop, phones, drawers, MY TRUCK, etc.), ripping all the pillows off the couches, dragging toys into the kitchen when I am cooking supper, and generally making a giant mess or a lot of noise (usually both) wherever he is. I know all of this is little stuff. It's just frustrating to be constantly saying the same things over and over.

He's still in the stage where he questions everything. "Who was that on the phone, Mom?" "What did you talk about?" "Did you talk about diapers on sale at Superstore?" "Tell me what your conversation said." I find that to be trying, at times, when I'm focused on something else.

Most of the discipline stuff that They (The All-Knowing They from the Fake Institute) recommend hasn't work until quite recently. I have tried the Usual Stuff. (And by "tried" I don't mean half assed it for a couple days and then gave up; I usually gave it at least a week or two to see if things improved.)

Time out? Just started working for us. Previously, I would have had to hog-tie the kid, as he was constantly leaving his time out chair. Hard to do when you've got a baby hanging off your boob and a toddler wandering around testing the strength of the furniture. With her face.

Taking priviledges away? Also only just started working for us in the last 6 months or so. Before that, he could not care less if we took away every toy, movie, tv show, special treat, and scrap of fun in his life. He did not have a currency of any kind.

Spanking: Oh yes, I spanked my kid. I'm not embarassed or guilty about it. However, it no longer works for me; the last time I spanked him, he laughed. Obviously, he doesn't take it seriously anymore, so I don't use it anymore. I still think it is a useful tool in the discipline toolbox. For a long time, it was the only way to get that child's immediate attention and let him know I was Serious Business. (Flame me if you want, but I don't buy into this "spanking is abuse" nonsense. Abuse is abuse; spanking is not.)

Soap in the mouth: tried this for potty mouth. Didn't work. Blew up in my face. "Mom, if I say a bad word can I have soap?" I shit you not.

Every moment I have spent seeing red and breathing hard and reminding myself that he's only four, I'm the grown up; he is my son and I would miss him if I went to jail; all of it is totally negated by the fact that he is my sweet child, my shy one, my thinker, my empathizer. The kid who wants to make sure everyone is part of the fun and no one is left out but is too shy to join in play until he is asked. My constant eater, who already needs to get a job so we don't end up in the poorhouse. My naive one, the one most like me, who believes what people tell him, even when he shouldn't. Like tonight, when he came into the bathroom sobbing so hard he could hardly get the words out, "The Giant Robot Daddy told me that my real Daddy went to Venus today and he's not coming back until tomorrow is that true Mommy?"

All of it sticks in my heart as I see him starting preschool in a couple of weeks. I want to go with him to make sure that the other kids like him, and accept him, and make sure he's not being bossy. I want to hold his hand and introduce him to the other kids; quietly remind him that he must be a good friend if he wants to have a good friend. I want to spare him the anxiety of being shy and feeling left out if no one asks him to play. I want him to listen to the teachers, and love learning and feel good about himself.

I know I can't do any of that. I have to let him go on his own and struggle his way through structured learning and finding his place in the pack of wild animals known as preschoolers. I can't believe my baby is going to school. This is a tough one.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Presidential Speech

Being Canadian, this doesn't really affect me. But it's my blog and I'll write what I wanna..

Whilst cruising on MckMama's BlogFrog community today, I came across a thread about President Obama's back-to-school speech, airing in US schools tomorrow. I was not entirely surprised by the lack of support for the speech on that community, as I do see quite a few Religious Right/Moral Majority/Extreme Conservative opinions voiced there.

I read the speech. Frankly, I thought it was fantastic, well written, and definitely something children should hear from the President. A Global National newsstory on TV showed a woman in Colorado being interviewed about this speech, and she was crying!! She said something along the lines of, "My children being forced to watch this.. I just get so upset!" I also read a few articles (and the message boards) on the internet. I was stunned. Parents threatening to pull their children from school in order to keep them from hearing a Presidential speech? Are you effing kidding me?! 'Obama is a pushing his politics on our children!' 'Obama is trying to indoctrinate our children into his socialist regime!' 'This is how Hitler and Stalin started!' 'Obama is trying to circumvent our authority as parents by speaking directly to our children!'

Say what?

I just don't get it. It's a fucking speech, people. A speech telling children not to believe that they will automatically grow up to be a rich entertainer, athlete, or reality TV star, but to stay in school. Maybe I'm dense, but I fail to see how that translates into: don't listen to your parents, kids, we're giving away free haircuts for all who join Obama's Cult! Socialism is the new 'navy'!

Also, I am aware of the lesson plan that teachers were to give to students to go along with the speech that asked kids to write a letter to the President explaining what they could do to help (or "serve") him. Yeah, I agree it sounds funky (borderline free-haircut), but the wording has since been changed.

Honestly, why all the haters? I have to echo a comment I read on a few pages: if a conservative were giving this speech, would conservatives still be so up in arms? If George W. Bush (who I think was quite possibly the worst President, ever) gave this speech to kids, I would still allow them to listen: it's the content that matters.

Even if I didn't agree with the content, I would still let my kids hear it. Why? Because it's the President. (Or, in Canada's case, the Prime Minister.) Because my kids need to understand that the world is not filled with people who think exactly like their parents. Any political speech my kids hear will be followed closely by me talking to my kids about it. Does anyone want to raise robot children who are clones of themselves and don't have their own original thoughts? I don't.

So, friends, I am curious as to what you think of this kerfuffle. American friends, will you be keeping your kids home or are you going to let the Government poison your childrens' minds in order to control them and turn them into Godless Homosexual Socialists on Welfare?

Saturday, September 5, 2009

The Alpha Male

Hubby and I went to the IMCA Modifieds SuperNationals (open-wheel racing!) tonight. On the way home, we started discussing what he was going to buy next for his pickup. First, he wants the chrome exhaust stacks, and then he is going to get some KC lights because his last pickup had KC lights and he sure misses them. I did mention that we are hillbillies, right? Ok, good. In case you don't know what KC lights are, see below.

On his old pickup, Hot Stuff had four mounted on his front grill (as above), four mounted on the roof of his cab facing forward, and two mounted on the roof of the cab facing backwards. Why backwards, you ask? Because if someone had the sheer audacity to tailgate him, flashing the brake lights simply would not suffice. It would be far more effective to flip on your rear KCs and temporarily blind the jerk behind you.

It was at this point (after only 6 years of marriage) that I realized I married an Alpha Male. Intrigued by this thought, I did a bit of surfing, got completely distracted for an hour, and sort of found what I was looking for. Traits of the alpha male include natural leadership skills (check), physical attractiveness (oh hell yes check), confidence (check), assertiveness (check), aggressiveness (check), demanding (check), egocentric (mm-hmm), constant need to reinforce own alpha status by dominating others (isn't how this started? Power struggle between alpha male and tailgater? Resulting in not just a show of dominance, but Scorched Eyeballs dominance).

I found a couple of "How to be an Alpha Male and Bang a Ton of Chicks" sites that included things like charisma and ability to make oneself the focus of a group, etc., but I'm not going there. I have no desire to Bang a Ton of Chicks. (Maybe one, I would. For fun. You know. If I was single. She'd have to be pretty hot. But not too hot, or I would feel inferior, and I can't get my freak on if I'm not feeling good about myself. Not hideous either, because that would throw my game off. And being a first-time lesbian, I wouldn't have much game. I'd have sweaty hands and the giggles. I don't need to be worried about saying inappropriate things like, "Ooh baby, it makes me so hot when you tickle me with your knuckle hair," on top of it. Not that looks count for that much, I'm not that shallow. So maybe one of us should be blind [and by 'one of us' I specifically mean the person who is not me], so the other person doesn't get wrapped up with body images. Blinding another person sounds extreme, so maybe we could just do it in the dark. Or wear blindfolds. Also, I'm going to put it on the table right now that I am not going to be responsible for the dental dam. I'm new at this and I don't need the extra stress. Just sayin'.)

But I digest.

Are these characteristics specific to alpha males? Or are they sprinkled throughout the male population? In my hour long Magical Mystery Tour across the internet, I couldn't find a definitive answer. What does it say about me (or any woman), that I am attracted to this type? Mainly, I think, it says that I had too much time on my hands and decided to fill it with a difficult man. But again, most men are difficult in some way, and isn't 'too much free time and not enough stress' the reason why most women get married? And honestly, I got tired of taking out the garbage myself.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Kittens For Sale

2 Kittens available.

Older kitten is a 4 year old short hair with blue eyes. VERY rambunctious, requires a lot of space to run and play. Cannot be confined, refuses to be crated for bed. Wakes up very early in the morning and digs in cupboards. A steal for $1 bazillion OBO

Younger kitten is almost two years old, light colored long hair also with blue eyes. Loud, makes a lot of noise. Gets into everything. Clumsy as hell, but very entertaining. Price reduced to $1 kajillion OBO

Both kittens are extremely cute and very well behaved at other people's houses, but are hellacious at home. They eat a lot of kibble, so please do not call unless you have lots of money and can afford to feed them. Unlike other cats, these cats do not sleep (or even give the mama cat an hour's rest!) during the day.

Would like both to go to same home close by so mama cat can visit frequently.